Martin Moore Is A Hairy-Chested Love God*

As awesome as it was to catch up with old chums Kiron and Martin back in Paris, it's awesomer to continue seeing Martin here in London. While it was hardly surprising that Kiron would make a name for himself with the pretty pictures, I can't say that I ever looked at Martin as a kid and thought, "hmm...head chef!" (That any one of us could be considered a future high school teacher was probably even less likely.)



Looking at him now, it's a little more obvious. Even without the puffy hat.

So tonight, we've been invited to sample his wares at the Blandford Street Restaurant, smack bang in the middle of the city. With Robin and Girly remaining out of action, the rest of us head out for our first night on the town.



Along the way, we arrange to meet up with cousin Angie who was so very, very kind to us during our last visit here. Upon arrival, we are easily impressed by the offer to remove our coats. You know you're in a classy joint when that happens. Especially when you get them back.



(Note: the following visual account of the meal will be accompanied by horribly vague descriptions of each course, none of which will do proper justice to the gastropalooza we actually experienced. If you're reading this, Martin, feel free to correct us with the true nomenclature. Otherwise, it's all going to sound pretty much like this:)

The hors d'oeuvres arrive on cute little rectangular dishes and look like a variety of yummy dip-like stuff on biscuits. That this coincides with a sudden and profound attack of the munchies means that they all disappear before I remember I have a camera with me.



Our starter dish has an array of tasty treats, including (spot them yourselves - like a game!) duck foie gras, duck terrine, duck ham and some chutney that may well have had some passing acquaintance with a watery fowl someplace. Angie, however, is an ovo-lacto vegetarian which means she'll quite happily enjoy a goat's cheese egg souffle in which the duck content is equal to none.



For second(!) starters, we get seared scallops with some sort of vinaigrette salad thing. By now, we're all compelled to converse entirely in Iron Chef subtitles.



Our main course arrives in three different flavours:



A fabulously scrummy chicken dish with new potatoes, runner beans and dollops of herb butter.



Something similar to the above but with roast beef, which, according to their menu, "only ever comes from grass-fed herds and is hung by our butcher for a minimum of 21 days". Probably not something Angie needs to know as she tucks into her quiche...



And by the time we get to dessert, a refreshing triple sorbet of rockmelon, mandarin and pear, we are utterly foodgasmically in awe of our New Favourite Chef.



When Martin emerges from his kitchen for a brief chat and a round of beer, it's like hanging out with a rock star. But not for long as it's a working night and for reasons we totally understand, the customers keep turning up.

If we were restaurant critics, we would say stuff like this and maybe this but we're not, so here's our 1000 word shortcut:



To which I would add:

Cheers, Norm.



*That ought to do something for your web profile. You can thank me later.

Fast Train to London (just leavin town)

And so we leave Paris with mixed feelings. Looking back, there's a sense of regret over the bittersweet brevity of our visit and the opportunities we've missed. Looking forward, we're about to take a train that goes frickin' underwater!



Meanwhile, Robin is still suffering from the effects of his calamitous calamari as Marty gladly hands over the mantle of Tour Casualty. The aforementioned sub-aquatic carrier is the Eurostar, our fabulous tubular portal to London. The best part about our journey is that our carriage is right next to something called a "dining car", which we assume to be cockney rhyming slang for "traveling bar".



The actual underwater part isn't much to write home about, really. It's like someone turned the lights out and set about rearranging the furniture and changing the signs. When the lights come back on, we're in a whole new place. Come to think of it, that's how most of my time in bars wind up.

When we arrive at Waterloo Station, we come across another group of traveling musicians. Unlike us, they actually have their instruments with them. Suckers.



Then again, they're probably getting paid. (annoyed grunt)

However, we're not quite done with trains that go under stuff and proceed towards our first ride on London's famous Tube.



Yes Marty, it's a first for some of us, alright?

As anyone who's ever heard our music would know, zelig are not afraid of rehashing an old cliche. Hence, we're quite happy to play the part of Aussie backpackers dossing in Earls Court. For added effect, we're sharing a six (!) bed dorm at the Mowbray Court Hotel. Robin quickly claims his to recover from his squid-sickness. John, Marty, Gem and I head back out for a butcher's* around the neighbourhood. (Girly sticks to her guns in the old "in-sickness-or-in-health" gambit.)



Of course, it doesn't take long before we stumble upon Britain's sole enduring claim to a global empire: Tesco. For a quick immersion into the local consumer culture, it's hard to beat. For instance, we learn that:



In England, cooking is something done only by people on the telly.



The word "faggot" means something other than "cigarette" and there is nothing wrong with two men sharing a pair of them. Happily.



Eating sausages made from famous vegetarians is almost as good as being one.



