Jess Baldwin laces up her walking shoes for a mother-daughter assault on Paris, discovering that 30 kilometres, four spa swims and one snail-eating six-year-old are all the more bearable with Le Narcisse Blanc Hôtel & Spa as a glamorous home base…
I was lost in my own little world when she said it, busy peering through Margaux’s lace-trimmed window, willing Paris to slip from dusk into darkness so The Iron Lady could begin her nightly show. Her first attempt was little more than a slurpy mumble, drowned out by the distant clinking of flutes and hum of conversation. The second was impossible to ignore.
“Mummy, can you eat flies?” she shouted, frustrated.
And with that, all eyes were on us. Nearby, a gentleman in a tartan suit, heeled cowboy boots and cravat stared at us aghast – his outfit lending him the air of a man who had wandered in from several centuries at once.
Beyond him, an equally baffled chap in an exquisite lace blouse – that, I feel duty-bound to point out, was remarkably well coordinated with the restaurant’s curtains – looked at us, concerned – until he clocked my six-year-old daughter necking garlic butter shots from empty snail shells like an extra in Coyote Ugly. Mystery solved, he returned to working his way through the oversized pearls of his Chanel necklace, one by one, like a fashionista fingering a rather fabulous rosary.
If I’d presented Alice with a snail for dinner yesterday, she would have been disgusted. Though, yesterday she hadn’t walked 15km and unwittingly eaten frogs’ legs for lunch – now, it seems, all creatures are fair game – flies and all.
Alice’s sudden interest in winged hors d’oeuvres caused us to miss the Eiffel Tower’s first sparkly show. But there are worse places to while away an extra hour than Restaurant Margaux. Offering a front-row seat to the Eiffel Tower, its parquet floors, dark wood panelling and lace-trimmed windows make it part restaurant, part time machine. Here, guests dine by candlelight, the burly candelabras encrusted with years of waxy stalactites; frankly, they’d look more at home in a limestone cave than a Parisian dining room.
The classics parading around the room reinforce the old-world charm. Onion soup, beef tartare and bourguignon are all present and correct – appearing like long-lost friends.
As I’m handed another glass of champagne, Alice’s eyes clock their famous chocolate mousse. I give the waiter a nod, fearing sugar is the only thing capable of propelling her tiny feet the final 2km back to Le Narcisse Blanc Hôtel & Spa.
You see, just 12 hours earlier, deep beneath the Channel and fuelled by Eurostar croissants, we’d struck a deal: no taxis, no Metro – no squandering precious sightseeing time sitting in traffic. Paris, we decided, would be tackled the old-fashioned way — on foot.
There, somewhere beneath the seabed, Alice sealed the deal with an enthusiastic, pastry-dusted handshake. And with that, our mother-daughter city break became an epic walking holiday around one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Though, in hindsight, I’m not entirely sure she realised she was signing up to walk almost 30 kilometres during our one-night stay… on legs shorter than your average baguette. C’est la vie.
Having finally witnessed the long-awaited glittering show, we slalomed our way over the inky Seine, onto the Left Bank and into the 7th arrondissement. It’s the sort of neighbourhood that gets under your skin. Yes, it’s full of iconic sights, but beneath the landmarks there’s a seductive village vibe. It’s the sort of place that has you scoping out apartment blocks and debating which bakery you’ll frequent when you relocate.
A member of the prestigious Small Luxury Hotels of the World collection, the hotel hides in a quiet street between the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides. To reward Alice’s remarkable stoicism, we retreated to the hotel’s subterranean spa, where an unhurried swim gave way to a restorative soak in the jacuzzi – feet up, at last. Lined with enormous cream leather daybeds and devoid of other guests, the space possessed the sort of hushed serenity that made the prospect of leaving feel almost unreasonable.
