Some things perplex Me!

Diary // From Paris - 27-03-13

Fair Art Fine?

I have discovered that when I lie I produce a fake yawn swiftly after, to affect a look of innocent boredom I presume. My children always say they know when I am hiding something from them because I surreptitiously lick my lips. I am not sure I would make a great spy, you can forgo the lie detectors and waterboarding during interrogation. Just watch me yawn or moisten the old chops and you can be damn sure I am disguising an absolute whopper. I have had much practice at this over the past few years, my life has been a Trans Siberian rail journey of betrayal, deceit and denial. I am probably quite good at it by now, I should be, I have never practiced anything more rigorously.

EH The Band, beautiful light, a classic look.

Rehearsals at La Theatre Cimble, Paris - the smallest cabaret venue in Paris. Ever so beautiful.

EH The Band, performing at Trés Honoré, Paris. The classic microphone and jazz/blues style feel.

Julia Palombe, performing and singing in a vintage bath, before an assembled audience. Pigalle, Paris.

There is so much beauty to be captured in the world - wherever you may be. The burgeoning Parisian burlesque scene - or ‘my backyard’ as I call it.

The Wine’s just perfect thank you!

Diary // From Paris - 21-03-13

Swirl, Sniff, Taste and Spit

Wine is nectar, the water of my days. It’s a rare one that I don’t have a snifter, but I am no expert. One of the bewildering things about drinking wine with the French is that you feel like a spineless virgin, groping in the dark, just praying that you say the right thing. After much contested deliberation they order a bottle of some appellation or other, check that you are happy, you nod in embarrassed approval, and garcons are dispatched. The bottle arrives, a designated taster is chosen and an amuse-bouche is poured. The glass shimmy is followed by a grade ‘A’ sniff test that would excite old conk nose himself de Gaulle, and then slurping occurs. At this point almost every diner in the restaurant has a grasp of the grape and the region you have chosen, irrelevant of the fact that they can’t see your bottle from the ‘terrace’, and their mouth is dripping with Fois Gras. Suddenly everyone at your table throws their hands in the air and spits. ‘Bouchon’ they proclaim in disgust, ‘corked’. The sommelier is called but before he has even left the cellar the old olfactory has worked its magic and he offers gravest apologies, orders a new bottle and beats himself with a baguette. For my part I quietly finish the original bottle ‘par moi-même’ whilst no one is looking. For an Englishman it tasted just peachy thank you, shame to waste it.

Photo of the week: Cabaret night at the Trés Honoré, Paris.

“I broke my toe yesterday - I shan’t be doing that again!

Martin Middlebrook

Musings on the day to day life of a foreigner in Paris

Diary // From Paris - 18-03-13

Death in Paris

When I first arrived in Paris, I stayed in a friend’s apartment in Balard in the 15th arrondissement. A small and bijoux (what other kind is there?) place on the fourth floor, it overlooked the apartment buildings to the rear, the bathrooms of which were fashioned with a curved glass block outer wall. All of which was very intriguing. One night as I sat in the kitchen eating a tea of muesli and red wine I watched as a beautiful twenty something women took a shower, and then proceeded to moisturise unseen parts of her body for half an hour. What made it so lovely was that the entire image was distorted by the glass block façade, so that all you could see was an illusion of proceedings, which served two purposes. It made it all the more erotic whilst at the same time excusing my voyeurism. It felt like you were watching a movie, and not spying on your neighbour like a pervert, which of course I was.

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