What could be more romantic than Paris for New Year's? Our closest traveling companions, David and Jacqui Olmsted, had made the trip a few years before and had had such a good time that they persuaded my husband, Brooke, and me to repeat the journey with them. So last year we traded the hectic holiday scene in our hometown of Aspen for New Year's weekend in the City of Light.
As visitors who make at least one jaunt a year to Paris, we knew it was important to do our homework in advance. We had discovered, for example, that we'd have to do any shopping early in the trip, since New Year's Eve would fall on a Sunday, when boutiques would be closed. So instead we'd have to cram in museums that day, because on New Year's Day everything else would be shut (with the exception of the Grand Palais, which the city, to placate tourists, had decided to keep open). We had started making dinner reservations months before the journey, particularly for our New Year's Eve choice. In Paris many restaurants are closed on Sunday, and it came as little surprise to us that many places weren't changing their schedules to accommodate a major holiday.
We were surprised, however, at how easy it was to secure tables almost everywhere. On the way to our hotel, on a sunny Thursday morning, we discovered the reason. Our driver, who had had little to say until we reached a tunnel near the Seine, suddenly shouted "Voilà — no trafic!" pointing to the empty tunnel. "There are no people in Paris at this time of year." So we asked, "Where do they go?" Being from Colorado, we laughed when he told us, "They are in the mountains, skiing."
A few minutes later, we arrived at the Hôtel Pont Royal (7 Rue de Montalembert; 011-33-1-42-84-70-00), a boutique inn on the Left Bank, just seconds from the Rue du Bac, one of the best shopping streets in the city, and a perfect base for all we had planned. Established in 1923, the Pont Royal is steeped in literary history. Writers from Jean-Paul Sartre to William Styron were repeat guests. The small lobby contained both an enormous Christmas tree and a promising bar with cozy seats in the back.
After a short nap, I was ready to see the sights. Brooke begged off, complaining of a headache, so I headed alone down St.-Germain, the bustling boulevard in the heart of the Left Bank. First stop: Café de Flore (172 Boulevard St.-Germain; 011-33-1-45-48-55-26), arguably the most famous café in the world, with hot chocolate that tastes like melted candy bars. The cheese plate I ordered turned out to have enough wedges for ten diners, and before leaving, I offered the bulk of it to two young men sitting next to me. "Ah, but if you leave," one of them said, sighing in that perfect French way, "who will we have to eat it with?" Vive la France.
Crossing the Seine to the Right Bank and walking to the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré, I had just enough time to get to Colette (213 Rue St.-Honoré; 011-33-1-55-35-33-90), the cutting-edge emporium that is a favorite hangout of Karl Lagerfeld and the hippest of fashionistas. Lagerfeld reportedly likes Colette for the latest CDs and magazines. I like it for its incredible international scene; on this evening I counted seven languages being spoken.
By the time I headed home to my hotel it was dark, but holiday lights were shining brightly all around. I had been warned that Paris wasn't quite as colorful this year as in years past because of recent tornadoes that had racked the city, yet to me it seemed quite spectacular. Main avenues as well as side streets were abundantly decorated, with ornamented trees in every window and ribbon-covered boughs on the streetlights. The Hermès store had a giant horse head on its roof, all lit up. Not Christmasy, perhaps, but still quite a sight. The Eiffel Tower had an immense Christmas tree with all-green lights, dangling — upside down! — between its first and second floors.
Back at the hotel, the four of us met for dinner at L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon (5 Rue de Montalembert; 011-33-1-42-22-56-56), which opened in 2003 inside the Hôtel Pont Royal. Joyeux Joël. What could be more appealing than dining in this sexy space, known for its casual, all-bar seating, and being just an elevator ride away from our beds? The eatery, however, doesn't take reservations after 6:30 p.m., although we were assured that as hotel guests we would get priority. Still, no one, apparently, had told the clamoring crowd that Paris was empty this time of year. It took multiple glasses of wine and an hour and a half before we were diving into sinful black-truffle spaghettini and steak au poivre.
By the next morning Brooke's headache had turned into a full-blown flu, and our bedroom was the only sight he'd see that day. David set off to walk through the Tuileries Gardens. Jacqui and I headed for Avenue Montaigne, Paris's most famous address for high-end shopping, even though we knew that les soldes (the city's legendary after-Christmas sales) weren't scheduled to begin until January 8. Still, some boutique managers quietly offered us early discounts, and we headed back to the Pont Royal with full shopping bags in hand.
Walking along Avenue Montaigne was a Christmas present in itself. White lights were strung everywhere, and the boutiques were all individually decorated. A stop at my favorite grand hotel, the Plaza Athénée, revealed a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Stuffed bears were everywhere in the lobby, hanging from red walls and even posed riding in a red car under a twenty-foot tree. More amazing, the indoor courtyard had been turned into an ice-skating rink and was filled with kids.
Our Friday-night dinner was at Benôit (20 Rue St.-Martin; 011-33-1-42-72-25-76), a three-generation-old bistro famous for its cassoulet. Since the restaurant had been purchased by the Alain Ducasse Group the previous year, I was curious to see if anything had changed. Fortunately, all was exactly the way I remembered it, with the exception of a slightly intimidating wall-sized photo of the great Ducasse looking out over his diners.
