There and Back Again, Part 6

Saturday, October 28

Two of many, many booths touting chocolate

On our last full day in Paris, it being a weekend day, I had hoped that the workers would not show up next door, but they did. We were driven out of the apartment fairly early, and set out for the Metro, since the trip to the Porte de Versailles (where the event was taking place) was fairly direct, with only one change of trains.

When we arrived at the convention center where le Salon du Chocolat was being held, we encountered another monster line. And, again, standing about, my back started twingeing. The muscle is just at the pelvis and rather deep in the flesh.

Chocolate gown

The effect of the malady is like a low-level Charlie horse that knots up when standing up straight. So ambulation is possible, but it has to be hunched over, the epitome of old-person existence.

Edible clothing

I think that half of my irritation came from hobbling around like an old man and how people could care less. Couldn’t they see the look of discomfort on my face?

It’s another example of what my dad used to tell me about worrying what other people think: “You’re worried about how you look or act? Nobody pays that much attention to someone they don’t know. It doesn’t matter what they think because they probably don’t think anything at all.” Or something like that.

White chocolate orchids as garb

The convention hall was huge, and the salon spread over two floors, with hundreds of booths. There were two presentation stages upstairs (one for demonstrations and another for musicians and performers) and one downstairs (for lectures on chocolate).

I was a little disappointed that there weren’t more samples being given out, and the booths that did have samples had tiny, pea-sized chunks of chocolate to taste. Obviously, everyone wanted you to purchase their wares.

A dress that melts

One thing there wasn’t was a plethora of places to sit. Large platforms around the entertainment stage help perhaps 40 people. A few of the wiser participating booths had worked in chairs in their booth area, which always attracted attendees but rarely resulted in any sales.

We started out on the second floor of the event. Two of the things I wanted to check out were the chocolate sculptures and the fashion show, which touted dresses made with elements of chocolate.

Is that a chocolate bodice?

They had had a live fashion show the night before on opening night (the BBC even carried news of it), so the garments were now on mannequins. The news had said that there were problems with the stage lights melting the chocolate during the show, but whatever damage had been done was not evident.

Very big chocolate fox

I didn’t find a collection of chocolate sculptures, but there was one huge fox, perhaps five or six feet tall, that had been executed in chocolate, but if there was a competition on opening night, the competitors’ handiwork was nowhere in sight.

The other thing I wanted to check out was molded chocolates to buy (you know, little hearts, shoes, cars and every other object imaginable). There were perhaps a dozen or so booths that carried that sort of thing.

Most of these exhibitors were there to make network connections. At some booths (especially those from foreign countries like Japan and Brazil), it was obvious they were shunning the consumers and looking for that one broker or middle man who could make their chocolates famous.

The lecture room had places to sit! Cacao genetics.

After standing for so long, I simply had to find a place to sit. I took the escalator downstairs, where most of the foreign booths and raw-materials providers were situated. Then I found the lecture stage. Even though there was a lecture currently being presented, half of the chairs were empty.

I slipped into an available chair in the front row and proceeded to listen to a very interesting talk about the genetics of cacao, the biology of the bacteria naturally occurring on the cocoa bean and how this all affects the roasting process and the consistent taste of any given brand of chocolate.

About that time, Kittie showed up. While she missed most of the lecture, she did take advantage of the seating. It was early afternoon and she suggested we find food. This was not going to be easy within the confines of the salon.

Copper pots pepper the ceiling
of  the delightful Chez Clément

There were two places selling prêt-á-manger foods (sandwiches and such) but, again, no place to sit down. The few seats that were available at one spot were constantly full, with folks waiting to take them over the moment someone abandoned their table.

So, after some consideration, we decided that we should leave the exhibition (there was no re-entry) and look for real food somewhere nearby. And we found it. In spades. A bistro across from the convention center called Chez Clément.

The place was a delight to the eye. The general motif was copper pots, coursing across the ceiling, fashioned into the front door handles, augmented by cutlery fashioned into shelves and lighting fixtures. The look was definitely playfully French provincial, and the menu reflected that.

Checking out the menu

Our waiter seemed a graduate of a mime school; he said almost nothing while serving us, but was funny as hell, picking on Kittie the entire time. Of course, she loved the attention.

I’m unclear as to what I ate there, but I do remember that Kittie finally finished her gastronomic bucket list by having French onion soup. (You may recall, from earlier entries, that she had her foie gras and escargot earlier in the week).

Kittie got her onion soup.

After we ate, we headed back across the street to snag a taxi. The woman driving it knew a little English, and she was very nice. I had noticed her standing outside her taxi, vaping, when we came up. This seems to be the alternative for many previous smokers in Paris.

She got us to the apartment, right to the front door, and I didn’t have anything with which to tip her. Kittie was digging around for cash, but the taxi was blocking the street, so the driver acquiesed to the cars piling up behind her and left.

More copper pots continue the motif in the prep area

Once in the apartment, Kittie and David set back out to find a small carry-on that they could purchase, as they had packed in two tiny carry-on cases and had no place to stow their Parisian purchases on our return flight. They were back in a flash: David had found just what he was looking for in a shop next door. It was a nice, hard-shelled roll-around with a handle.

Also while packing, Kittie realized none of their luggage would accommodate the chocolate advent calendar that she had purchased that day. I offered to put it in my checked bag, then mail it to her when we got back.

Spoons as decor

Not long after, David held up a huge icing spatula he had purchased at the exhibition. It was about 18 inches long with handle.

“This kind of looks like a machete,” he said, holding it up. It really did. “I don’t think I should put this in my carry-on.” I heartily agreed, and it was added to my bag, along with Kittie’s calendar.

That final evening in Paris, we had one duty: to eat all the food that had accumulated in the refrigerator over the past week. And we did. The only item that was thrown out was the sautéed marigold greens.

We got everything packed and ready to go. The car to the airport was supposed to arrive at 6:20 the next morning, and it being a Sunday, we could not rely on the workers to wake us. With all the bags ready to go, David set his alarm for 6 a.m. All we would have to do is throw on our close, drop the keys on the counter and pull the door to as we left (it was self-locking).

That final night I slept relatively well, until something happened at 3 a.m. that no one was expecting. At least not us.