Workers of the world, unite!

I painted the town with a friend whom I had not seen since May 1968 in Paris. With Millicent Tendency, red was the only colour to paint it. We chucked a few paving stones together on the Boulevard St Michel back during that heady summer, alongside the likes of Dany “Le Rouge” and Peter Hain, and shouted slogans such as “C.R.S. – S.S.!!” and “Sous les pavés, la plage!”. But whereas I (and Peter Hain) have mellowed into a middle-of-the-road, Independent on Sunday reading type of non-committal average couch potato, and Dany Le Rouge is now Dany Le Vert, Millicent is still hanging on desperately to the Cause and trying to persuade the workers of the world to unite. She spends her life going from conference to workshop, seminar to debate, across the world, militating, agitating and trying to convince the Great Unwashed to put down the remote control for the telly and take up arms against a sea of globalisation. Fat chance.

We dined at Chez Vincent, 8-10 Rue des Dominicains, just off Butchers’ Alley. This is a very old, established Bruxellois brasserie which is packed every night, so reserve in advance, even mid-week (Tel: 02 511 2607/2303). The service is impeccable, and the young, handsome waiters (that twang you just heard was Vi Hornblower snapping on a thong) are so helpful. They parked Millicent’s banners in the umbrella stand and stashed her megaphone over the coat rack. We received two complimentary glasses of fizz while making our minds up. I chose Vincent because there’s very little on the menu that Millicent could object to. In fact there’s very little in general that Millicent can find to object to these days, which must make her life very difficult. It was so easy in the early 70’s – when you’d eliminated anything South African, Chilean, Greek, Portuguese, Israeli, or with lovely big sad eyes, you were basically left with chips. Since the lifting of the Iron Curtain, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the release of Nelson Mandela, the defeat of the miners and the death of socialism, there is a shortage of causes célèbres to fight. It’s been nice to see the youngsters in Paris reviving some old traditions recently.

The menu at Chez Vincent is simple and resolutely Belgian: their standard dishes are Moules, in various sauces, steaks, and a limited choice of fish and meat dishes. The house style is brasserie – nothing chichi or frilly, concentrating on classic dishes prepared with perfect ingredients. Millicent approved, it smacked of solid working-class values. For starters I had the Terrine de Légumes au Saumon which was elegant simplicity, simply fresh spring vegetables (carrots, leek, beans) and pieces of salmon preserved in clear aspic and served in a tomato coulis. Millicent had the Panier à Salade de Saison. Thankfully she has not nailed her colours to the mast of vegetarianism, and went for the Rumsteak au Poivre Rouge for main course, whereas I could not resist the Rognon de Veau – usually served whole, but at my request cut into small pieces before cooking. Offally kind of them. Millicent goes ballistic at the sight of a Coca-Cola logo, so we had a bottle of Beaujolais St Amour and some fizzy water. The desserts are worth holding a space for. The Crêpe Vincent was extremely yummy, and Millicent opted for Non-Profiteroles. With a couple of coffees, the damage came to a fairly middle-class sum, but it’s not every day you relive your youth. We laughed so much about the famous baton charge down the Boulevard St Michel that I could almost smell the CS gas.

I tipped the young waiter generously, which raised a disapproving frown from Millicent who doesn’t believe in gratuities, but a dazzling smile from the young man. You support the workers in your way, Millicent, and I’ll support them in mine.

Smoke gets in your eyes

I made a brief visit to Paris last week in the company of my two glamorous fashionista friends, Allora Gobbi (the original barefoot Contessa, and Liverpool’s answer to Joan Collins), and Tarquin de Folle (Wanstead’s answer to, er, Joan Collins). They arrived sporting identical (fake) designer sunglasses looking like Will and Grace, leaving me in the role of Karen, I suppose. They were somewhat put out to learn that they were going to have to leave their giant LV suitcases (3 for a pound in the market) behind to make room for a large consignment of wine I planned to bring back in the jalopy.

On arriving in Paris we approached the Porte de St Cloud, at the slightly scruffier end of the very posh 16th arrondissement, near the old rugby stadium Parc des Princes. Cars were parked everywhere, and it was only after my skilful driving narrowly missed the projectile vomiting of a rugger bugger from Gloucester that we realized it was a match night. We finally managed to park somewhere near Dijon and walked back to the hotel.

