Fashion & Style Girl Talk Paris Shopping: Fashion & Style Girl Talk Paris Shopping
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Reaching Out to Victoria, Paris and Wolff & Descourtis
Toucan Rouge Scarf
I’ve been thinking tons about my friend, Victoria Wolff, lately. Perhaps it’s because with the change of seasons I brought out my marvelous collection of scarves and shawls. Silk, cashmere, wool and challis wonders that exude all the charm and sophistication of Paris. My collection of them grew throughout my eleven years in Paris and I know they will be an essential part of my wardrobe until I’m old and grey. Most of these jewel-toned creations come from Wolff & Descourtis, Victoria’s shop in the Galerie Vivienne, a highly-regarded, family-owned textile business dating back to 1875.
Wolff & Descourtis in the Centuries-Old Shopping Passageway of the Galerie Vivienne
Victoria's Silk & Wool Treasures
Victoria and I had been out of touch for quite some time. I sent her an e-mail a while back but never received a response. (She can be very Old World and I like that!) So I decided to call her in Paris. I had recently heard about Rebtel, a phone service that offers inexpensive calls abroad, so I thought I’d give it a try. It was a snowy Saturday morning here in the Rockies, which made it late in the afternoon in Paris. I figured she’d be at her shop. What a perfect time to call.
La Reine Victoria: Queen of Parisian Scarves and Shawls
She knew it was me as soon as I said “Victoria?” And then it happened, we were instantly connected as though I was chatting right there with her in her shop, something we had done countless times when I was living in Paris. We typically speak French together but this time, Victoria launched into English (her mother is British) and I followed. During my five-minute free test call with Rebtel we covered a wide range of subjects from our personal lives to work. I learned that her parents were still living, people I was always very fond of, but she had suffered a terrible ski accident that had altered her life greatly.
Côté affaires, Victoria explained that her business was doing well, thanks largely to Wolff & Descourtis’s fine reputation and loyal following. Her devoted American clientele continues to show up and buy, although now it’s more like once a year rather than twice. Most of the other boutiques of the glittering Galerie Vivienne are struggling. “It’s very difficult everywhere,” Victoria declared. “And there are already sales,” she continued, something truly amazing in a country that once held sales but twice a year in January and July.
An electronic voice came on to signal that I only had sixty seconds left on my Rebtel test call. “I’ll call you back,” I said to Victoria in a much hurried voice, thinking that we still had so much ground to cover—we hadn’t even talked about our love lives! “Or maybe you have people in the shop?” I suddenly realized.
“Yes, I do, so I should go now,” Victoria replied. “But I promise to be more in touch—I will reply to your e-mail.”
I mumbled something about my blog but thought that that was perhaps futile. Maybe she’ll read this post, maybe not. One thing’s for sure: people, places and goods of quality never go out of style. My friend Victoria has all three.
Wolff & Descourtis, 18 galerie vivienne, 2nd arrondissement Paris; tel.: 01.42.61.80.84; www.galerie-vivienne.com.
Go to Maribeth’s Books and scroll down to read my complete description of Wolff & Descourtis.
Art & Culture Girl Talk Hotels New England Restaurants Shopping Travel: Art & Culture Girl Talk Hotels New England Restaurants Shopping Travel
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A Heartwarming Day Trip to Western Massachusetts and the Norman Rockwell Museum
Autumnal Scene in Stockbridge, Massachusetts
I was back east recently visiting my parents in upstate New York. Mom and I had on our agenda a “day out” to ourselves, one just like the old days. To us that meant planning a jaunt to a nearby destination such as the Hudson Valley region, southern Vermont or the Berkshires in western Massachusetts, all scenic and fairly rural destinations within about an hour’s drive of my parents’ house in Troy, New York. These were the places we would travel to throughout the years, especially when I was growing up. Together we would marvel at the pastoral landscapes while chitchatting the day away. Lunch, a bit of shopping and often a museum visit were all key components of a successful day trip, the perfect female bonding experience for two gals living in a house full of men. (I grew up with five brothers, a father and no sisters.)
It was during these joyous excursions that my love for unique places full of personality and charm emerged. I could hardly tolerate department stores or malls when I was a girl and still have a hard time with them today. Yes, these trips to soulful sites full of history and tradition planted the seeds for the shopping service I founded in Paris some years later and the four books I came to write on shopping and touring in Paris and the French provinces. My philosophy is and always will be about the whole shopping and touring experience—it’s not so much about what you buy, it’s about how and where you buy it and what you learn along the way. Truth is, I’m not even a big advocate of buying, but we all do, so why not have it be something special that you’ve procured in a memorable manner?
