Paris People: Le Glacier Raimo

Raimo is dead - long live Raimo. Two years ago, the Raimondo family sold their ice-cream company to a group of investors hoping that an injection of capital would bring a fresh start to the establishment. Since then, the company has grown and the original café has expanded, but what is it like to fill the family shoes at such a venerable institution? I asked Myriam Labbe, the new Manageress, and Wilfried Wattier, one of the young chefs whose job it is now to create the delicious desserts.

It is often said that Paris is a ghost town in August, but for some people it is the busiest time of the year. This is certainly the case at Raimo, the oldest and arguably best ice-cream producer in the city. The Raimo Glacier on the Boulevard de Reuilly in the sleepy 12th Arrondissement was a family affair for over 60 years. The Raimondo family were immigrants from Italy who arrived in France at the beginning of the 20th century and who opened their first shop in 1947. Five successful years later they had earned enough money to move to larger premises, the café where Raimo is still installed today.

Two years ago after contracts were exchanged, the café was closed for several months and renovated. Rather than sweep away all traces of the past though, the new management team decided to keep the name and use the heritage as a selling point. There were two major objectives though; expand beyond the confines of the café and recruit some young adventurous chefs who would boost and expand the product range.

Wilfried Wattier

A delicate balancing act then between satisfying the existing customers and attempting to attract a new clientele. “It certainly wasn’t easy to come in and take over the running of such an institution” says Myriam Labbe, a young and dynamic manager with a sharp business mind. “We wanted to innovate, but you have to respect the local customers” she adds. When I remark that the established clientele, who have been coming here for generations, are reputed to be very demanding, Myriam Labbe agrees. “Yes they are” she says, “but this is understandable. They have known and loved this place for over 60 years and they are not slow to let us know if they are unhappy with something”. This of course also has many positive sides; “They are very loyal customers and keep us on our toes” she says.

Myriam Labbe

A waiter tells me of a recent incident that outlines this point. “We had a problem with the freezers one hot Sunday and we had to close the shop. When we told the people who were waiting to be served I thought there was going to be a riot. Some people must think that we put drugs in our products because they certainly seem to be addicted to our ice-creams!”.

The Raimondo family are still advisors and pop in from time to time. It cannot be easy for them to see the family treasure transformed in this way, but their forthright opinions help the new team to know when they have been successful with an innovation. When they receive the difficult to win approval from the originators, they know that they can press ahead with a project. The family still see familiar faces though as most of the production and service staff were kept on after the sale, and three people have been at the establishment for over twenty years.

The Raimo laboratory as it was.

I’m shown the kitchen area, known as the laboratory, and Wilfried Wattier explains how this constant hive of activity operates. “On quieter days we experiment with new flavours, but most of the time this is a busy production environment. We produce around 250 litres of ice-cream a day here, but on an average warm summer day we can clear the entire stock”.

One of the experienced production team in the laboratory today.

What is it though that makes Raimo ice-creams and sorbets nicer than those of their competitors. “It’s the quality of the primary ingredients” explains Myriam Labbe, “which are sourced from a dozen or so suppliers who have worked with the company for a long time. Everything is fresh and is cut and squeezed by hand”. There are also some secrets involved in the production that go back generations, but of course Wilfried Wattier is sworn to secrecy.

Tasting the products, the wonderful and subtle maple syrup or honey, the ginger or lemon that have a real kick, or the unusual violet or banana sorbets, I feel that they have no competition in Paris. This is possibly just a question of personal taste, but it is easy to see why their products should be so much nicer than mass-produced industrial ice-cream. “The major difference is the amount of air” explains Wilfried. “In factory made ice-cream around 60% of the product is air, but our products are closer to 15-25%. When the main ingredients are so tightly packed together you notice the difference immediately. The odour is stronger, the taste is more intense and the sensation in the mouth is different”. Another factor is visual. There are no garish pinks or screaming yellows here, just delicate pastel hues. In fact what you would expect to see when using only natural ingredients.

The exact product range is difficult to list as it changes throughout the year. “Don’t expect to find strawberry ice-cream in November” says Myriam Labbe, “our products follow the seasons”. What do we have to look forward to in the autumn and winter though when fresh produce is more scarce? Wilfired Wattier thinks, “We make a Beaujolais sorbet” he replies. When I mention that I’d heard that it was the impossible grail of ice-cream producers to make something from wine he smiles. “Yes, but the secret to producing ice-cream and sorbets with alcohol is to use a lot of fruit. We know that the Beaujolais flavour will only work if we add plenty of grapes.” Again, the secret is the natural.