The Hotel Exelmans at 73 Rue Boileau, off boulevard Exelmans, is quite a pleasant small hotel with a delightful courtyard where it would have been nice to take breakfast had it been warmer, but some rooms were better than others. Room no.7 is very pleasant with a lovely bathroom, but avoid the 3rd floor (rooms 8 to 12). It is always fascinating to see how French hoteliers do not see any need to freshen up paintwork in corridors or staircases. Still, for 73 euros a night, breakfast included (internet rate), you can’t expect the Ritz. Do check before you book whether there’s a rugger match that day – out of season they have a couple of parking spaces that you can book (which we should have done). You can book online, simply use a search engine such as Yahoo and type in Hotel Exelmans Paris. It is situated close to the Brussels Café, where you can slake your craving for moules and frites once you have got over the Thalys jetlag.

Allora and Tarquin are not as well-travelled as Yours Truly, and still thought the Café Costes was the Last Word in chic. We popped in for a kir royale, but there was nobody of any import to observe, only Gerard Depardieu slumped over a pint of cider and Ines de la Fressange picking the varnish off her toenails in a corner. Where were Gwyneth and Chris and Apple, Angelina and Brad, Paris and Paris, George and Kenny? Allora and Tarquin were disappointed. The only French celebs worth talking about these days live in England. Juliette Binoche is so passée. Catherine Deneuve has had her frites. Even Thierry Henry pretends he doesn’t know the French for va-va-voom.

I persuaded them to abandon their metrosexual ambitions and go in search of La Vraie France, somewhere untouched by the Atkins diet and New World wine, and where you don’t wear Prada shoes if you’re planning on using the toilet. There are still places in Paris like this. I took them to Polidor, at 13 rue Monsieur le Prince, just off boulevard St Germain. This restaurant close to the Sorbonne was a favourite haunt of impoverished students at the turn of the century, when Paul Valéry and André Gide had lovers’ tiffs over the cassoulet and art students would pay for their meals by painting a mural on the walls – one still remains, in the back room. The menu is simple, nourishing and untouched by sundried tomatoes, rocket or pancetta. Good thick sauces, fresh baguette to mop them up with, and bustling no-nonsense waitresses who treat the diners like their own adolescent children. And save some space for pudding, as the house speciality is the home-made Tarte Tatin, served with an optional dollop of crème fraiche. We staggered out into the night, Allora attempting somewhat inelegantly to disengage her thong and Tarquin complaining that he was starting to look like Elton.

We went in search of Edith that night. Alighting at metro Pyrénées, we walked down the steep slope of Rue de Belleville, passing the doorstep at no. 72 where La Mome was born in the street (allegedly). At the end of the narrow rue Piat is the most stunning view over Paris, marred only these days by the tacky twinkling of the Eiffel Tower every hour on the hour, like a cheap Chinese Christmas decoration. On the night air drifted a familiar voice, which we followed to the steamed-up glass door of an unprepossessing bar. It was packed with drinkers and smokers, and right at the back was a young woman belting out Piaf songs like the old sparrow herself. When she launched into “La Vie en Rose” Tarquin burst into tears, and poked a large-denomination euro note into her ample cleavage, prompting her to finish on a gusty rendition of “Milord”.

The Parisians have admirably resisted the trend towards smoke-free public places, and smoking is still compulsory in most cafes. Apart from Madrid, it is possibly the only city where you will find a queue for the smoking area, while the two non-smoking tables by the toilet remain defiantly empty. Sadly, one doesn’t see the old Disque Bleue gaspers so much these days. You knew you were in Paris when you detected the acrid aroma of dark tobacco mingled with the burnt-rubber smell of the metro wheels and the garlic breath of one’s fellow travellers. Nowadays there is a pervasive and creeping Americanisation of Parisian café society, reflected in the packets of Marlboro and Camel sitting alongside the double expressos. McDonald’s has been a favourite with French teens for a couple of decades (although thankfully they seem to grow out of it on reaching adulthood) and it is rumoured that there is even a Starbucks somewhere in the Houston-like concrete jungle of La Défense. So smoking is about all the French have left to stem the tide of cultural imperialism, even though their poison of choice is, er, American. Inhaling is a political statement these days. They are defending their national identity by sacrificing their health. And for that, you have to salute them. Even if their hotels could do with a bit of an American invasion.