This special day to ourselves was more challenging to organize since we don’t leave my eighty-five-year-old Dad alone much any more. With a hearty, microwavable meal prepared in advance at the ready, cell phones listed in plain site and the reassurance that his Life-Alert was in working order, we said “Hasta la Vista,” knowing full well that we’d all appreciate the much-needed time away from each other.
The Berkshires won out this time, mostly since I expressed a keen desire to visit the new Norman Rockwell Museum. (New is relative since this current, more expanded showcase of this great American illustrator’s works and more opened in 1993. My Mom and I had visited the original Norman Rockwell Museum a couple of times decades ago, but we had not had the opportunity to find our way to this part of western Massachusetts in years. Hey, what can I say? France and Colorado have been my focus throughout most of my adult life.)
Norman Rockwell Museum (exterior). Photo by Art Evans. ©Norman Rockwell Museum. All rights reserved.
On this gorgeous Indian Summer day, we set out for Stockbridge, Massachusetts along the Mass Pike, a leisurely drive that revealed the most beautiful fall colors of my whole ten-day October trip home. We were hitting it at its best, an especially fortunate occurrence for me since I had also taken in the peak foliage of the Rockies just before I left Colorado. The bursts of russet, crimson, bittersweet and dark yellow on the long, loaf-y Berkshire Hills furnished quite a different autumnal tableau from the orangey-golds that flank our snow-capped, towering peaks. Indeed, this part of the country appears older and more steeped in tradition than the mighty West.
The Red Lion Inn: The Place for Lunch
After a short tour along a meandering road off the highway, we arrived at Stockbridge, surely one of the most picturesque villages in all of New England. With a Main Street scene that appears fresh out of a storybook, it’s no wonder Norman Rockwell chose to live here the latter part of his life and to feature many of the town’s buildings and residences in his works. Mom and I headed directly for The Red Lion Inn, one of our all-time favorite places to lunch. As one of the few continuously operating inns in the country since the 1700s, you can bet that coming here plunges you into a marvelous immersion of Colonial America.
We were happy to be seated right away in their glorious dining room filled with leaf peepers from all over the world. (We even met one couple from Australia.) Mom and I happily settled in to this regal setting replete with red floral carpet and wallpaper, white tablecloths and collections of teapots and coffee pots adorning the walls. “I love how everything is so clear and sparkling,” my mother remarked. Indeed, it was nice to see that it was as lovely and grand as I had remembered it from many years ago. Mom and I calculated that it had in fact been eighteen years since we last lunched at The Red Lion Inn. It seemed hard to believe as we both commented that we hoped it wouldn’t be another eighteen before a return visit.
“I’d be ninety-six then,” my Mom piped up. A bitter-sweet comment since I felt a tweak of sadness that she would be that old but was also happy that she considered living that long, something she balked at in years past.
“Well, you might not be driving then, Mom,” I replied. “But I’d be happy to chauffeur you here.” We laughed since in all of our forays, Mom has always been the driver and I’m the navigator, at best.
We savored every spoonful of our New England Clam Chowder, followed by salads, a Caesar for my mother, a Frisée, Radicchio and Spinach for me. People around us feasted on hand-carved turkey sandwiches, Indian Pudding, Roasted Pumpkin Crème Brulée and other tempting offerings. We passed on dessert and padded out to peruse the Inn’s fine furnishings and outstanding collection of china up close. Being cat lovers, we also gave Simon, the Inn’s resident kitty, a few good pets.
The Red Lion Inn in Fall: A Veritable Pumpkin and Gourd Fest
We poked around The Red Lion Inn Gift Shop and then looked next door at An American Craftsman Gallery and Stockbridge General Store, a charming old cache of goods loaded with everything from horehounds (one of Mom’s favorite candies) to hand-dipped beeswax candles, hand thrown pottery and much, much more. As we creaked over the wooden floor, commenting on the various tchotchkes, it truly felt like old times. Perhaps the only thing different was that we were moving slower and buying less. I guess that’s what happens with age and wisdom!
The “Four Freedoms” gallery at Norman Rockwell Museum. Photo courtesy of Berkshire Visitors Bureau. All rights reserved.
Another short, scenic drive landed us at the Norman Rockwell Museum—finally! I walked in here with my mouth gaping nearly as wide as it had when I first laid eyes on his magnificent paintings. So many of them came back to me although in this new, more airy space they’re better displayed. Here they’re featured with extensive explanations that tell the story of each of Mr. Rockwell’s marvelous works, his picture-perfect glimpses of life in America. We also appreciated this new space for the well-placed seating areas that invite you to sit and contemplate the paintings, drawings and illustrations until you’re ready to move on. Closing time came all too fast, but I was still able to dart around the Museum’s campus to take in more idyllic Berkshire Hills views and to glimpse at the artist’s original studio that had been moved here from Stockbridge. I then blasted downstairs of the museum to watch the ten-minute video on Norman Rockwell’s life while admiring the extraordinary display of his renowned The Saturday Evening Post covers on display in the same room. Mom scoured the gift shop during that time until we both shuffled out of the museum with the last of the day’s stragglers.