And best of all, you're never too far from home.

By now, the security staff are starting to give us "this is a supermarket, not a gallery" looks. On the way out, we notice that their security-consciousness extends to their shopping trolleys with built in electronic clamps to prevent them from straying beyond shop limits.



We're mindful not to stray too far away ourselves as we have a dinner date to catch later this evening. Again, this really deserves a post of its own.

Next: Posh Nosh!


*Tip of the titfer to our old china plate Thom, who schooled us in this strange Antepodean language.

All Out of Louvre

This just about says it all.

We chose to do the big monumenty sights the previous day so that we could do the galleries today. We chose STUPIDLY. As it turns out, Tuesday is the day when most galleries, including the Louvre, are closed. Worse yet, we leave Paris tomorrow morning which means we have well and truly missed our chance to visit Ms Smiley-face and Ms Armless, among other storied works of art. If there was a low point of the trip for all of us, this is probably it.

In search for a chin-up, we head towards a nearby flea market, with Martin joining us again. Soon our bummery mood gives way to curious fascination at all the trash & treasure on offer.



Eventually we work up enough enthusiasm to cobble together a plan for a picnic lunch somewhere pretty. The food market section here is excellent and offers the whole range of yummy foods, including:

meat...



fish....



fruit/veg...



and other.



Wishing to suck more punishment, we decide upon the Tuillerie Gardens as our venue for lunch, a mere spit and a stroll away from the Louvre Museum.



The spread across the park bench includes roast chicken, prosciuttto ham, cheese (of camembert and goat varieties), prawns, anchovies, fresh baguette and of course, le vin du pays. While the rest of us tuck into this with great gusto, Robin strangely forgoes the picnic fare in favour of a McDonald's Happy Meal. This, as it turns out, is an effort to undo the distinctly Unhappy Squid he'd had back at the markets (from the fish stall pictured above.) Later, he will discover why the French word for "fish" is one extraneous consonant away from "poison". The day just keeps getting better.

After lunch, it's inevitable that we would head towards the Museum if only to look at it from the outside. John in particular is gutted at missing out as he has an art gallery* of his own and would like to have taken some notes.



At this point, he'd do just about anything to get inside.


"A soft whispair here, a gentle frottage there..."

A few minutes later, the entire area is cleared by the local gendarmerie. Not because of architecturally-amorous tourists, but because the President of France himself is visiting the Museum today. It's enough reason to start a revolution, we reckon.



Robin and Girly decide to head off their own way while we wander around quite aimlessly. It's a measure of our despondent mood when even beer fails to make it all better.



Obviously, we're in need of cheering up and what better place than a cemetery?



The Pere-Lachaise cemetery is famous for providing final resting places for many of the great contributors to arts and culture. However it must be particularly galling (pun only partially intended) for the French when out of all the grandiose memorial monuments that commemorate their brightest and best, the one that gets all the attention belongs to an overrated drug-f-worded American pop singer.



No not that one, although someone isn't too sure.



Apparently, the tomb used to look like this:



But now there's a full-time security guard whose job is to ensure that filthy hippies are kept a safe distance. Although nowadays, the visitors are more likely to be aging boomers bringing their grandchildren to warn them of the dangers of mixing drugs and leather trousers.

We leave the cemetery in better spirits, having at least achieved one Parisian mission. Even John has cheered up a bit, with the help of a fancy chapeau.



Later that night, we say goodbye to Martin but we'll be catching up with him in London so it's more of a seeyalater. For dinner, I am determined not to leave this country without having nibbled on amphibious limbs. John looks like he needs more convincing.



In the end, this may not have been the finest 24 hours of our trip. Nevertheless, any day that allows one the opportunity to capture a moment like this....



...can't be all bad.

Next: Au revoir, Paris - Hello London

*You are all encouraged to follow the email link on the page and demand: "SHOW ME THE ART!!"

Get an Eiffel of This!!

For Day 2 of zelig's Parisian invasion, we decide to take a two-pronged approach.



Gem and I head out early to meet the lads in order to make the most of our limited time with Kiron. One can only guess where the others ended up...



We'll make our own way there later. But right now, time is short as Kiron has a train to catch at noon. We find a cafe (yes, they have those here, too) and reconstruct our histories with as much laughter as promised by anyone who ever said "One day, you'll look back..." It's especially funny listening to the old Martin & Kiron philosophical debate / comedy routine which plays as well as it did 25 years ago, only with bigger words.

After hearing stories of Martin's um, experimental escapades, I thought a visual aid would help him with recalling the past.



Then we call Sickie in Melbourne just to hear her squeal intercontinentally again.



