Paris.
We rocketed to you from Etretat, first by coach and then by TGV (Train a Grande Vitesse, or Train of high speed). The journey though fast was dull – December meant the light faded fast and I was far too distracted by the French business chap in front of me and his large feet taking up a lot of room beneath our shared table.
Arriving at Gare du Nord (I’ve longed to write that, ever since high school French classes), we were buffeted by a melee of people waiting to leap aboard. Gone was the organised chaos of St Pancras, where we quietly queue, this was everyone for themselves.
We didn’t care. Nor did we care that we had to push and shove and follow our hosts Phillipe and Ludo, who were accompanying us to Paris, where the winner of the cocktail competition would be announced.
Christmas in Paris.
I know, my images just don’t do it justice. They can’t. Even had I been able to stand in the middle of the Champs-Elysees, you wouldn’t be able to see the movement, feel the energy. Watch the wheel as it circles and lights dance across it. See the flicker of the lights covering buildings.
Our hotel for the night was to be Hotel Balzac, a Five-star luxury hotel just off the Champs Elysees. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so inadequately dressed, or so, well, common.
As our group checked in, the announcement was made, five minutes to get changed and freshen up and we were out of here. Looks of horror crossed faces. I barely had chance to snap a shot of my room before I was throwing my case open and digging for my outfit.
I knew I’d kept things simple just for this purpose and with a twist and pin, my hair was in a pleat, my 1960s style shift dress on and my glittery heels strapped to my feet.
Ten minutes and I was back in the elegant foyer, handbag stuffed with tissues for my sniffly nose. Told you, common.
Before I could berate myself too much, Ludo had to make an announcement to our little party bus. The winner.
In truth, Ludo agreed that all the entries had been fantastic. Above expectations. And as his job, and that of Phillipe require them to travel the world tasting such creations this was no small praise indeed. It was why the judges couldn’t decide. Couldn’t agree….
Except to award all four with the prize. All four bartenders, Simon the classicist, CJ the maverick, Jeremy the alchemist and Lewis the artful were all are now the disciples of Benedictine.
Shouts, applause and smiles all round. We were thrilled. Now we could celebrate.
Our first destination was Candelaria, where we would meet the rest of our party, Maria a representative of Bacardi, Claudio another representative of Benedictine (for France and Italy) who were to take us on our trip around Paris. It was a bit odd perhaps for us to pull up outside a tiny taqueria, customers squashed together on a bench, perched on stools, around the servers and hot plates, chatting, sipping beer and Jarritos and eagerly wolfing down soft tacos.
What you don’t see immediately is the door at the back of the shop, to the left. Through this is Candelaria’s secret, a cocktail bar, where our cocktail guides awaited, as did a host of Benedictine cocktails and big piles of guacamole and fresh tortilla chips.
No wonder it’s in the top 20 of the World’s Best Bars.
As we sipped and swapped, chatted and crunched, there was still a sense of anticipation. The night was young and we had Paris at our feet.
All too soon, it was time to move on and we departed Candelaria with a mixture of sadness and excitement and headed to our second bar, La Conserverie, where we were welcomed with open arms and a big bowl of punch. And food.
So much food.
Cerviche, coarse pate, more bread, more cheese, delicate smoked salmon, milk mozzarella, shards of flat bread.
And when the food and punch ran out, another round was made.
The bar itself is dark and velvety and very eclectic. It makes some bars of the Northern Quarter look twee and false, this wasn’t manufactured rough and ready, this just was. A little dirty, a little quirky, pumping a footplate to make the tap work in the ladies was a new one for me, but despite sounding quaint, it wasn’t. It fitted. Scuffed walls, mismatched furniture that probably had been pulled from a skip or several saw us sitting at different heights and levels, the taller memers of the group sitting like adults on children’s furniture.
Hipster Paris style.
Full of food and taste buds tingling, it was to our penultimate bar, Le Bar at Park Hyatt Paris.
Mais oui.
Where even the nibbles are elegantly attired.
And where we were presented with another array of incredible Benedictine cocktails – from the creamy coffee like concoction created with mezcal, to a sweet and sour one with rum, to an old fashioned with whisky, Benedictine was showing us every side of it’s personality, professionally aided by some of the world’s best bartenders. These delights coming on top of the winning cocktails, meant we really saw, tasted and tested Benedictine in all it’s guises.
With a final cocktail, for me a Manhattan made with Laphraiog Triple Wood (medicinal, I had a cold obviously), we said our farewells and headed to our final bar.
Copper Bay was opened in September by three friends, whose experience encompasses bars such as Papa Doble in Montpellier and Hotel W Paris bar. And they had opened their doors late, just for us.
Created on a nautical theme, their ‘Mermaids and Magic Potions’ were more than enough to get our taste buds spinning and it was no surprise that our competition winners headed behind the bar at the earliest opportunity.
I was a fan of ‘The Beast’ with it’s bacon bourbon flavours and their array of Collins’ drinks, from a ‘Phil Collins’, to ‘Collins Farrell’ were more than enough to get this gin fiend excited.
But all good things must come to an end and we said goodbye to these wonderful people and carefully stepped back onto the bus and returned to the hotel.
As with all good trips, a plan was hatched to meet after we’d raided mini bars and purchases and it was here that my cold virus really kicked in. I knew I’d been quiet for a lot of the trip and not quite myself, but it was as I viewed myself in the vast bathroom of my room that I knew something was definitely amiss. The heat in my cheeks wasn’t alcohol induced. I had a temperature.
I was in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, with champagne and mischief at hand and I was going to curl into a feverish ball in the middle of my bed.
The morning in Paris dawned crisp and bright. After a long hot shower I felt a little more human, if more snuffly, and I consoled myself with a solitary breakfast (there were murmurs of some of our party reaching their beds at 5am, some 7am) and proved to myself that though my French accent is excellent, it doesn’t take much to make me panic and revert to English. Especially before I’ve had enough coffee.
Je regret monsieur…
Joined one by one by members of the group, I was told tales of a club at 5am refusing entry, a potato snack covered hotel bed and a bottle or two of champagne. My comparative night with a pile of tissues and some orange juice, simply wasn’t anywhere near as exciting.
With time to waste, we left the hotel and ogled designer shops and pretty vintage cars, macarons were purchased, Christmas shoppers and tourists alike dodged and avoided, perfect tourist pictures taken to show our friends at home.
And as I wandered the Champs Elysees, before departing for the long journey home, it was clear.
France, ma cherie, j’adore.
Ce ne’est pas au revoir. C’est a bientot.
As mentioned in previous posts, this trip was at the invitation of Benedictine who covered all expenses.