Julie & Julia Evoke 6 Paris Memories

Last night Dennis and I headed straight from work to a showing of Julie & Julia at the Fenway Regal. With no Red Sox game in town we quickly found a parking spot in the outdoor lot at the Landmark Center, and even had a few minutes to grab a bite.

Bound for a film about fine French cuisine, I enjoyed the irony of dining on a strawberry/banana Vivanno at Starbucks, accompanied by a lusciously buttery oatmeal raisin cookie. Dennis needs something to chew with his beverage, even if it’s a smoothie laced with extra protein powder. Still feeling hungry, I wandered into Panera Bread for a toasted whole grain bagel with cream cheese.

After being subjected to more previews than we cared to see – including one about a psychopathic, killer stepfather -- the movie finally began. Seeing the scene of Julia Child and her husband, Paul, arriving in Paris in the early 1950’s to live in an apartment with a magnificent courtyard made me yearn for a Paris that no longer exists.

My own Paris experiences span a one-week stay in March 1982, followed by three week visits in ’83 and ’84. Daphne’s dad, a psychiatrist whose undergraduate years at MIT had imbued in him a love of theoretical math, got invited to participate in international roundtable discussions at the Institut des Hautes Études Scientifiques, and we got to tag along. Not nearly as glamorous as Julia’s apartment, ours was on the IHES campus on the outskirts of Paris, an easy walk to the RER station.

Of course we covered all the museums and landmarks my trusty Guide de Michelin proclaimed worthy of one's time. But here’s what I remember most vividly:

(1) Walking to the local patisserie in Bures-sur-Yvette on our first morning in Paris. It was raining hard and the trees were wondrously green. A six-year-old Daphne, clad in a red and white floral printed vinyl raincoat with matching hat, beamed as a white-haired man in a black beret, towering over all of us, insisted on kissing her hand. It was Sir Erik Christopher Zeeman, the British mathematician, eager to commence talks with her dad about catastrophe theory as a model for affect tolerance.

(2) Daily early a.m. trips to that same patisserie for freshly baked, buttery croissants for me, pan chocolate for Daphne, and brioche for her dad. Without regard for calorie counts or carbs, I began each day with at least two croissants – always willing to sample the brioche and pan chocolate as well.

(3) Frequent visits to whatever market streets Patricia Wells had recommended in her Food Lovers’ Guide to Paris. With Daphne in tow, I timed these trips for late afternoon so we could take dinner back to our apartment. The one I remember best is Rue Cler in the 7th arrondisement, probably because the man behind the counter of the charcuterie greeted us like regulars – regardless of whether I ordered the rotisserie roasted chicken with all the trimmings or the spicy lasagna laced with sausage.

(4) Visits to the playground at Luxembourg Gardens on warm, sunny days, and a site-seeing moment evoking smiles on the part of an American mom and daughter not accustomed to public displays of nudity: A five or six year old boy carefully spread his towel on the ground before stripping down to his birthday suit -- reveling in the opportunity to feel the sun on his body.

(5) Long walks along the Seine, punctuated by stops at Berthillon on the Île Saint-Louis for ice cream accompanied by a small, stainless pitcher of hot fudge the likes of which I’ve never tasted. Perhaps young children have better nutritional judgment than their moms because Daphne always opted for a dish of sorbet – pamplemousse, fraise or anana.