Back upstairs, our room was a lesson in Parisian restraint: lofty and light-filled, with soaring ceilings lending a sense of grandeur to an otherwise serenely understated palette of fresh creams, dusky pinks and soft golds. Opening the floor-to-ceiling French windows, moonlight drifted across crisp linens, illuminating the single gold-wrapped Angelica chocolate that crowned each of our pillows – a small but perfectly judged flourish that felt less like a welcome amenity and more like a thoughtfully placed treasure. As I slipped beneath the covers, it was difficult not to conclude that I had, indeed, chosen rather well.
Mornings here are just as leisurely, with breakfast served beneath an enormous portrait of Le Narcisse Blanc’s muse, Cléo de Mérode. The Belle Époque ballet dancer inspired the hotel’s feminine aesthetic; fresh flowers, twinkling chandeliers and light-washed rooms. Thankfully, it never tips into tutus and tiaras. Instead, there’s a softness to the place that gently tempers the grandeur of its Haussmann bones, making it feel less like a luxury hotel and more like a perfect Parisian pied-à-terre.
Draped in jewels and crowned with a diadem, France’s first “It Girl” exuded elegance, glamour and poise. While the hotel maintains her sky-high standards, on this occasion I unfortunately could not. Hurling my lactic-acid-laden legs up its grand steps for check-in, I had just a solitary backpack to my name. Given our walking pact, there was precious little scope for Louis Vuitton suitcases; a dress, some ballet pumps and a lipstick were all I could squeeze into the frightfully practical waterproof rucksack once Alice was done claiming approximately 87 per cent of the available space for an owl-shaped nightlight and a three-foot gonk.
Like Mérode herself, the hotel has mastered the art of making the extraordinary appear effortless. From the champagne-clasping waiters gliding through the jungle-like courtyard with balletic precision to the perfectly aligned cavalcade of crisp white robes awaiting guests in the Art Deco-style spa, every detail is carefully choreographed. Yet the effort remains invisible, leaving guests free to enjoy the performance — whether lingering over Alexandre Semeré’s plant-based dishes in Cléo or surrendering to an Anne Semonin treatment in the spa.
Once you’ve forced yourself outside, the Seine is just a five-minute stroll away and our Batobus pass quickly became a lifeline. Connecting nine of central Paris’s riverside landmarks — from the Eiffel Tower to the Jardin des Plantes — the hop-on, hop-off river service allowed us to rest our feet without sacrificing precious sightseeing time. We soon came to regard it less as transport and more as sightseeing with seating.
Our short trip saw us drift between worlds, from chasing wooden sailing boats across the Grand Bassin in the Jardin du Luxembourg to disappearing into the steamy tropical greenhouses of the Jardin des Plantes. In between came pastries, playgrounds and miles of pavement. Bridges unfurled before us, streets disappeared into the distance and every turn seemed to promise something worth discovering. More often than not, it delivered.
Yet for all the museums, gardens and monuments, what surprised me most was how often we found ourselves drifting back to Le Narcisse Blanc. In just 36 hours we somehow squeezed in four swims. Not because it was raining or we’d run out of things to do, but because the place had a habit of luring us back.
A rhythm soon emerged. Walk. Sail. Explore. Walk some more. Then descend beneath the city for an hour in the pool before doing it all again. By the end, even Alice had begun treating the spa as one of Paris’s major attractions.
Back on the Eurostar, we put our feet up for the last time, inspecting a patchwork of plasters and blister pads. Alice studied hers with the solemn concentration of a prima ballerina assessing the damage after her final show. We may not have inherited Cléo de Mérode’s grace, but after 30 kilometres, countless adventures and one very memorable weekend, we certainly gained a newfound appreciation for the effort behind it.
Stays at Le Narcisse Blanc Hôtel & Spa start from €500 per night, including breakfast.
For more information, and for reservations, please visit www.lenarcisseblanc.com. To book a table at Margaux, visit www.restaurantmargaux.com or contact contact@restaurantmargaux.com / +33 (0)1 86 04 40 54.