Photo by Sarah Edwards. ©Norman Rockwell Museum. All rights reserved.
Norman Rockwell’s original Stockbridge studio (exterior). Photo by Art Evans. ©Norman Rockwell Museum. All rights reserved.
We took the back roads home winding through more fall foliage-festooned villages than we could count. Colorado isn’t as big on Halloween decorations, perhaps because the snow and cold arrives so early, so I delighted in all the goblins, pumpkin patches and scarecrows along the way. We only stopped once and that was for another northeastern tradition of sorts that we like to share together: a coffee shake from Friendly’s. The trip had been a triumph—mother and daughter enjoyed time together while giving father a break. We recounted our day’s doings to Dad upon our return and he did the same about his day with us.
Now that my father heard our raves about The Red Lion Inn and the Norman Rockwell Museum, I can only hope that my parents find their way there together in the not-too-distant future. Day trips do a world of good, even if you break out of the mother-daughter equation.
The Red Lion Inn, 30 Main Street, Stockbridge, 413-298-5545.
Norman Rockwell Museum, 9 Route 183, Stockbridge, 413-298-4100.
An American Craftsman Gallery, 36 Main Street, Stockbridge, 413-298-0175.
Stockbridge General Store, 40 Main Street, Stockbridge, 413-298-3060.
Thank you to the Norman Rockwell Museum and the Stockbridge Chamber of Commerce and Kevin Sprague for the images in this post.
Note the fall colors appeared to be late this year in the East, supposedly due to all the rain they had and few frosts. So I’m sure there’s lots of great leaf-looking to be enjoyed in New England. Holiday time is also very special there as well.
Check out Cape Cod, Cranberries and the Creation of Ever-Lasting Memories to read about another memorable New England fall trip, that time with both Mom and Dad.
Art & Culture Food & Wine French Life French Provinces Girl Talk Paris Podcasts Romance & Relationships Travel: Art & Culture Food & Wine French Life French Provinces Girl Talk Paris Podcasts Romance & Relationships Travel
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Elizabeth Bard Talks About Lunch in Paris, Love and Provence
Elizabeth Bard
I don’t think there’s a woman out there that hasn’t dreamed about falling in love in Paris. C’mon, admit it to yourself. See, I told you—I’m sure you’ve allowed just a shred of this fantasy to play out in your head at least once in your life. Many women indulge themselves with full-blown visions of strolling hand-in-hand with a lover alongside the Seine or sharing a tête-à-tête in a cozy French bistrot over a savory coq au vin and a good Bordeaux with the man of her dreams. Others just allow a glimmer of a romance flash through their minds. I bet there are some men (those sensitive types!) that have thought wistfully about love in Paris as well. I may be biased but Paris is surely the most romantic city in the world.
What makes it so? Well, it would take a whole book to divulge that—the decor, the mood, the ambiance, the food and wine. Elizabeth Bard does just that in her book “Lunch in Paris: A Love Story with Recipes.” I found it to be a terrific read. And I know Paris, love and the whole bonne salade of it all. Elizabeth has done a wonderful job at describing the sights and tastes of the moveablefeast that is Paris. (I haven’t yet tried the recipes she shares, but they seem wonderful and quite easy which is actually what most French cooking is all about.) And of course, Elizabeth meets a love, a Frenchman, and we are swept into their lives like a tourist on a fourteen-day European tour. Fortunately she provides many opportunities for us to savor their moment as well.
Freshly Made Chouquettes: A French Specialty
French Market Scene
Listen to what Elizabeth has to say about “Lunch in Paris,” her new life in Provence, her passion for cooking, the French and more in the interview she recorded with me on Travel Fun. Be sure to check out her blog as well for recipes and more about her life in France. Most of all, though, if you’re looking for a love story that takes place in Paris, pick up her book.
Click on the play button below to listen to my interview with Elizabeth Bard.
Food & Wine French Life Girl Talk Shopping: Food & Wine French Life Girl Talk Shopping
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Duking It Out with the Dukan Diet and Then Opting for Octavin
Octavin: My Knight in Shining Armor
For some people one of the hardest things about dieting is giving up favorite foods such as chocolate, cheese and wine. Deprivation depresses me, but I was also feeling pretty bummed out about my tight pants and an emerging muffin top this past April. It seems totally unjust that by the end of each ski season my jeans can barely make it over my thighs and my butt feels like a little trailer albeit a more solidly-built one. But still.
No, you don’t see many skinny ski instructors. We feed on a steady supply of chili, pizza, French fries, hot chocolate and après-ski beers. You need that kind of fuel when you spend extended hours out in the cold. This year though I could tell the extra poundage was creeping up faster than ever before (must be that age thing!). My ski pants were so tight by early March that I began to feel like the Michelin man.
