November 4, 1999
Web posted at: 11:16 a.m. EST (1616 GMT)

By Anne Z. Cooke

PARIS (Los Angeles Times Syndicate) -- Do you suppose those two characters in the movie "My Dinner With Andre" really spent most of their evening talking?

At my dinner with Yvonne, we were so busy sharing bites and comparing sauces that the frustrations of our three days in Paris vanished. Seated at a table near the garden in the Bristol Hotel's dining room, we agreed that the dinner was the highlight of our stay.

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We didn't know, when we tacked Paris onto the end of our European trip, that every hotel room in the city would be taken. Tour groups descended from buses in packs and blocked the sidewalks. Business travelers filled hotel conference rooms.

At the Tourist Office on the Champs Elysees, the lines stretched out to the door. The clerks at the counter, paid to welcome newcomers, were grouchier than overwhelmed by humanity. The air crackled with tension.

"I can't give you a room for your last night," cried Marie-Jose Tible, owner of the Atelier Montparnasse in the 7th Arrondissement, as we checked in. She shrugged with Gallic resignation, flipping the pages of her reservation book, reading the names of Germans, Egyptians, Americans. "Your travel agent made a mistake, you see here? Come back in August, when everyone leaves town. Then you can have any room you want. Ooh la la! Now we are so full, I don't know where to put people. But don't worry, I'll find you a room in another hotel, owned by my friend. On the Right Bank, near where I live," she said, pleadingly. "Come, I'll call her and then I'll drive you there."

Now that tense moment, when we wondered if we might spend our last night sleeping on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, was forgotten, vanquished by the comfort of the Hotel Bristol and the luxury of ordering from award-winning Chef Michel del Burgo's menu.

In the background, our waiter, Antoine, sartorially elegant in black and white, hovered solicitously, waiting for our slightest nod. The headwaiter beamed. The sommelier poured. Even the other diners, in their diamonds and pearls, nodded pleasantly, as if we were actually one of them and belonged in this rarefied atmosphere.

As we worked our way though the appetizer, Yvonne looked up from her plate and said, "This white asparagus is absolutely wonderful. Here, taste one."

And I replied, "I had no idea sweetbreads were so delicious. Are you sure they are what you say they are?"

"They're a delicacy," she answered. "Always have been. Expensive, too." She passed me another bite of subtly seasoned asparagus.

"A delicacy?" I said, washing it down with a swallow of the velvety-smooth St. Emilion Bordeaux the sommelier had recommended. "I thought these were the cuts left over after they sell the steaks. You know, the brains and stomach of the cow, the parts that our butcher, back in the Midwest, could hardly give away."

And she replied, cutting another bite, "Not a cow, you numbskull, a bull. And these are from a sheep."

Until that culinary moment, it hadn't seemed possible that a plate of food could be the highlight of any vacation, especially mine. My notion of a great trip is to keep on moving, looking, poking around corners, talking to people, wandering down cobblestone streets, soaking up sights but not calories.

No matter how often I'd strolled through the 400-year-old Place Des Vosges or huffed up 1,652 steps to the top of the Eiffel Tower there was always something new and different to discover. Even the Luxembourg Gardens, where children have been sailing boats on the pond since my mother was a Sorbonne student here (and before), had bowed to modern tastes and modified the perimeter path to accommodate joggers.

Notre Dame, for instance, is the star of a gazillion postcards, a Gothic hulk tourist attraction since the year 1300. We came around the corner expecting to see the familiar west facade, gray grime marking its venerable old age, only to find a strange white thing rising above the Seine River, as clean and bright and new as a bar of Ivory soap.

Blinking in surprise, we saw that scaffolding shrouded the lower third of the facade, part of a city-wide program of restoration in preparation for December's millennium celebration. The cathedral's towers and upper story, fully visible, were scrubbed clean, as naked as the day the stones were fitted together. Even the gargoyles, some of which were so badly eroded they've been replaced by identical stone copies, looked cheerful.

