Olivia and her floppy haired angel.
Afternoon tea is my favourite ‘meal’. It’s a time where no one can judge you for eating cake and cake alone. Where people join together to eat a spectrum of delights, however they freaking well please! A sausage roll here, a chocolate there, there are no rules or order to eating at Afternoon tea time. If we all sat down to Afternoon tea a little more often I think the world would be a better place.
Monday in my past life was a horrid day, and no amount of motivational quotes stumbled across on a Monday morning trawling instagram could convince me otherwise. In this dream world I’ve managed to find myself in, Monday is another day for activities. So, when Kate suggested a fancy Paris afternoon tea, I was all aboard that sugar train! We visited the Le Royal Monceau for the “Royal afternoon tea” which consisted of assorted tea sandwiches, pastries, chocolates and macrons from PIERRE HERMÉ PARIS. As always, there be only one savoury winner and one sweet champion to take out the Heavy-taste title. Without further a due, in first place, in the “god I wish this was full-sized so I could spend more time eating it” category was the chicken wrap. Garlic purée, rocket salad and mayonnaise in wrap bread .. it was phenom. And drum roll please; after sampling them all and only just stopping from devouring Kate’s leftovers, there was one clear Supreme Sweet Winner! The ‘Ispahan’; rose macron biscuit, rose petal cream, fresh raspberries and Lychee it was chewy, it was soft, it was everything you ever need in a dessert. Completely life changing, I shed a tear. I vow to never touch another macron (unless it has been lovingly created by Pierre) EVER AGAIN.
It was midway through the three tiers of taste sensation that the most perfect looking man sashayed into the room. In a chambray light blue shirt and glorious floppy hair he was lean, athletic, chiseled and tanned. Kate watched as he tripped slightly down the three stairs into the lounge area but managed to continue walking as if it had never happened. He sat down in at a table and I struggled to regain Kate’s attention.
Kate kept one eye on the tier task at hand and another on floppy-haired-angel until she let out a quick gasp. Without fanfare, she had arrived. All glorious soft hair and slim legs, Olivia Palermo was a floating dream as she planted a kiss on her floppy haired husband’s cheek and introduced herself to another at the table. She was perfection personified. It was a face palm moment for both Kate and I as we quickly deducted that floppy haired man, so-hot-he’s-a-furnace, dressed in what can only be described as a variation of harem pant, was Johannes Huebl. One of the most genetically blessed males on planet earth part, he is one of the few members of the TDFM (to die for males) society where Ryan Gosling reigns as President (Hugh is also a member). As we were at such an ‘oh là là’ hotel and conscious that we needed to at least try to fit in, I was unable to take any photos of Olivia. Totally unrelated to this is the fact that I am in need of a zoom lens for my camera. I did consider asking for a photo. I could just picture us, with our arms around each other, daintily holding cups of peppermint tea, pinky fingers in the air. Our heads would be turned towards each, my hair somehow transforming into silky locks to mirror hers. Our heads would be thrown back in laughter, genuine, unmistakably bestfriend-like.
Never fear my blog-dear, I did manage to take an obscure shot of the room before we left to wait outside for Hugh to pick us up (he never showed up, we ended up walking). And as fate would have it, Olivia exited the hotel (glided gracefully out the door) while we were loitering around so I was able to take a snap of her behind and add to my @fashfromtheback collection… you’re welcome.
And here’s a professional shot from Grazia of Olivia and her man, in case you aren’t familiar with the pair.
Meeting Kim, kind of.. kay? Kool?
