As I noted in French Women for All Seasons, “No season’s passing is mourned as summer’s is.” Summer’s pace, the attitude of relative laissez-faire…the fresh fruits. Not that we don’t work much and play hard for three months, but we don’t appreciate the relative ease until everyone snaps back to attention. The first Monday in September is Labor Day in the U.S.A., and time’s up. The Going-Back-to-School sales and drama have ended. The curtain goes up on a new academic year…the games begin. In business, once again people are watching and keeping score.
In France, this reawakening has a name: la rentrée—literally, the reentry, as if summer were a trip to the moon and we are returning. I write on the first day of what for many is the start of a new year and return to earthly routines and other activities. It is the first day of school in Paris.
Once upon a time, in the days when wealthy Parisians, English ”men” (with their women), some adventurous Americans, and others boarded the train in Paris to head South to the Riviera and Provence for the summer. In the 1920s, the conductor dressed in formal, military-style uniforms with tailored jackets, matching pants, and distinctive caps would shout “En voiture, En voiture, messieurs dames, En voiture” (in your car, gentlemen and ladies). Perhaps he blew his whistle. I don’t know, I wasn’t there.
They would start from and return to Paris, via night train. It departed from the Gare de Lyon, and they often had a meal at Le Train Bleu, the gourmet restaurant inside the station, upstairs overlooking the tracks. Except with its gilded ceilings, frescoes, chandeliers, and arresting Belle Époque brilliance and buzz, train tracks were not on the minds of the aristocrats, industrialists, actors, foreign visitors, or even a few writers who awaited their first-class carriage. Built for the 1900 Paris Exhibition, it had a see-and-be-seen element to it (think gowns and furs and jewels), and the food—say a sole meunière as a fish or main course, and a baba au rhum, of course, as a dessert option—were served à la russe, meaning course after course presented by uniformed waiters in white gloves. Coco Channel, Edith Piaf, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor ate there. Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald knew and used the train station, and it is not a stretch of the imagination to believe they stopped in for a drink or two, and perhaps a meal.
We ate there yesterday. Not in a recreation of 1920 but in 2025. It was La Rentrée, and we were charged with bringing back our seven-year-old friend to Paris so he’d be ready for the opening day of school. We took the TGV (Train à Grande Vitesse, which is French for “high-speed train) from Avignon. Gone are the days of 20 hours train travel to Nice and 14 hours to Marseilles, except when there are strikes or accidents. Been there, done that. Yesterday was smooth. We heard the signature four-chimed notes over a loudspeaker system (a sort of syncopated F-G-F-E sound), then a metallic-sounding female voice announced the train for Paris’s arrival and imminent departure. Next stop Paris. The train was filled entirely (Complet), as were the four or five trains earlier in the day and the four or five later in the day. It was, after all, La Rentrée, and families had squeezed in every hour of sun and fun in the South before returning to a Paris that was being re-inflated with its inhabitants.
Just the occasion for a meal at Le Train Bleu, we thought, and set up a rendezvous with our little friend’s mother for lunch. Once again, the dining experience was resplendent and splendid. The food and service were excellent. And what seven-year-old doesn’t enjoy leg-of-lamb carved for him or her tableside and the nearby explosive fire of a flaming Grand Marnier crêpe for dessert? Okay, a little vanilla ice cream helps.
The next day, while schools were ready, not every store was open and stocked on Monday morning. So, for lunch we decided not to cook (the organic street market on Blvd. Raspail in the 6th arr. near us is tomorrow). We had heard great things about a little bistro, Le Colvert on the Left Bank at 30 rue des Grands Augustins.
Sometimes, a restaurant’s front window can be deceiving. You pass by a simple bistro that evokes many of its kind, and you tune it out as you pass by time and again. Until, in the case of this little gem of St Germain des Prés, it acquired some experienced owners and added a super-talented chef to perpetrate bistronomie or bistrogastro de quartier (neighborhood).
The day we discovered it, most of the regulars were still nowhere to be found (but those few who did were talking about their summer holidays). The spirit of an authentic bistro resonates here with inspired dishes created by a chef trained by 3-star Chef Bras. Chef Baptiste Borderie and his team delight the 40 diners 7 days a week for lunch and dinner. Take the simple classic poireaux vinaigrette (as I did as leeks are one of my favorite foods). This version was a first for me: The boiled leeks were arranged classically, but the subtle topping was a mix of tiny bits of mussels, clams, plus a few bits of prosciutto, with a dressing made with parsley and fish stock. Forget reproducing this at home unless you want to spend the day cooking. The savors were truly out of this world, and in my mind, this kitchen is already operating at a Michelin one-star level. Take profiteroles for dessert as Edward did (one of his favorites). Instead of three or four small puff pastry balls covered with rich, dark chocolate sauce, the ice-cream-filled choux pastry comes in a single jumbo pastry, a first for us…but not the last. Our entire à la carte lunch splurge was equally scrumptious, and there is a three-course menu for 32-36 euros daily. A bargain for that quality. The extensive wine list and choices of wines by the glass are excellent. Excellent as well is the well-trained, friendly, and efficient young staff. Around the room I only saw happy faces.
It has been a great summer for me. I am in a good mood. June was mostly spent in Paris with this thing called an exhibition of my paintings. It seems I woke up one day with a couple of hundred paintings that people wanted to see and gallery owners wanted to show. Imagine that. I never did. The show came together and was received well. It was a relief after all the work of getting everything to Paris and being show-ready. What a joy to see so many friends from around the world in the gallery and to meet so many new friends, some of whom arrived with a copy of one of my books, often in a language other than English or French. Nice.
July was in Provence with wonderful weather, friends, flowers, and food, but also a nice week in Spain and the discovery of the longest stretch of sandy beach in the South of France—French Catalonia, the Côte Vermeille (Vermillion Coast). This spectacular stretch of the Mediterranean coast includes such jewel towns as Collioure and Banyuls-sur-Mer, running to the Spanish border. I can’t believe it took my entire life to discover those uninterrupted miles of broad-strand, sandy, calm beaches and beach towns.
More time in Provence in August was a treat, especially as peak heat dropped off as usual after August 15, and this year we saw our first meaningful rainfall of the summer. Oh, did I tell you how much I love riding my bike in Provence? Very happy to have the health and energy to take to the roads.
We have a few excursions still planned for September, but the highlight for me will be my first trip to Tallinn, Estonia, where my paintings will be on exhibit over the coming months.
I end with two French expressions I discussed in French Women for all Seasons as part of a healthy lifestyle: Plage de temps and Les vacances. The French hold vacation as an inalienable right, especially not less than for six weeks per year. Implicit is the deep belief in the need to recharge one’s batteries and that self-indulgent “play” is a psychological necessity to well-being. That’s why plage de temps is understood as an essential—“beach of time” meaning a space of time for oneself to which one repairs on a daily or periodic basis.
This “new” year and season, remember to go to the beach.
Best wishes,
Mireille