Editor's note: CL food critic Jon Palmer Claridge is in France doing "research." This is the first of six Postcards from France about his culinary adventures.
Paris is a feast for all five senses.
People are always touching and kissing, including the peck on both cheeks thing. Scents of perfume float on the summer breeze, and sometimes a not so pleasant smell that's a byproduct of what could pass for Florida heat, or poor hygiene.
Your ears perk up at the song of birds, the swoosh of trains and the nasal intonations of that most mellifluous language. Your eyes dart from flowers to sumptuous displays of fruit. You can't help but notice the pencil-thin man in a blueberry suit with suede shoes, or the chic women, of all ages, in plunging silk or lace necklines and flowing skirts. And then there's culinary shopping outside my hotel on Rue Cler, traffic-free since '84 and just minutes from some tower that I hear is very famous.
All the tasting essentials are present in exclusive shops: chocolates, fruit, cheese, bread and wine, with charming sidewalk cafés every 100 feet or so.
I wander into Le Repaire de Bacchus to pick up Champagne and meet Stuart Cole, a British ex-pat who's been selling wine in Paris since the swinging 1980s, as he wistfully recalls. He regales me with stories of teaching 5-year-olds about sugar and acidity using orange, apricot and passion fruit juices, preparing them for a life of wine drinking.
The message is to start young and take it all in. I'm doing my best.
