La Petite Écossaise in Paris

3 Mar

Eilidh Tuckett

Answer me this - what is freelancing for, if not spending a random Monday in Paris?

Such was the situation I found myself in a few months ago. I’d been away for a few days with the girls from University, staying with our friend’s family outside Lyon. We spent four days immersed in each other’s company, just like we used to, but instead of being holed up in a stuffy Edinburgh library, we were languishing in the sun-smooched French countryside, eating pain au chocolat, swimming in Lac d'Aiguebelette and drinking diabolos. Dreamy stuff.

As all good holidays tend to do, it left me wanting more, and the freedom that freelance affords me coupled with the persistent feeling that this phase of life won’t last forever made me book a train to the capital, while the rest dutifully went home to their 9 to 5’s. Part of me felt riddled with guilt, part of me was so aware that I won’t be young in Paris with no agenda forever. So, 24 glorious hours in la ville lumière it was.

There are few things I love more than train travel, so the journey itself was part of the joy. I arrived in the early afternoon, and spent a while happily trawling through Montorgueil, Le Marais and Le Quartier Latin at the pace of un escargot, playing the flaneuse, mooching and pondering and picking up souvenirs from Monoprix’s homeware section.

Dinner was at Camille, a smart bistrot serving perfect steak frites and homemade mayonnaise so good I had to ask for another serving – which made the waiter chuckle, probably thinking quelle gourmande cette petite Écossaise! (read: What a glutton that little Scottish girl is!)

My first trip to Paris was with my parents when I was two. We stayed for a fortnight, at a friend’s apartment in the 12th arrondissement, filling the days with trips to parks, museums and landmarks. There is a photo album in a cupboard in my mum’s house, brimming with the memories of two weeks well spent, the three of us grinning, from time-worn, well-thumbed pages. I was thinking about those photos and my mum at home in Glasgow as I savoured my negroni blanc (a new favourite), thinking about how funny time is and what a pleasurable and privileged position I sit in being able to travel this way. Wonderful as it is to do these things alone, and as much as I do enjoy my own company, there is something infinitely more special about sharing experiences with the people you love.

When I am alone, it is them I think about. I’m not that two-year-old anymore, but some things remain the same, mainly the closeness to my mum - so evident in the photos from that time. She might not be holding me up for a photo with the Eiffel tower today, but in some ways, she is. That supportive hand has always been the buoy in my life, and whenever I am able to do things like drink a cocktail in Paris on a Monday, I want to share that moment with her. I suppose to let her know how grateful I am for everything she has given me... and also because she’s a total hoot and one of my absolute favourite people to spend time with.

To everyone who knows her, my mum is Karnie. She has been a nanny her whole working life, and this nickname came from James, whom she looked after for fifteen years. As a toddler, he couldn’t pronounce Karen (her ‘real’ name) and so Karnie she became. Karnie has always been a giver, someone who unfailingly puts others before herself. At times, this frustrates me. I want her to prioritise the kind of life she wants, rather than trying to make other people happy all the time, but it’s not in her nature, and I’ve grown to understand that. Making the people she loves happy is her joy.

Karnie is my biggest fan (in life and on Instagram) and dutifully replied to every photo I shared of my Paris trip with the enthusiasm only a devoted parent could muster for something as generic as an image of my cream-topped chocolat chaud. We had long ago resolved to go to Paris together again, and the guilt I’d felt at leaving the girls at Lyon airport was compounded by the thought of her working long hours in a Glasgow nursery while I was lapping up the last vestiges of summer in Paris. I resolved to take her - and soon.

‘Soon’ comes around quicker than I’d expected, in the form of a press stay at The Hotel Pilgrim, a location which had been on my wish list since reading Alicia Miller’s glowing review in The Times. Seconded down Rue de Poissy, a tranquil side street in the Latin Quarter just off the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the Hotel offers refuge from bustling Paris.

When we arrive on a Wednesday evening in November, it is pouring rain, and the lobby is warm and inviting. A basket of (very chicly packaged) board games beckons, as does the squashy embrace of a particularly gorgeous sofa (Mario Bellini for B&B Italia Camaleonda, in inky navy velvet - I used to work for an interiors magazine – I notice these things).

Though we are being hosted – an unbelievable treat and one of the many perks of my job, I’m careful not to let that privilege cloud my judgement. I’ll spot a cobweb a mile off and I know a lacklustre breakfast buffet when I see one. And this? This hotel isn’t that – the Hotel Pilgrim is decidedly excellent, especially the breakfast, and it comes at a decent price point for an inner-city Paris hotel that leaves almost nothing to be desired (room-only doubles start from £204). It is spotlessly clean and seriously stylish with brilliant amenities (pool, hammam), and there are several metro stops close by, which makes getting to and from the airport quick, cheap and seamless – ideal when you’re keen to get out and explore. For being so central (just a short walk from Notre-Dame) the hotel and its surroundings feel peaceful. The bustle is softened by the residential feel of the street.