She says its awfully unfair that she's at home doing the laundry while we're sitting in a coffee shop in Paris. We tell her that we are now grown men who are able to empathise about stuff. Like doing the laundry. But then, we are also boys who, to settle an age-old argument, will always be better than girls*.

All too soon, it's time for Kiron to depart. Martin will hang around for another day but it's our last chance for a group shot.



The credits could start rolling now and I'd walk away a happy punter. I am supernaturally grateful for having had the chance to catch up with two of my oldest friends on the planet. To find them both in good health, good humour and good-you're-not-an-asshole is worth the total cost of this trip and more.

Meanwhile, we're not sure what the others got up to. Based on photographic evidence, it seemed like everyone had a good time.



John got to bust out his robot-dancing moves.



Someone dropped a camera.



John seduced the local architecture. "A soft whispair here, a gentle frottage there and you will join me in my boudoir, non?"



Luckily Marty was able to whisk John away while he still had his pants on. Using their mastery of disguise, they posed as bouncers at the Arc de Triomphe.



"Unknown soldier, you say? Alright, let's see some ID.."

And then, someone dropped the camera again.



After bidding Kiron safe journey and happy trails, Martin, Gem and I head towards the Tall Pointy Thing at last. It turns out that all of us had been here before none have ever actually got past ground level. After much cajoling, the other two manage to convince me to walk the stairs (!) up to the first level.



By the time we get there, I'm suffering from an odd combination of exhaustion, achy knees and severely retracted testicles. Martin and Gem go up to the next level for looking for more grief while I look, everywhere but down, for a bar.



Upon their return, it's obvious that Martin wishes he'd done the same.



The afternoon slips away while Martin and I natter on about the past while trying not to leave Gem too far into the future. Later that evening, we're all pretty knackered from the day's travails. Dinner is, on Martin's recommendation, couscous at a Moroccan restaurant nearby.





This is true comfort food, leaving us as snug as bugs on rugs much like the ones on the wall.



Looking and feeling a little like Mr Hitchcock over here, we head back to the hotel for a nightcap and sweet sleep.

à bientôt!!


* Note to my beautiful wife: until we marry them, that is.

Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now..

(Once again, sorry for the slow postage. Just imagine that I sent the postcard without a stamp. It's been a busy end of term but hey! I'm on a two week break now so expect the posts to arrive a little thicker and faster than current form.)

Before we begin, a little context*:



yeah, get over it.

Having seized the opportunity to visit old school chum Gary on our last trip, coming back to Europe was another chance to track down a couple more. Before we left, I managed to, with the sheer power of the Internet at my fingertips, track down Kiron (over on the right) and Martin (not the middle one), the other two in our high school Gang of Four. I informed them that zelig would be on our European Tour with a tight schedule that was planned with military-like precision. So we agreed to meet somewhere, sometime.

Eventually, a global sorcery of emails, text messages and phone calls magically transforms "somewhere, sometime" to "Paris, tonight". We arrange to meet Kiron first at the Notre Dame cathedral and Martin will join us later.

Getting there gives us our first ride on Le Metro.



John doesn't seem too impressed until he remembers that he's not driving in Europe anymore.



We arrive at Our Lady at just the right time when the setting sun lights up her purty side.



Naturally, it's also the same time of day that brings flocks of locals and tourists looking for a postcard moment. This makes for an interesting exercise in which I walk around mentally de-aging everyone I see by about 25 years, looking for an old(er) chum. But then, it's unlikely that 25 years ago, we would have been able to call each other on our hand-held personal telephones to make the search through the crowd easier and lead me to this mustard-suited gentleman..



Gem: "He's as short as Cary!"

As with most high school reunions, there's good news, bad news and more bad news. The good news is that Kiron is now an artist of some renown, as evident by his top search result status on the Google. The bad news is being an artist of renown means he's only in town for tonight before heading back home to fulfill some artist-of-renown commitments. The other bad news is that Martin has missed his flight and thus will not be joining us for dinner. However, he's left us a reservation at Le Tambour, where the cuisine is l'urbaine bucolique.



We are utterly delighted that urban bucolic food = snails and pig's trotters = le yum!



Over dinner, Kiron presents us with a folio of his artworks. It's a feast for the eye to match the feast in our bellies. Later on, we hang out at a nearby cafe bar, waiting for Martin. Kiron stays in touch on his phone while John resorts to good old fashioned yelling.



And eventually, he arrives and the score is Late:1, Never:0.



Gem: "He's as short as Kiron!"

And so for as long as they keep serving drinks, we try to squeeze a quarter-century into some wee small hours.



I do all I can to stop my head from exploding right about now.

Next: We do the Tall Pointy Thing.



*Many thanks to Sickie for preserving our callow youth with her trusty scanner.