An old client returning to Raimo today may find it different but they won’t find it has changed.

Raimo Glacier
59 – 61, boulevard de Reuilly
Métro : Daumesnil
Open daily from 10am to 10pm

Note: This post is the first in a new series that I have called Paris People. I have left out the word ‘invisible’, but I am nevertheless interested in focusing on people who work behind the scenes. This series will mostly be about working people, individuals who are passionate about their business and who you are likely to come across when visiting the city but not necessarily notice. It also gives me the opportunity to write about some of my favourite places!

Another new series of posts will begin soon too, this time featuring guest writers!

Sunday's Best

Sundays in Paris are calm year round, but in August some parts of the city may as well be packed away in a cupboard and locked up until September. Walking through some of these hushed streets recently I stumbled into the Rue Daguerre and found a surreal site. In the centre of the city, here was a road that looked like a Wild West frontier town just before the bad guy rides in. Everything was locked up, no cars were moving and there was hardly a soul on the street. All that was missing was a creaking door, a three-legged dog and some rolling tumbleweed.

It was certainly strange to find such a site, but at least it gave me the opportunity to investigate the street in detail without the fear of being run over. The reason for the tranquillity is that this area forms one of the zones that the city hands over to pedestrians on Sundays and Bank Holidays. However, whilst the Canal Saint Martin or the Rue des Martyrs remains lively and busy throughout the year, here the shops and bars were closed, and all the local residents were seemingly far away from the city. It seems somewhat pointless to maintain this blockade of through traffic in August, but even silenced this way the street is worthy of a visit in its torpid state, and this for one reason; colour.

Here is a selection of some of the street facades, many of which are rendered more mysterious and enigmatic in their sleepy, Sunday state!

It is quite unusual to find such a wide selection of colours in what is mostly a homogeneous and restrained city, but it is also extraordinary to find this exuberance in such a quiet district. Look down the equally subdued side streets though and you will catch glimpses of the Montparnasse cemetery. The tombs resting silently there, Gainsbourg and Baudelaire, Man Ray and Maupassant, also serve as a reminder that this part of the city was once a lively, artistic haunt.

Chacun Cherche Son Chat

In one corner of Paris, two missing cats. The sheer numbers of posters and messages pasted up on walls and drainpipes in the area show that these are well-loved friends, and seeing the names and photos, and reading the desperation in the words of the owners always pulls a heart string or two. It’s my automatic reaction to start looking for the animals myself, so I wander around the surrounding streets to see what I can find.

"Time spent with cats is never wasted” wrote Sigmund Freud, so perhaps this explains why so many people keep them as pets in cities. If the world could be divided into dog people and cat people, I would definitely put myself with the feline crowd, but I have never thought it fair to own a cat in Paris. They are perfectly adaptable creatures and can make themselves at home in almost any environment, far more so than dogs, but my belief is that house should have a cat and a cat should have a house with a catflap. Apartments above the ground floor are just not the right place for a cat, and this perhaps is the answer to what has happened in these two situations.

Flavio fell out of a third-floor apartment, whilst Monsieur, who knows his name and responds to it, apparently wandered off one day and didn't return. Both lived within a street of each other and must have crossed each others paths on several occasions. Cats are solitary animals, so it is unlikely that they were friends, but it is curious that they have been reported missing at the same time. If the police were involved, this link would be the first line of their enquiries.

Further along the Rue des Cascades I find a cat. He doesn't fit either description unfortunately, and what's more he is made of paper. He is a very handsome cat though, and seems to have found a very comfortable perch from where he can view the comings and goings in the street. I'm sure he must have seen something and could be a valuable witness, but I'm not sure whether cats can be trusted in a court of law or not.

Like most cities, Paris has its fair share of cats, even if they are less well-known internationally than the Parisian Poodle. Unlike Rome or Athens, there are very few stray cats, with just a handfull of moggies to be found in the city cemeteries. It is unlikely therefore that Flavio and Monsieur have had their heads turned and I don't expect to find them wandering around with a latter day O'Malley. Indeed, I'm sure that they are more like Toulouse and Berlioz.

Around the corner I find a cat comfortably installed in a gallery window. He almost matches the description of Monsieur so I call his name and he looks up. I'm pretty sure he's more interested in my camera though, and the owner seems to be working in the gallery behind. He is clearly a proud cat, another in a long line of felines owned by an artist. Jean Cocteau painted them and Chateaubriand, Zola and Baudelaire welcomed many into their homes.

