When it was time for them to take my measurements, the vendeuse insisted on measuring every inch of my body. Apparently Nick told them that I needed the matching hand-painted trousers too! It was so fun to watch the artistry of these seamstresses in action—never in my life could I imagine that I’d ever own a couture outfit! I think of Mom, and the backbreaking long hours she had to work in the early years, but how she still found the time to alter the hand-me-downs that came from our cousins so that I’d always look decent at school. I need to get her something really special in Paris.
After an overly froufrou lunch at a restaurant on place des Vosges that cost more than my bonus last year (thank God Perrineum paid), Carlton and Nick headed off to Molsheim to visit the Bugatti car factory, while Mrs. Bing insisted on visiting the Hermès boutique on rue de Sèvres. (BTW, her feet didn’t seem to hurt anymore, even after seventy-two hours of nonstop pavement pounding.) I’ve never understood the fascination with Hermès, but I had to admit the store was pretty cool—it’s set in the H?tel Lutetia’s former indoor pool, with all the merchandise scattered around different levels of the vast atrium. Perrineum was indignant that the store wouldn’t close to the public for her and decided to boycott the place. She then proceeded to walk around making disparaging remarks about the other Asian shoppers. “Don’t you feel self-conscious trying to shop around these people?” she said to me. “Do you have something against rich Asians?” I joked. “These people aren’t rich—they’re just Henrys!” Perrineum scoffed. “What are Henrys?” She gave me a withering look. “You’re an economist—don’t you know what HENRY stands for?” I racked my brains, but I still didn’t have a clue. Perrineum finally spat it out: “High Earners, Not Rich Yet.”
Thursday, June 20
Nick and I decided to take a break from shopping today and do something cultural instead. As we were sneaking out early in the morning to visit the Musée Gustave Moreau, we ran into Colette in the elevator. She insisted that we join her for the special breakfast she had planned for everyone at the Jardin du Luxembourg. Since the garden is one of my favorite discoveries from our last trip, I happily agreed.
It was so lovely in the morning—nothing but chic mothers pushing their babies around in prams, dapper old men reading the morning paper, and the plumpest, most contented-looking pigeons I’ve ever seen. We climbed the steps next to the Medici fountain and sat at a lovely outdoor café. Everyone got café crème or Dammann tea, and Colette ordered a dozen pains au chocolat. The waiters soon brought out twelve plates of pastries, but as I was about to bite into mine, Colette hissed, “Stop! Don’t eat that!” My coffee hadn’t quite kicked in yet, and before I could figure out what was going on, Colette jumped out of her chair and whispered to Roxanne, “Quick, quick! Do it now, while the waiters aren’t looking!” Roxanne opened up this big S&M-looking black leather satchel and took out a paper bag filled with pains au chocolat. The two women began frantically swapping out the pastries on everyone’s plates with the stuff from the bag, while Nick and Carlton laughed hysterically and this very proper-looking couple at the next table stared at us like we were crazy.
Colette declared, “Okay, now you can eat.” I took the first bite of my pain au chocolat, and it was amazing. Airy, flaky, buttery, oozing rich bittersweet chocolate. Colette explained: “These pains au chocolat are from Gérard Mulot. They are my favorite, but the problem is they don’t have a sit-down café there. And I can only eat my pain au chocolat while sipping a good cup of tea. But the decent tea places don’t have pain au chocolat as good as this, and of course they won’t allow you to bring anything in from another bakery. So the only way to solve this quandary was to resort to a switcheroo. But isn’t this perfect? Now we get to enjoy the best morning tea, with the best pains au chocolat, in the best park in the world.” Carlton shook his head and said, “You’re raving bonkers, Colette!” And then he consumed his chocolate croissant in two bites.
In the afternoon, some of the girls went to a private shopping party at L’Eclaireur while Nick and I accompanied Stephanie and her mother to the Kraemer Gallery. Nick knew of this antiques dealer and wanted to see it. He jokingly called it “the billionaire’s IKEA,” but when we got there I realized he wasn’t kidding—it was a palatial mansion by the Parc Monceau filled with the most astounding furniture and objets. Every piece was museum quality and seemed to have once been owned by a king or queen. Mrs. Shi, this mousy woman who until now hadn’t joined in the fashion frenzy, suddenly transformed into one of those QVC shopping addicts and started buying up the place like a whirling dervish. Nick stood on the sidelines, chatting with Monsieur Kraemer, and after a few minutes the man ducked away. He soon returned bearing one of their historical ledgers and, much to Nick’s delight, showed us some old receipts for purchases made by Nick’s great-grandfather in the early 1900s!
Friday, June 21
Guess who showed up in Paris today? Richie Yang. Obviously he just couldn’t bear to miss out on the action. He even tried to stay at the Shangri-La, but with all the suites booked by our party, he ended up “making do” with the penthouse at the Mandarin Oriental. He came by the Shangri-La bearing baskets of expensive-looking fruit from Hédiard—all for Colette’s mother. Meanwhile, Carlton conveniently announced that he was offered an incredible vintage sports car and had to go meet with the owner somewhere outside of Paris. I offered to accompany him, but he mumbled some quick excuses and rushed off alone. I’m not sure if I buy his excuses—it’s so strange that he would run off like this. Why would he flee the match just as his chief competitor entered the ring?
In the evening, Richie insisted on inviting everyone to “the most exclusive restaurant in Paris. You’ve practically got to kill someone to get a reservation,” he said. The restaurant was inexplicably decorated like a corporate boardroom, and Richie arranged for all of us to have the chef’s tasting menu—the “Amusements and Tantalizations in Sixteen Movements.” Despite how unappetizing this sounded, the food turned out to be quite spectacular and inventive, especially the artichoke-and-white-truffle soup and the razor clams in a sweet garlic sabayon, but I could see that Mrs. Bing and the aunties weren’t half as thrilled. Colette’s grandmother looked especially puzzled by the seafood “raw-cooked in cold steam,” the startlingly colored foams, and the artfully composed dwarf vegetables, and kept asking her daughter, “Why are they giving us all the vegetable scraps? Is it because we’re Chinese?” Mrs. Bing replied, “No, everyone gets the same dishes. Look how many French people are eating here—this place must be very authentic.”