So around the time of the royal wedding—after having heard about Kate Middleton’s dieting success and after having consumed umpteenth celebratory scones—I decided to go on a diet. I, of course, opted for the Dukan Diet since that’s the one that allowed Kate to go down a whole dress size. Plus this much-talked about regime was created by Pierre Dukan, a Frenchman. I had tried the Montignac, another diet designed by a Frenchman, years ago when I lived in France. So I figured I owed it to my all-around French experience to attempt this one as well.
You have no idea what a feat dieting is for me. I am such a non dieter. Fortunately my weight doesn’t fluctuate much but any attempt at taking it off is like trying to get a French chef to cook your steak anything more than rare. (That’s seldom possible, especially in the finer restaurants.) I actually don’t believe in dieting. I subscribe to healthy eating and regular exercise. I’ve also been influenced enough by the French way of life that I’m careful about portion control and not eating between meals. But this spring I was feeling so puffed up that I felt more drastic measures were required.
So how has it been? Well, I followed the Dukan Diet religiously for three weeks, a record for me. I’ve eaten enough eggs, egg whites, poultry, fish and meat to last me all summer. I think I only snuck one piece of cheese a couple of times, since my cheese cravings were quelled by a seemingly endless supply of nonfat yogurt. I came to feel so stuffed with protein that the days when veggies were allowed I ceremoniously served up less heralded vegetables such as brussels sprouts, leeks and bok choy on my fine Limoges china. Each meal—no matter how sparse—became a grand affair. I solved my chocolate crisis by adding abundant quantities of cocoa powder and stevia to my milk, yogurt, cream cheese (all nonfat), you name it.
But wine—the beloved drink of the Gods and most of us mortal beings—was not part of the program. Thankfully I’m not a big drinker but I do like a glass or two of wine a few nights a week. This time, however, I was ready to go dry until I could graduate to a more lenient phase that would permit occasional sips. Perrier has become my drink of choice. I serve it in my Baccarat glasses with a wedge of lemon or lime or sometimes in a highball glass, cut with water. (It gets expensive.) Either way, I’ve made it quite festive. I’ve found it refreshing to go about with a clearer head in the evenings, a new-found state that’s allowed me to read and even meditate more than before.
Yet two weeks into the diet, I started plotting how I was going to manage a glass of wine here or there once I came close to my ideal weight. It is after all wasteful to open a bottle and let it spoil as you parsimoniously pinch a glass out of it from time to time. This is especially true for people that live alone. Would I reserve wine consumption only for times when I’d go out? I pondered.
Ah-haa! That’s it—I’ll go the Octavin route. I remembered that I enjoyed some delicious wine from Monthaven Winery a few months ago, fine nectars from the Central Coast that lasted extremely well for weeks, preserved in the Octavin Home Wine Bar. I think I had a Chardonnay, a Cab and a Merlot on hand for as long as two months. This unique three-liter packaging—the equivalent of four bottles—allows wine enthusiasts to tap into artisanal wines without worrying about spoilage. At about $24. per Octavin, it also represents good value. Yes, that’s it, I thought. I’ll go the Octavin route and will feel no obligation “to finish the bottle.”
Not long after I put this plan into place, I came home one evening and desperately craved a nip. I was smart to have cleared out my fridge and cupboards of all forbidden temptations before embarking upon the diet. Although I toyed with the idea of racing to the store, I was settled in enough to nix that thought. But then I spotted the remnants of an old bottle of white wine toward the back of the fridge. I figured it was close to vinegar since I only used it on occasion for cooking. What the heck! I served it up with a few cubes, a lemon zest and a generous splash of Perrier and enjoyed one of the best wine spritzers of my life. A holiday weekend followed, filled with more carbs, including a few more wines and a generous slice of chocolate cake.
I had become fed up with Dr. Dukan’s program by now anyway. It did serve, however, to bring me into better alignment and many of his principles have already been incorporated into my eating habits. I lost five pounds the first week, but not an ounce the second or third. How demotivating! I woke up two pounds thinner, however, after my holiday foray. This new total seems to be holding steady and now that I’ve picked up some Octavin, cheese and many more bottles of Perrier, my program is looking up. With this renewed enthusiasm and more hiking, I just might reach my ten-pound weight loss goal. And I will have created what works best for me in doing so. Touché!
Beauty Colorado Fashion & Style Girl Talk Mountain Living Shopping Telluride The Rockies: Beauty Colorado Fashion & Style Girl Talk Mountain Living Shopping Telluride The Rockies
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Mountain Glam
Rita Styling a Queen B
We’re in the throes of monsoon season right now and this year the rains seem to be bigger than ever. The sun shines brightly most mornings but the clouds move in in the afternoon and when that happens, you better be back from your hike by then. Or else, ka boom!
