Paris in Love (10 page)

We had a long, fractious lunch punctuated by battles over the one functioning iPod Touch, and then went to Harrods, where we bought a Christmas pudding and wandered through women’s designer clothing. Anna fell in love with fur. I pulled her away from rubbing her cheek against the minks. “It’s so soft,” she said dreamily. “Just like my hair in the morning after I wash it.”

Everyone’s favorite exhibit at the Victoria & Albert Museum was the Great Bed of Ware, which apparently sleeps eighteen—though not if they’re American, we decided after much discussion. In the gift shop, Luca bought a shaggy hat with little sheep horns. He’s all hair these days. The saleslady said, “I was watching you decide.… He had to have this. It’s an extension of himself.”

Best bit of history from yesterday: noticing that the big red Royal Mail postboxes have slots for both stamped mail and franked mail. Back in the day, lords could simply sign letters in the area where a stamp might be, and the letters went out for free.… I can’t believe that’s still the case, but it was very exciting to see the slot.

Lunch at Gordon Ramsay’s Boxwood Café was wonderful. I had a delicate leek and pea tart, and then sublime crusty black bream, a kind of fish I’d never heard of before. I was torn between “spotted dick” and “fool” for dessert, both less for their intrinsic appeal than for that of their names. Alessandro lowered himself
to note that I had enough of the first at home, so I went for the fool. (And virtuously refrained from the obvious retort.)

Life after Gordon is dismal. We went to a celebrated restaurant in the West End … but nothing measured up. We all ate mournfully, and Anna made up her own song, the chorus of which was “Pinkberry, blueberry, vomit.”

In honor of my characters (who have done the same), we had tea and scones in Fortnum & Mason. My favorite moment was in the bathroom, where Anna was happily trying out the lotion. A very nice lady explained to us that “this is the way the posh live every day … all the time.”

The British are vehicle-mad. We arrived at this conclusion based on seeing two demonstrations: first, a parade of growling, honking Hells Angels–type motorcycle riders protesting a tax on parking. And then, about an hour later, a parade of tiny minicars, not protesting anything, just enjoying being small.

Completely exhausted by cultural and touristic activities, we retreated to Waterstone’s bookstore. The hour or two spent there was lovely. No squabbling, no screaming, no whining, just happy heads bent over books. We staggered out with three bags of books—and only one sticky moment, when we were at the counter and Anna’s pile turned out to include
My Dad’s in Prison
. Alessandro objected.

On the Eurostar back to Paris, we assembled a list of fabulous food: Gordon Ramsay’s sweet and silky leek tart for me, and his butternut squash and sage risotto for Anna. From a restaurant whose name I can’t remember, a pear poached in Armagnac and then baked into a delicate little custard. Plus a Cornish pasty, the one item on this list that I think I can’t reproduce.

Anna is dutifully doing homework in the next room—watching
Les Aristochats
. It’s so funny to hear the kittens even more Frenchified, not to mention my favorite goose, Abigail, who has been transformed into Amélie.