It was Kate’s last dinner in Paris on Tuesday night and we decided to eat at an Italian restaurant around the corner on Avenue George V. The restaurant is 600 metres from our apartment and Hugh had spotted the wood fired pizza ovens on prior walks past. The dinner was delightful and for Kate’s last night we decide to sit at a cafe on the corner of the street to watch the Eiffel tower put on its sparkle show. As we were walking from restaurant to the corner cafe Hugh made the silly mistake of saying out loud “I wonder what’s happening over at Givenchy?” As Kate and I looked across the road at the five photographers milling about and the shiny black official looking van our eyes widened with anticipation. As if in a movie, a charming French valet replied to Hugh excitedly, “Kim Kardashian’s in there shopping”. I nearly grabbed his face and kissed him square on the lips, but didn’t want to scare him off. OOOOHH MAAAA GOOOOOD we started jumping around, this is what we had been building for all week. The valet was clearly enjoying the effect of his words, “Madonna and her boyfriend were at the cafe next door a few weeks ago” and “Beyonce and Jay-Z are watching the soccer tonight”. My brain nearly exploded with his information. And before Hugh could groan, roll his eyes, and exclaim “why did I open my big mouth?” Kate and I had dashed across the road.
Outside Givenchy HQ I made friends with a papo, let’s call him Al, he was over from England for the week. Our friendship got off to a shaky start when he tried to trick us into believing in was a Coronation Street star inside and not the Sassy Kardashy that we were hoping to see. After I exclaimed “OHH I LOVE CORO!”he realised that I was a kiwi, therefore a colonial ally, and proceeded to tell me that it was Kim inside shopping with “Keeara? Keera?” He wasn’t sure exactly of her name. “Ciara???”I asked? As in “1,2 step” as in “Missy’s girl?” He told me he didn’t listen to that sort of music but that it sounded about right. Kate and I began clapping, jumping around and giggling. We were acting as if it were Christmas about to burst out of the Givenchy doors. Throughout this saga Hugh stood to the side on his phone, probably playing candy crush and praying that this moment would be over quickly.
We hung around for about fifteen minutes with a couple of civilians and the pap pack. It would have been a group of ten people maximum. I was busy examining the paparazzo’s cameras and found myself experiencing ‘extreme lens anxiety’ when a black van pulled up. The paparazzi started talking amongst themselves; “it’s Kris, do we want Kris? Any of you guys want to get Kris?” as a collective group they said “yeah, alright” and off they moved, slowly clicking and flashing while Kris walked past us and through the doors. I didn’t get any photos, too memorised by what was going on, I wanted to scream “DOLL!!!!” and sweep her into a bear hug, but thought better of it. Any thoughts of moonlighting as a member of the paparazzi were going down the drain verrry quickly.
Suddenly it was go time. Silent go time. No shouting, no “KIM I LOVE YOU” no “WHERE’S NORTH?” no “WE WANT KANYE!” which is what I wanted to yell. Everyone began clicking. Ciara strutted out the doors first with Kim and Kris following behind. I was positioned on the foot path in front of the door with a parked van on my left and another on my right. As I stood fixed to the spot Ciara walked one side while Kim walked the other. They began speaking to each other “Kiiiim where are you going???” “Kim which one should I get in??” it was then I realised that in the daze of lights they had become separated and thanks to a girl (me) glued to the spot they were climbing into different cars. Ciara, Kim if you’re reading this, I’m so sorry.
Now, confession time, if you’ve seen my instagram or facebook you may have thought “WOWWEEE” with that proximity to Kim Célia must have taken the best photo! She will definitely be sitting on it to include it in her blog!! Ahhhh… Weeeeeell… the thing is, I didn’t actually get one of her. It was Hugh who took the photo of me in front of Kim. Standing back from everyone else and taking it more to depict how hilariously out of dept I was he managed to get the best shots out of the three of us. I managed one shot of Ciara which will become my pride and joy and I will probably sell to OK! Or New Idea for squillions of dollars.
The truth is, those papos let off some serious flashes, and I was too caught up in what was happening. My stomach began hurting and my fingers refused to do as they were told and click. I became a deer in the paparazzo’s headlights. Instead my head swiveled from left to right taking it in all. The door to the van Kim climbed into was left open for quite a long time and Kim struck a very fierce, very ‘this is why I’m hot’ pose. I’m pretty sure she and I made eye contact.
And now a photo which I assume were taken by one of my papo pals standing next to me. So I pretty much took it?
In summary? Kim looked flawless, and also tiny. Ciara was beautiful, and Kris was classic Kris. It was magical. It was so Paris. So fashion. The end.