I had really been anticipating dinner the next evening, at Alain Senderens's restaurant, Senderens (9 Place de la Madeleine; 011-33-1-42-65-22-90); the year before, the legendary chef had transformed Lucas Carton, his revered three-star establishment at the same address, into this simpler, less-formal venue. But with Brooke still ill, I sent Jacqui and David alone (they came home raving). Fortunately, on Sunday, New Year's Eve, Brooke was able to rise to the occasion. This was our museum day, but it turned out that the rest of Paris had similar thoughts. The Louvre was so crowded that, after waiting in line for an hour to get tickets, we left in just ten minutes once we were inside. Determined, however, to see the newly reopened Orangerie, home to eight gigantic paintings in Monet's water-lilies series (Les Nymphéas), we were about to brave another hour-long queue when we discovered that because we'd purchased a pass to both museums earlier, at the Louvre, we were allowed line-cutting privileges. The Orangerie, which the painter André Masson famously described as the "Sistine Chapel of Impressionism," lived up to its reputation.
By now the weather had turned rainy, but as we made our way to dinner, we still wanted to see what was happening along the Champs-élysées. Urging our taxi driver to go slowly, we noted the crowds gathering to celebrate, wine bottles in hand, and admired the white lights stretching along the full length of the boulevard. At 7:00 p.m., right on time, we arrived at L'Angle du Faubourg (195 Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré; 011-33-1-40-74-20-20), which Jean-Claude Vrinat — well-known as the proprietor of the peerless Taillevent — opened in 2001 as a more modern and slightly less costly establishment but still with excellent food and service. On this night, as at almost everywhere else in town, there was a fixed menu. This one ran about $300 per person, excluding wine (in the grand hotels the prices were $1,000-plus, before alcohol). Though roast lamb with truffles and fish with artichokes were on the menu, I was most excited about the cheese course, which offered a vacherin, an unpasturized variety you can't get in the U.S. To my palate, this seasonal cow's-milk cheese is possibly the most decadent fromage in the world.
Once we were seated after cocktails, dinner was a four-hour affair, and when the New Year was rung in at midnight we had yet to finish our dessert. Hugs and kisses and promises that we would come back to do it all again were a given. By 1:00 a.m., as our taxi carried us home, the streets were nearly empty. The storm, it seemed, had quenched the spirits of even the heartiest revelers. But in the City of Light the lights were still on. They shimmered. And it was romantic.
A PARISIAN'S HOLIDAY
The French know how to celebrate. Champagne corks pop all year long, but during the festive season the popping never stops. Le tout Paris might head for the ski slopes or zoom off to Marrakech, but for me, a devoted city slicker, nothing could be better than Noel and New Year's in my adopted hometown of almost four decades. When the natives flee, foreign travelers stream in. There is always something to see, and having visiting friends in town is a perfect excuse to do it.
We might rendezvous at the Café Marly, in a wing of the Louvre — for brunch, lunch or drinks — where you can often sit outside in the sun (with the help of heaters). This year's must-sees promise to be the show "Design Contre Design" (through January 8) at the Grand Palais and an exhibition of Louis XIV furniture — in solid silver — at Versailles. The Quai Branly tribal-art museum continues to be a massive hit; every American I've sent there has adored it. Other delights we've sampled during the holidays include church concerts: Notre Dame and the Madeleine are famous for their Christmas Eve services and music, but many small churches also have marvelous offerings. Once, a Chicago friend discovered a cello concert at St.-Ephrem and a Maria Callas tribute at St.-Julien-le-Pauvre.
Above all, the season means shopping. Every Parisienne has her insider addresses. Some of my best ones are, literally, outside. At the Christmas markets that are set up in small chalets just for the season (this year, in Neuilly-sur-Seine and the Place St.-Sulpice in St.-Germain-des-Prés), I've found original artists' jewelry, hand-embroidered linens, bone and tortoiseshell picture frames, and Peruvian children's knits. The Neuilly outdoor market (Wednesday, Friday and Sunday mornings) is a year-round source for colorful woven shawls and pashminas, silk pullovers, Provençal and Toile de Jouy quilts, and white Limoges porcelain. Last year the vivid-toned Indian silk jackets at Nicolas Mena's stand caught even Hubert de Givenchy's attention.
All our best Parisian Christmases have been spent en famille. Celebrating in France is always about food — gourmet and gargantuan. Towering mountains of lobsters, crayfish, oysters and coquilles St. Jacques are piled high in my local Rue Poncelet market. Parisians will walk past three boulangeries to find the right baguette, so getting the best of everything for Christmas réveillon is essential.
Our New Year's Eves, similarly, have never been in a restaurant but always at a private party. The most memorable was a grand extravaganza in a large apartment on the Rue de Rivoli, where we stood on the balcony, toasting the New Year. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower glittered, and fireworks exploded on the horizon. Close by, couples danced in the Place de la Concorde. More often, though, we celebrate at a small dinner party with good friends and exquisite food. Lobster bisque or wild sea bass might be on the menu. My husband does a great version of guinea fowl à la Mapie de Toulouse-Lautrec, the late iconic cookbook author. Even if we're à deux, we can't miss the midnight moment as our avenue fills with a gridlock of cars and a cacophony of honking horns that last until the early hours. We drink to our view of that illuminated wedding cake, the Arc de Triomphe, glad to be above the fray.
Since 2000, the spotlight has been on the Eiffel Tower, which sparkles with full cha-cha-cha lighting for ten minutes on the hour year-round starting at nightfall. It always makes me smile. This year, now that Alain Ducasse has taken over the Eiffel's Jules Verne restaurant and installed Patrick Jouin's imaginative decor, it should again be the place to be.
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