We had decided to skip the tourist thing and head straight
back to the airport but missed a crucial left turn at Orleans,
so I got to look at that famous cathedral from a distance before
we found our way to the highway.

All went okay for a couple hours, and we were within striking
distance of the Roissypole hotel district, when I told Lilli at a
rotary to go 270 degrees to 9 o'clock, and she went 0 degrees, noon.
Next thing we were in an impenetrable maze of roads all of which
seemed to go to Paris. We bailed, and on our way to turning around,
it transpired that breakfast hadn't been her idea of breakfast, so
she was complaining about hunger, so I pulled out the chocolate
croissant, which she turned her nose up at - "You squashed it."

There must have been something Freudian going on, because we
again missed the exit for the airport loop and found ourselves
turned completely around. Fortuitously there was the Grill
Courtepaille, which was still open for another half hour,
probably the only place for miles around that was.

The place was just about empty, with the help probably looking
to close up early, but luckily there was a manager there, so
the grill stayed open. Lilli ordered a burger and a glass of
decent Graves that I found on the list. There was a slightly
funny smell when the wine arrived, so I tasted it - it was
wretched. Turns out the waitress had put in for the cheap red
plonk. Luckily, we ended up beihg charged only for the cheap
stuff. I just had a "rillettes du moment"; this was of poultry
and tasting just like potted chicken product, but I guess I
could have done worse.

Oh, yes, also two Heinekens, which were much better than the
preskunked stuff we get back home. Normally, I'd have had
drafts, but the taps were out of order.

And on our way, so we ended up at the hotel less than four
hours late.

Later I had that squashed croissant and am happy to report that
even in its sorry state it rivaled the best that the US has to
offer in butteriness, flakiness, and flavor.

Citizen M is an uneasy compromise between a hip modern place such
as the Aloft (which I hate) and a pod hotel (which I am not fond
of). It actually has the advantages of both, but I still didn't
like it, with its pretentious day (scented with mint and fruit) and
night (floral and vanillary) shampoo/body wash, space-dominating
TV, and reliance on electronic controls.

Our room was not as cramped as I'd feared, and it was possible to
rearrange the bedding on the one bed to give us a tiny bit of
privacy if we needed it. One unfortunate thing that turned out to
be for me a deal-breaker, and it's vanishingly unlikely that I shall
set foot in one of these again. All controls are on the iPad - the
lights, the blinds, the temperature, the TV. That's fine so long as
the ghost of Mr. Jobs isn't intent on torturing me.

We were settling in and figuring out where to eat - the best option
we could find on the Internet (which actually kind of worked) was
the Hilton across the street, which would probably have been fine,
but the phone rang, and we were summoned to the front desk.
Apparently there was something wrong, and they had to reboot the
room and retake our information. Ah, well, might as well stay here
for drinks.

The bar prices were standard, and I had an Affligem (not my usual
style, but it was on draft, so I figured to give it a try to see if
draft was better - it wasn't), and Lilli had a glass of actually
not too bad red Bordeaux of the sort with a fancy name and label
and at least some of the contents of dubious origin. It was Alexis
Bespaloff who recounted the story of visiting Bordeaux and noting that
some of the estates were huge, to which his guide wisecracked, oh,
yes, some of them are so big they extend all the way into Algeria.

The staff were friendly, and the atmosphere was jolly enough, and
the smells were okay, and we were at this point feeling kind of
lazy, and this all set the stage for the only really bad meal we
had in France. Probably the worst meal I have ever had in France.
Including train station vending machines.

Looking at the menu to see what might be making the decent smells,
I found two possibilities - spag Bol, which I enjoy, and for a
fistful of dollars more, coq au vin blanc, which I like even better.
I was torn between cheapness and profligacy, but reading the
description of the pasta I discovered that the sauce was made with
zucchini. Like, who makes Bolognese sauce with zucchini? So I spent
a couple extra bucks for the other, described on the menu (and I
translate) chicken thighs with vegetables in a white wine sauce.

You order, and you get a buzzer like at the Outback front desk,
and when it shakes you go to the back and pick up your food. Okay.
My buzzer went off in due course, and I went to the back and
retrieved a plate that looked and smelled okay, the sauce perhaps
a little overthickened, but sometimes I do that too when I'm in
a hurry. What I got - about a quarter pound of tough leathery
strips of mystery meat with parsnips that had been cooked to mush
and peas that managed to be mushy and raw-tasting at the same
time. This over spinach mash, a sort of underflavored colcannonoid
substance. The thyme-laced sauce was decent-tasting though very
gloopy; it smelled like the kind of thing that I have made for a
crowd when desperate to stretch a limited amount of protein. This
might have been the first time in centuries that I've wished for
bread that wasn't there.

The bill wasn't too big, so we had a bunch more alcohol to wash
down that wonderful experience.

By the time we left, lots of English-speakers had come in -
probably folks who like us were camping out before an early
flight back to the US
--- Platinum Xpress/Win/WINServer v3.0pr5
* Origin: Fido Since 1991 | QWK by Web | BBS.FIDOSYSOP.ORG (1:123/140)