My only two criticisms are the bathwater temperature – it takes a long time to heat up, but does eventually (and the gorgeous toiletries from La:Bruket are worth the wait). The second is the tea. In my experience, the French just don’t do a good cuppa - but as my mum wisely says, you don’t come to Paris for their English Breakfast tea.

A spot to chill at The Hotel Pilgrim.jpg

The plumpest bed at the Hotel Pilgrim.jpg

Karnie at breakfast in the Hotel Pilgrim.jpg

We stayed at the Pilgrim for three nights, which absolutely flew by. Paris might not be New York or London, but it is still a relatively fast-paced city, and we got caught up in that buzz, trotting from one place to the next sightseeing, shopping and snacking, making good use of my copy of Yolo Magazine and its brilliant recommendations. We made sure to take our time in the mornings, savouring a leisurely breakfast together to set ourselves up for the day. The bountiful spread on offer at the Hotel Pilgrim meant we didn’t need lunch, because we’d fuelled up on local cheese and charcuterie from COW, freshly baked croissants, baguette de tradition slathered in butter and craft honey, made-to-order omelettes and hot coffee.

Is there anything better than a good breakfast? (For me, there is – enjoying it with my mum).

My friends and family know that I will always ask what their ‘highlight’ was - I might be referring to a whole day, a meal or a painting in a gallery, I just want to know what they loved the most. My personal Paris highlights included The Orangerie’s current exhibition, Berthe Weill, art dealer of the Parisian Avant-garde. As both a woman and a Jew in the 1930s, her contribution to modern art has been largely forgotten, of course, but she was one of the first gallerists to exhibit Picasso, before he made his name, and in 1917 she facilitated Modigliani’s only solo exhibition in his lifetime. I learnt so much, it fired me up in the way that only a good exhibition can. I discovered artists new to me, Suzanne Valadon, Hermine David and Francis Smith, and left with long list of others I want to read up on, too. In fact, I was so invested that I totally lost track of time and found myself being herded out before I even managed to see the Monet room, which felt entirely unjust, given that it was 5:45pm at that point and the museum wasn’t due to close until 6. I would have been really livid, had the Eiffel tower not been sparkling at the very moment of our unceremonious eviction.

“Look, Eilidh! That’ll cheer you up!” said my mum, and she wasn’t wrong. What can I say – I’m a tourist, it was magic.

My second highlight was Aux Deux Amis, a slightly rough and ready little natural wine bar serving up cold cuts, sardines, comté and quince with a haughty air of typically Parisian indifference. There are stools at the counter, too many tables in one corner and seats spilling out onto the street outside. It oozes atmosphere and easy charm, but it doesn’t try too hard. It came highly recommended by my brother and his girlfriend, who visited when she was an au pair for an interior designer in Paris. Both are decidedly chic, and I would trust any recommendation they gave me, and Aux Deux Amis did not disappoint. The sardines were excellent – the biggest I’ve ever seen but not in an off-putting way, the comté thin and nutty and the quince a sticky-sweet, tooth-coating delight. Neither my mum nor I are drinkers, but both of us thoroughly enjoyed the juicy orange wine, charmingly named ‘Pompom Blanc.’ The music was great too, a nostalgic mix of 1980s belters (“Simple Minds!! They’re Scottish!!”) that had my mum vibing. All this at 4pm - I would imagine it really comes into its own in the evening.

My third highlight was meeting our friends, Daphne and Pete, who are also family friends of the aforementioned James, whose apartment we stayed at all those years ago on my first trip to Paris. Daphne is a wonderful artist, and we managed to catch the penultimate day of her solo show at the Galerie Convergences. In the exhibition book, there’s a sentence that says ‘for the artist, it’s always about searching for the point of balance before the tipping point’ which is a lovely way of putting what Daphne’s work achieves – balance. Each piece is serene to look at, and visiting the gallery itself feels like taking a big, deep breath. I love art that just strips everything back, and there is certainly no visual clutter in any Daphne Gamble piece. Each is thoughtful and considered, linear and calming. My favourite was Held in Place No.08, a square box with an uncooperative piece of wire held fast against the walls of its frame. “It kept springing out of place, every time I liked where it was sitting” said Daphne, laughing. “It had a mind of its own!”