How I longed to join the crowds of tourists making their way across the square and under the forest of metal pipes into the nave, to wander among the soaring columns, the arches pointing toward heaven, the intense blues and deep reds of the stained glass windows. But no, we had to stop first, for Yvonne's mid-morning pastry and coffee.

She seemed to live on Paris' particular brew of muddy espresso, often veering off unexpectedly toward the closest sidewalk cafe. Once in possession of a table, she'd summon a waiter, usually a scowling specimen in a dirty apron, and order a lemon tart and coffee served in a dollhouse-sized cup. Sitting and sipping, watching the world walk by, that was her way of traveling.

Though I didn't tell her, I was actually beginning to appreciate these little, restful interludes. From the start, our trip had been bizarre. As we came into town, rioting soccer fans with "Toulouse" emblazoned on their T-shirts blocked the street, surrounded our bus and pounded on the windows. When they broke the mirrors, the driver pulled over to the curb and sat for 30 minutes, shaking his head, muttering and waiting for the police to arrive.

The next surprise was our hotel, the Atelier Montparnasse, which another travel writer had described as "charmingly intimate." And intimate it was. Our room, 12 feet by 11 feet, was so cramped there was barely room for the suitcases. At night, the light was so dim that two of us couldn't read at the same time. The paint was yellowing and there was no air conditioning.

Then, feeling claustrophobic, we headed for the street, only to find that the taxi drivers were still as rude as ever, and that when we bought a ticket for the city tour ($24 per person for three hours), the "guided narration" meant earphones that didn't work.

But the final irony was finding that the museum employees walked out on strike the day we arrived. For months we'd been reading about the Louvre, dreaming about seeing the airy new Richelieu wing, expecting to explore the ancient foundations discovered deep below the ground floor, and hoping to see Leonardo's Mona Lisa, even if it was behind bullet-proof glass.

Now the Louvre was locked up tight. As was the Musee D'Orsay, with its paintings, sculpture, glass and furniture. And Monet's water lilies at L'Orangerie. And the Cluny Museum, home of the Unicorn Tapestry.

But when life gives you lemons, you can make a lemon tart. And so we discovered the streets of Paris, walking for hours, stopping in bakeries, smelling the flowers, and riding the Metro (the subway is Paris's best bargain). We sat at sidewalk cafes and watched the people, and we lingered in ancient churches that were still all open. We had a picnic in the park and sat under Paris's chestnut trees, planted in long avenues.

On the last evening, as we headed for the Hotel Bristol, on the Faubourg St. Honore, walking from the Metro exit on the Champs Elysees down Avenue de Marigny, we noticed machine-gun slinging guards standing at intervals along the street. They eyed our little duffel, where we'd stuffed our dress shoes and muttered into their radios. What a thrill! We must have looked like agents provocateurs.

With a momentary frisson, we expected to be arrested. But the excitement was only a conference of European leaders who were meeting at the Palais D'Elysees, a block from the Bristol. The Faubourg Saint Honore is that kind of neighborhood.

Don't even think about staying at the Bristol. Even if we could have afforded it, we couldn't have gotten a reservation. With the hotel's two main competitors, the Meurice and the George V, closed for renovation, rooms are booked for months. But you can eat dinner there, which is, after all, the very best part.

After a last cup of coffee, we stopped in the lounge, where the piano player plays old favorites and you can sing along. We lingered over a brandy, then changed our shoes and headed out, already regretting having to go. Paris was wonderful, after all.

From the lobby, the music followed us to the door: "I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places, that this heart of mine embraces ...."

Double rooms with bath at the Atelier Montparnasse, at 49 Rue Vavin, start at about $139. The hotel is similar to most others in the Montparnasse area. Fax requests to (33) 1-40-51-0421.

Double rooms at the Hotel Bristol, at 112 Rue du Faubourg St. Honore, start at about $550 per night. Call Leading Hotels of the World at (800) 223-6800, or the hotel at 011-33-1-53- 43-4325. Expect to spend at least $100 for dinner and wine for two.

Copyright © 1999, Anne Z. Cooke
Distributed by Los Angeles Times Syndicate