Yes, most do hike or bike here in Colorado, visitors included. And in the winter we ski. It really is all about the great outdoors. Don’t you know that Coloradans are the fittest people in the country?
But don’t let all this outdoor life fool you. Many of the women here—especially in our smart mountain towns—are incredibly sophisticated and know how to pull off casual chic with (seemingly) the utmost of ease. Like in France, the look here is totally au naturel. The trick, however, is that it takes just the right approach to achieve a fresh-faced natural look, especially when the air is so dry that crevices as big as a mountain ravine can easily form on your face. As for hair, you need to find a cut that accommodates limp and lifeless because without much humidity, you can bet your coif isn’t going to boast much bounce.
And how do you feel about hat hair? Now, that’s clearly a place French women don’t want to go. No matter how cold it is outside, most French women (actually men, too) don’t dare mess up their hairstyles by wearing a hat, especially a snug-fitting knit one, pretty much the only type that will truly keep you warm. Stylish chapeaux are still quite acceptable yet few of them provide any real warmth. Here in Colorado we suffer from hat hair practically year-round. (It’s not unusual to wear a down jacket and a knit hat on a summer’s night. Few sundresses and sandals after sundown unless you pile on a plush fleece.)
We could easily look like a bunch of tired, flat-haired mountain women if we didn’t learn how to combat the elements with our best defense: a good hair cut and color and dewy makeup. Like everyone else, I sometimes get stuck in a rut and find myself doing my hair and makeup pretty much the same way I’ve done it for decades. This is why I occasionally mix it up, try a different stylist and then even have my makeup professionally applied, all out of necessity and fun.
I was carried through the winter by a color and cut I received from Kat at The Peaks Resort & Spa Salon here in Telluride. She deftly cut my short to mid-length hair in cascading layers so that it would fluff around my face, hat on or off. We went dark with the color since my hair gets so bleached out on the slopes in the winter. (You want to be sure to have nice tufts of hair sticking out of your hat to frame your face, but boy do they get damaged.)
We completed my re-do with a makeup application that as Kat said, “Looked as though we had made unnoticeable efforts toward beauty.” Truly I glowed and I was not surprised to learn that the Jane Iredale makeup she used is entirely mineral based since it made my skin feel silky smooth. It also rendered my face nearly flawless! This makeup redefines the expression “keep it simple” since it’s a foundation, concealer, powder and sunscreen all in one. Quench and sunscreen? That’s pretty hard to find, particularly in a palette of such natural colors. What a great high altitude brand.
Jane Iredale's Earthy Tones
Almost unbelievably, that cut and color carried me through until the end of ski season when I finally paid a visit to Queen B Salon in Aspen. With the motto “Every Woman a Queen,” I felt right at home. Rita, the owner, an attractive woman of un certain age, has undoubtedly seen a few queen bees in the forty-five years she’s been doing hair. But why not indulge us? And here, amongst an extraordinary collection of tiaras, beauteous baubles and other fun girly goods, that’s exactly what Rita does. Plus she knows how to do hair. She gave me a color and cut that got rid of my chewed up ends from ski season and transformed me into a more style-y babe. She decided to go with an edgy look, flat ironed my hair and smoothed out the ends with oil. (Now that’s a woman who knows the challenges of a dry climate.) I bought my first flat iron here and chuckled to myself that I can get this effect by donning a ski cap for an hour although unfortunately that doesn’t guarantee even flat distribution from end to end.
“Any particular look right now in Aspen?” I asked Rita.
“Most women have long hair,” she responded. “Blond. It gets really boring.”
I looked around the room and spotted a supply of hair extensions, hair pieces and clips. Rita explained that all the add-ons were made of natural hair of the finest quality. Mostly blond of course. I’m an anomaly here in the Rockies, I suppose.
“The problem with American men is that they’re so attached to long hair. They want all their women to look like cheerleaders,” Rita continued.
Clearly I had become Europeanized with my brunette bob.
I doubt her complaints were heartfelt though since this so-called ingenue look surely keeps her business churning. I began to think of all the highlights and hair extensions required to achieve that natural, outdoorsy look so prized in the mountains. Add to that the already excessive need for conditioning treatments and a variety of other potions and formulas, and you begin to understand that it takes beaucoup bucks to become naturally beautiful in the Rockies.
Next stop: The Cos Bar, the place to shop for makeup and beauty products in Aspen. It’s perhaps the best place in Colorado. Located in some thirteen chichi destinations across the U.S., Cos Bar actually originated in Aspen in 1976. Indeed this glam emporium reminds me of the many high-styled parfumeries you find throughout France where you can pick up everything from a bottle of Chanel No. 5 to a tube of Dior lipstick.
