Paris

Love fades, cakes remain

Kate Hatch

alon du the' is a misnomer because all French tea is disgusting; they don't boil the water nor do they heat the pot and tea bags are de rigueur. I could go on but I won't. The point about the Parisian salon du the is the coffee, the cakes and the soci- ety. It is hard to find decent coffee any- where in France because the smaller cafes incline to the bitter Costa Rican beans which do not have the mellow flavour of the arabica beans with which Italian coffee is made. Each of the three salons I visited has good coffee, is renowned for a particu- lar delicacy and illustrates a different aspect of contemporary Parisian life.

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Angelina's is on the Rue de Rivoli and the obvious place for a pit-stop when you have moseyed around the Louvre and strolled through the Tuileries gardens but it is still too early for cocktails at Maurice's and you haven't thought about where to dine.

The shop is glass-fronted and the tables which face onto the street — enabling you to imbibe in luxurious surroundings whilst dishevelled and harassed tourists stagger by — are the most coveted and my least favourite: I don't want sticky-nosed chil- dren peering in at me while I eat and drink.

There is always a queue here. The easiest way to procure a table at tea-time is to shoot past the hoi polloi and plonk yourself in the first empty seat. If anyone challenges your entry into the salon proper, you should adopt an affronted manner and retort, 'II y a quelqu'un qui m'attend l'interieue, and you will generally be left in peace.

Having secured yourself a seat, you should order a hot chocolate to drink and Mont Blanc to eat, and prepare for a sugar rush of inestimable delight. If your spoon doesn't stand up in the hot chocolate you must send it back; far from irritating the hitherto brusque waitresses — Parisian tea- shops are generally staffed by women you will be appreciated for knowing your stuff. The consistency of the drink should compare with that of an unadulterated, melted chocolate bar. It is important not to drink your second cup of chocolate before the Mont Blanc arrives, lest you spoil the first mouthful of chestnut paste which has been whipped into a rich, pleasantly cloy- ing texture and swathed in full-fat cream. This cake is very good for you. When you are approximately halfway through it you may begin on your second cup of choco- late, all caution having long since been thrown to the winds. Your fellow-indulgers will consist mostly of Sony workers on a field trip and American tourists of exces- sive proportions, so the danger of titillating distractions from neighbouring conversa- tions is negligible.

For those with delicate constitutions,

TRAVEL

exceeding my recommended order on your visit would be reckless if you were planning to eat foie gras and rognons at L'Ami Louis later.

Carette is located at the Trocadero, the dramatic Stalinist monument which looks down across formal gardens, complete with waterfalls, to the Eiffel Tower on the hori- zon. The Trocadero backs onto a round- about which is littered with pavement cafés, the most exclusive and best-known of which is Carette.

My most significant French love affair began in this café. I now have mixed feel- ings about the man, but the coffee and croissants never disappoint. This café is best at weekends, when it tends to be fre- quented by fascinating-looking Frenchmen with foppish haircuts, accompanied by beautiful Parisian waifs. The atmosphere is thick with vaguely sordid coupling: sophis- ticated older men and dishevelled, appar- ently under-age girls taking a late, and what often looks like first, breakfast togeth- er. The best coffee in Paris is served here. It comes in proper silver pots and the smell of freshly ground beans is a tantalising forerunner of the taste to follow. Generous jugs of frothy hot milk are provided along- side so you can mix the measures yourself.

Carette is best for breakfast or a light lunch. The morning pastries are flaky and buttery-rich. Plain croissants are in a league of their own: toasted to perfection, the crust gives way to a soft, warm interior. The apple turnovers are for sophisticated breakfasters; not sweet and caky enough for tea-time. The almond croissants are covered with deeply tanned almonds, the slight bitterness of which counteracts the sweet almond paste within.

The café is elegant, with a glass-covered terrace and marble tables in the pale, high- ceilinged interior which is panelled, mir- rored and elegantly faded. Carette is also famous for its dolls' sandwiches which are similar in style but not as good as those served in Laduree, which is probably my favourite salon of all.

Quintessentially Parisian, Laduree is fre- quented by octogenarian ladies decked out in this season's Chanel (the flagship shop where all the couture is made is a stone's throw away in the Faubourg Saint Hon- ore). After a morning of tiring fittings, these dentured dames come and revive themselves with a bite-sized, conveniently crust-free sandwich, rather like haute cou- ture Mother's Pride, followed by a choco- late macaroon. These macaroons are the only victual I have ever bothered to trans- port from France: most other things — cheese and so forth — you can get at Har- rods. You cannot recreate Laduree's maca- roons. The fine layer of crispness on the outside dissolves into a smooth wedge of rich, not too sweet, demi-cuit chocolate paste within. They come in other flavours such as coffee, pistachio and vanilla, but chocolate is the best. You can get them in dolls' size too but again I recommend the classic ones: the mini version doesn't pack the same punch because no sdoner have you swallowed the first than you are worry- ing about how many more you can order without seeming greedy. Perhaps when I am 80 I will pop a small one between my lipsticked lips, but for now I'm content to make a mess and use my napkin after- wards.

When Jeff Bernard and I went to Paris these macaroons were the only thing worth risking his wrath for. When I sneaked off to buy some he was furious about being aban- doned in the Crillon. I kept my purchase to myself, though, because Jeff loves choco- late and it was in the days before his doctor had forbidden him to eat it.

`Leave me in the middle of nowhere to find my own way home would you? Well here ... have your stupid ring back'