“J'aime les chats parce qu'il n'existe pas de chats policiers” (I like cats because there are no policecats) said Cocteau, and perhaps this is a worthy conclusion. The beauty of a cat is its indepedance and free will. I hope that no harm has come to these cats and I pity the owners who find their home now to be uncomfortably larger and colder than before, but if the cats have decided to simply try a new life elsewhere then who are we to stop them?

Quiz question (and spoiler!): The title of this post is from a Cédric Klapisch film. That film had a happy ending, but where did they eventually find the missing cat?

Don't forget also to download the Invisible Paris Street Art walking tour.

Free Walk Three: Street Art

My third free walking tour download is based around a tricky subject and one that leaves nobody indifferent. Street art by definition is often temporary, so how could I make geographical links between these ephemeral creations? I decided to focus on just one part of the city; the streets around Menilmontant and Belleville. This part of the city is so rich in creations that even within such a small area I could easily have drawn several other routes, but I selected what I believe to be the most varied sector.

I also tried to include the widest range of creations possible, including stencils, sculptures, wall paintings and graffiti. Some items were commissioned and are permanent, whilst others can be considered illegal and are by definition extremely temporary. Others are by artists that have become so well-known that the city authorities would now not dare to remove them.

Paris is home to some of the most important and influential artists working in the genre, but not all have worked in this part of the city. Because of this I have created a Who’s Who of Paris Street Art section at the end of this document with tips on where to see the artists who are not featured as well as links to their websites.

Download the walk here.. Once again, please don't hesitate to contact me if you have any problems downloading the walk, or if you have any comments or suggestions.

International Express

15 years ago, my first experience of Paris was the Gallieni international bus terminal in the basement of a 1970s shopping centre. I had said goodbye to my girlfriend that morning and was about to spend a year working in Hungary. I now had a 24 hour bus journey ahead of me and a couple of hours to fill, but all I could find in the vicinity of this soul-crushing location was a McDonalds. I ordered my food and went to sit down, but the heavy rucksack I was carrying overbalanced sending salty fries, gherkins and chunks of ice all over the floor. I wanted to cry.

15 years on and I think it must be time to revisit this place. I haven't taken an international bus since, and certainly haven't been back to this terminus. Why would anyone come here unless they have a bus to catch or a blog to write? Naturally, it hasn't changed at all. It is still raw concrete, dimly lit by suspended florescent strip-lights, split plastic seating and groups of students laying on the floor with their heads resting on over-flowing rucksacks.

Travelling by bus is not a French activity. They will use them on short journeys in town, but it is one of the few countries in the world that has never had an organised city-to-city bus service. State run rail and airline services ensured that a national carrier could not be set up and offer cheaper fares, but the country is still part of the continent-wide Eurolines service. Being an organisation that uses price as its chief selling point, it should not be entirely unexpected to find the bus station is housed in such an unbeautiful location.

There is none of the glamour of rail or air travel on a bus. I know of no celebrated bus terminals around the world, and yet travelling by bus is an activity that deserves to be celebrated. The United States has the mythical Greyhound, and even the National Express in the UK has been immortalised in song. Should we not also acclaim Eurolines, a network of 32 different independant coach companies connecting over 500 destinations from Casablanca to Moscow?

15 years ago, a McDonalds employee quickly appeared with a full replacement meal and told me not to worry about the mess. I took a seat on the bus, and soon it was heading out on to the motorway taking me to my new life in Hungary. And I noticed something different about buses immediately - people talk to each other. We all know that we have a long and not very comfortable trip ahead of us, with dewy dawn breaks in motorway service stations and half-remembered stops in obscure towns en-route, so we may as well get to know each other a little!

The inside of the bus becomes a classless, democratic society. There are no first-class seats here or compartments where you can hide yourself away, and everyone is condemned to share the same toilet. Soon food and photos of family members are being shared around, and everyone knows where everybody else is going. The locals, going home or to visit family, are soon sharing tips of places to visit and giving the first language lessons to visitors going to the destination for the first time.

As I sit and watch 15 years later I see a modern-looking bus arrive from Sofia in Bulgaria. It has covered 1800km in 37 hours, and yet the passengers look remarkably fresh as they spring off the coach and collect their luggage. I hope this is not their first trip to Paris because first impressions count and this bus station gives a very poor initial perspective. Soon though they will be heading down into the Metro and off to more attractive parts of the city, but also back into cocoons of anonymity. Brief friendships made in the bus are already forgotten. What happens in the bus stays in the bus.