I settled in for a full makeup application. (Typically the girls here only make you up partially, let’s say to try out a particular look on your eyes. But I asked for the works. Hey, it was almost off season.) I walked out with a luscious, lightly made up look. For best results, pick up a Laura Mercier tinted moisturizer, one of Cos Bar’s bestsellers, Aspenites’ secret weapon that comes in eight shades. If you’re looking for a more striking look for evening, you’ll also find it here since the ladies in this town get pretty dolled up once the sun goes down.
So here I am now, back in my living room, sitting on my couch with my MacAir on my lap, writing. I still don’t understand why my skin and hair don’t feel softer with all these monsoonal rains. The humidity is at 40%, but I suspect that pales to what saturates the rest of the country these days. My tan is fading so fast that soon I’ll look like a mountain dumpling. I’m contemplating a trip to The Peaks for a spray tan. Like a good mountain spa, they know how to give you a natural summer radiance. I’m also thinking the sales should be pretty good in their Spa Boutique right now. They always have sales actually—on the best of products.
I’ve just realized that I’ve lived good chunks of my life in two lands fairly obsessed with beauty: France and the Rocky Mountains. You wouldn’t guess that of the latter but believe me, looking good is pretty important here. Being tanned and fit is part of the way of life in Colorado. And it’s no secret you must have the right hair and make up to go with this look. If you don’t, you look like a tourist. And no one wants to look like that, even if you are one. Don’t you agree?
The Peaks Resort & Spa, 136 Country Club Drive, Telluride, 800-772-5482, ThePeaksResort.com/spa
Queen B Salon, 112 South Mill Street, Aspen, 970-920-4300, QueenBSalon.com
The Cos Bar, 309 South Galena Street, Aspen, 970-925-6249, CosBar.com
The Peaks Spa Boutique
My number #1 make up tip: Do not wear make up when you’re skiing, hiking, biking or doing anything else in the great Rocky Mountains. If you do, you’ll look completely out-of-place. Tinted moisturizer (and sunscreen) as well as lip gloss on these athletic occasions are more than O.K. If you’re like me, you may want to cheat by leaving your mascara and liner on from the night before. A little smudged eye enhancement not only looks natural, but oh-so sexy, too. We are after all resourceful here in the mountains.
Girl Talk New York Restaurants: Girl Talk New York Restaurants
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New York Splendor
Eleven Madison Park
Serendipity and travel go together like food and wine. It’s usually the chance encounters or haphazard discoveries that occur along the way that make the difference in your journey, even if that trip lasts only a short while.
This was my experience on a recent flash visit to New York City. I was to spend just under thirty hours in this bustling metropolis, primarily focused on the more business aspects of my work. There was little time for travel writing research per se, so I knew I’d have to catch a story on the fly. My best bet for finding my travel highlight was lunch on the second day when my good friend, Jane (see Gallery Going with the Ladies from Larchmont), was to meet me before I headed out of town.
I counted on Jane—someone who seems to be in the know about just about everything most of the time—to provide the restaurant suggestion. She proposed Tabla, a swanky Indian restaurant, convenient for us both. We didn’t call ahead and when I arrived, they apologized that they were exceptionally closed that day for lunch. The rain was falling in sheets outside and I practically begged for another recommendation close by. I was informed that their sister property, Eleven Madison Park, was just next door.
“Isn’t that expensive?” I couldn’t help blurting out, aware nonetheless that these sort of remarks are more than acceptable during these challenging times.
“They have a $28. prix fixe menu,” Kevin, the manager at Tabla, replied.
I made a quick calculation in my head, figuring the price of at least one glass of wine, a coffee, tax and gratuity. I had just come from my publisher, St. Martin’s Press, located nearby in the Flat Iron Building and possessed more of a sense of optimism about the publishing world than I had in a while. It felt right.
I placed a call to Jane and made it a go. A wave of excitement hit me as I realized I was about to experience the restaurant in New York that I really wanted to go to some day. I had read a review of Eleven Madison Park in The New York Times a few months ago, one of the last written by Frank Bruni, their renowned restaurant critic, who bestowed four-stars upon this beloved New York dining establishment. His description of this superior dining establishment was so vivid that I easily imagined myself seated in the restaurant enjoying a superlative meal with a glass or two of wine.
Jane and I were escorted to a corner banquette that furnished wide-angle views of the restaurant’s stately, high-ceilinged dining room. “It’s a quintessential New York restaurant,” Jane remarked, referring most certainly to the dramatic tone set by this vast space and its decorative architectural embellishments, all representative of Art Deco design. “We brought our friends from California here when they came to New York and they loved it.”
We took turns observing the details that make any dining or lodging experience stand out. Jane pointed out the embossed decoration of leaves (representing the four seasons, not too unlike those of the Four Seasons), the trademark of the restaurant, on the butter. I commented on the salt served as a side to the butter and made a mental note to ask about its provenance (but never did, sorry). Of course we opted for the $28. prix fixe, one appetizer, one entrée menu and then selected a half bottle of chablis from the $28. page of the wine list that included two bottles, two half bottles and a few glasses, all at the $28. price. The manager explained that these prices were introduced a year ago and are here to stay, at least for now. “Oh, a woman must have designed that,” Jane quipped, an insightful remark lost on the manager that I didn’t comprehend until about ten seconds later.
We laughed and chatted, vainly attempting to encapsulate the essential of our current lives into a two-hour lunch. Our attention hardly waned, however, from our table and the entire room. A flourish of amuse bouches (mini-apps), which included heirloom tomato marshmallows and black pepper sablés topped with foie gras and cranberry gelée, wooed us from the get-go. And we practically swooned over the savory gougères and mini olive ficelles and baguettes that had been served up both warm and imperceptibly.
Snippets of our table side critique continued in between volleys about our very different lives, hers in New York, mine in Colorado. Our commentaries about each other’s activities intermingled with our impressions of our appetizers (Heirloom Beets with Lynnhaven Farms Chèvre Frais for Jane; Red Endive with Buffalo Mozzarrella, Basil and Persimmon for me). All had been exquisitely plated. Our entrées (Ricotta Gnocchi with Artichokes, Taggiasca Olives and Bacon for Jane; Seared Scallop with Celery, Meyer Lemon and Black Truffles for me) continued to provide a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. For me, the utensils were far too small, especially in proportion to the over-sized plates. For Jane, they were just right. “Must be a European thing,” I commented. “In France at least, the utensils are large and weighty.”
The end of our lunch neared, our broad plates were swept away and a most refined dessert cart was wheeled before us. No gloppy confections here. Instead we marveled at an array of stream-lined sweets that would be the envy of Paris’s most sophisticated pâtisserie. Sadly we declined this great temptation since we had surely surpassed our calorie count and budget by now.
We wrapped up our visit over rich coffee, served with hot, steamy milk. I was waiting expectedly for a little tray of sweets to be placed before us, just like in fine French restaurants. (Eleven Madison Park is a Relais & Châteaux after all.) Nothing came but I thought that maybe it was best not to overdo, keeping totally within the spirit of this sleek establishment. It’s O.K. to feel totally satisfied yet wanting a little more.
I felt this way about Jane as well when we bid each other goodbye as I ducked into a cab outside of Eleven Madison Park. I took solace in knowing that she’d be a best friend for life and that we had shared such an exceptional moment together. Maybe next time we’ll try Tabla.
Eleven Madison Park, 11 Madison Avenue at 24th Street, 212-889-0905, www.elevenmadisonpark.com
Tabla, 11 Madison Avenue at 25th Street, 212-889-0667, www.tablany.com
Art & Culture French Life Girl Talk New York Restaurants Shopping Travel: Art & Culture French Life Girl Talk New York Restaurants Shopping
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Gallery Going with the Ladies from Larchmont
I met my friend Jane fresh out of college when we worked at the Pucker Safrai art gallery together in Boston. In addition to being incredibly smart, creative and witty, Jane’s always very up-to-the-minute with everything from the latest cooking utensil to this season’s hottest nail color. (That happens to be Opi’s Moon over Mumbai—a sort of lavender grey—one of those small, yet necessary tidbits I learned when she teased me about my freshly applied ruby red, aptly named After Sex. I thought that shade would be fun and fresh with my summer togs, but what’s a mountain girl to know anyway?) So when Jane told me about a planned excursion to Neue Galerie, one of Manhattan’s more recent additions to the arts scene that showcases German and Austrian art, I jumped at the chance to go along.
Our outing was to include Jane’s friend, another very snappy gal from Larchmont, her mother-in-law and Jane’s daughter, a lovely young lady in her mid teens that I later discovered had clearly adopted her mother’s interest in the arts. Both Jane and her friend looked particularly chic in stylish dresses that would have also worked well for a sophisticated garden party. (Jane aptly dubbed her cream-colored linen shift very Frieda Callo.) Standing there in my well cut jean bermudas and colorful, clingy top, I was almost sorry I hadn’t taken it up a notch. Thank goodness I wore my beautiful, glass beads.
“You look very mountain-like, MB,” Jane observed without an ounce of snootiness. She tossed me a purple pashmina. “Here, that’s perfect. Just the right touch of namasté. You’ll need it for the museum.”
I had grown accustomed to a life without air conditioning in Colorado and was constantly amazed that the A.C. was cranked so high in other parts of the country.
We chatted excitedly the whole drive into the city. I learned that women in Larchmont were very possessive about sharing their babysitters’ names and numbers, a seemingly disconcerting matter for Jane and her friend.
“That’s how it is with French women and their recipes,” I explained. “Most only do a few signature dishes and they don’t like to share their recipes for fear that their spécialités might show up at someone else’s dinner party.”
We all scoffed at that. “Yes, I was even convinced at one point that one of my former sisters-in-law would deliberately leave out an ingredient or two so that her recipe could not be duplicated. I would make these cakes that would be total flops,” I trailed off.
Entrance to Neue Galerie
We laughed and commiserated about about some of the more tedious aspects of life until we pulled up in front of a handsome mansion on the upper east side. By now we were starved, so we decided to lunch first and look later. Entering the Café Sabarsky at Neue Galerie was like stepping into a fine dining room in Vienna. Dark wood paneling, wooden floors, floral-covered velvet banquettes, little marble café tables and heavy draperies wrapped us in an Old World warmth that we soon realized was more important than ever with the A.C.-induced Arctic chill that blasted us as soon as we walked in the door. We settled in and began to order coffees and lunch.
Café Sabarsky
The five of us almost hurried through our selections of goulash soup, smoked trout, Weiner Schnitzel and salads in anticipation of the desserts to follow. (We had already scoped out gorgeous cakes and tortes on the long, marble sideboard on the other side of the room upon entering.) A rich assortment of treats was later served up with more coffee and in my case, hot chocolate, the perfect accompaniment to an Apfelstrudel on a cold winter’s day. (Instead of complaining any more about the frosty air, I decided to make it a good excuse for being extra decadent.)
Grand Staircase
Finally we were ready to stroll through the exhibition rooms. We delighted separately, all together and sometimes one-on-one in viewing the many fine works on display here from original furnishings to superbly crafted jewelry. I paused at great length in front of a glittering painting by Gustav Klimt. Clearly some of the finest examples of Austrian-German creativity were prominently featured within this nearly six-year old museum. Neue Galerie is a small gem whose jewel box-like interior is as alluring as the goods inside. Our hearts had been warmed by all the beauty we took in within this elegant space; our bodies were glad to meet the hot summer air outside.
Neue Galerie New York, 1048 Fifth Avenue, 212-628-6200, www.neuegalerie.org
Café Sabarsky is open for breakfast, lunch and dinner (and for lots of tea, coffee and drinks in between) everyday but Wednesday; 212-288-0665.
French Life Girl Talk New York Restaurants Travel: French Life Girl Talk New York Restaurants
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Franco-American Girl Talk
I was to top off my time in the West Village with my dear friend Michèle, another single woman and une vraie franco-américaine, raised by a French mother and an American father. Plus she has lived almost equal time in Paris and New York, so she clearly has a handle on both worlds. For us to meet in New York was a particular treat since she had always been one of my friends from Paris. I was relying upon her more and more for updates on la vie parisienne.
We tucked ourselves into the corner banquette at Alexandra, another one of the West Village’s charming little restaurants on Hudson Street. After ordering salads, soupe à l’oignon gratinée and a couple of French Chardonnays, we jumped right in to one of our favorite subjects: zee French.
“So how are the French doing these days?” I asked.
“They’re still complaining a lot, but they do continue to enjoy a nice quality of life,” she replied.
“It sounds as though not much has changed since when I lived there.”
Our conversation soon shifted to French men, a far more interesting subject.
“I hope they’re still very charming and that they have remained as attentive as ever toward their women,” I said.
“French men do know how to flirt,” Michèle replied. “But there’s often nothing behind it.”
“Flirting does make life more fun,” I added. “I miss that about France. I don’t think there’s enough flirting here in the U.S. I always enjoy a titillating exchange.”
“Well I guess men on both sides of the Atlantic still know how to whip out the charm to seduce,” Michèle added.
I pondered this last comment for a while, replaying certain recent encounters in my head.
“And do French men continue to maintain mistresses?” I asked, changing the subject just enough so as not to delve headfirst into my own litany of love relationships. At least not right away. “People always ask me about that here in America. I think that’s something that fascinates Americans about the French.”
“That is still more of a reality than a myth,” Michèle answered reflectively. “I think it’s class specific. It’s more open and accepted in the haute bourgeoisie. Many French people live separate lives and are very frank about it. I know a lot of people that do this.”
“I guess in America people go ahead and split up despite the financial and emotional consequences,” I ventured. “In France, people live it out until they sort it out.”
We continued chatting about the differences between the French and Americans, a big frame of reference for us both.
“So what else is new?”
“You’ve heard the French are crazy about Carla Bruni, right?” Michèle asked.
“Oh yes, I know. I’m not that much out of the loop.”
Alexandra, After the Girls Were Gone
Alexandra, 455 Hudson Street, 212-255-3838, www.nymag.com/listings/restaurant/alexandra
