Day 9: Bottom Line: We Made Croissants Today

Special breakfasts are a complete luxury to me.  Going slowly and starting the day in that way is a gift.  And special breakfasts are even more beautiful when shared with my husband or a friend.  When Dean and I are able to get away together, our breakfasts are always a highlight for me.  It's just something that never occurs when we're at home--alone in the morning, someone to serve us food and beverage, someone to clean it all up, someone to set out every little thing we need.  Maybe there's a newspaper involved, maybe we talk about our day.... For sure, there are lots of dishes on the table--a teapot, cups, silverware, little plates, medium plates, a jar of honey, a small pitcher of milk, a juice glass.  I feel like I'm playing dollhouse except it's really my life at that very moment--like I'm living in my own dollhouse-breakfast-world.  

So when I mentioned to Shannon the previous evening at dinner that I would be thrilled to nip away to a fancy hotel for breakfast one morning, imagine my joy when she said she'd love the same thing!  That happened today.  We got out of bed when we'd maybe have preferred to have been sleeping in and we headed back over to, apparently, the only fancy hotel in Paris I know--Hotel Le Bristol.

We walked slowly through the lobby with marble and beautiful furniture, flower arrangements and rampant displays of shiny, gold brass and mirrors to the breakfast room.  I approached the hostess stand and gave her my best, "Bo-jzhew (smile).  Deux personnes pour le petit déjeuner, s'il vous plaît?"  She smiled back and said something in French and led us to a table with two armchairs and a sofa surrounding it.  You know when you go to breakfast and there's a sofa at your table, you are in the right place.  

But did you read what I just said?  "She smiled back and said something in French...."  This is possibly the most conflicting experience I have had in Paris. I feel a rush of competency and Frenchness when I have offered something in the language to the point that I am responded to in full-on French.  It means my pronunciation was somewhere in the realm of acceptable, my accent was halfway convincing and I managed to give the allusion of confidence--it means I am viewed as being French-ish!!!  And then, the crushing, paradoxical blow:  I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THEY ARE SAYING BACK.  

I am subsequently discovered as a lingual fraud because I have to then change my body language and my facial lines to portray my inner shame as I admit, "Je ne parle pas francais."  And then, as is my habit, I form a small space in the air with my index finger and thumb, and follow it up with, "Un petit peu," with a scrunched-up nose and face which silently asks, "Please don't hate me for deceiving you.  Have pity."  It is especially tortuous for someone who is used to communicating with words to not be able to do that in a foreign country.  I ache to say something beyond my basic phrases and preschool-level sentence structuring.  I keep meaning to google-translate something like, "This meal was life-changing.  I will never be the same again." In my fantasy, I would practice the translation until it's so convincing that the conception of the ignorant American they initially held of me is banished forever into the Parisian sewers to roam freely with the ghost of Javert.

So Shannon and I clinked teacups and spread Échiré butter on our brioche and sipped slowly and laughed and took in our surroundings and caught up a little bit on each other's lives.  It was bliss.

The only thing that distracted me from breakfast bliss was that I was partially fixated on repairing a loose button in a central location on my blouse which came loose while I was getting ready to leave.  I popped over to ask the front desk at the hotel if I could have a sewing kit and they graciously obliged.  So while Shannon was away at the ladies' room during breakfast, I tried to quickly sew it back on.  I do not sew.  But button-reattaching is within my grasp.  I eventually got it back on but not without piercing my thumb with the needle and consequently shedding blood on the white blouse around my button.  Blood on blouses--it's the new thing, so...organic.  Try to keep up, Paris fashion week-ers.

We headed out after breakfast to meet Grace, Emily and Mary Beth at the Musée Jacquemart-André.  It took a little longer than we had figured because, much in the same way as Beth and I mapped driving directions to use for bicycling (Day 7), Shannon and I mapped *driving* directions for walking.  We ended up walking about a mile out of our way on one-way streets when our legs could've just cut straight to the chase.  Somehow, we ended up on the Champs Elysées so we paused for a photo.  If you strain your eyes, you can spot the Arc de Triomphe in the distance.

Everyone sing:  "Aux Champs Elysées!"  If you've never heard the song or taken a French class of any kind, here you go: 

You're welcome.

Eventually, we got to the Musée Jacquemart-André.  Fascinating tour of an opulent 19th century residence-turned-museum in the heart of Paris.  We had a lovely lunch in the cafe, which was the home's original dining room.

Our next stop was La Cuisine--the site of our group class for learning the art of making croissants!  Everyone was excited about this.  But since we had a bit of extra time before the class started, I decided to use it for rest.  I began to feel sluggish and easily bothered at this point, feeling the effects of having not slept in that morning.

I looked down from Quai de Hotel de Ville to the Seine and noticed a nice landing with trees by the river, accessible from steps which went down from the bridge on the other side.  I'm not sure, but I think this spot was pointed out to me by our Fat Tire night bike tour guide, Theo, when Dean was here.  I remembered him saying it was a nice spot so I walked over.  Once there, I banished all feelings of weariness, plopping myself right down on a bench.

I pretended not to mentally reference knowledge of the unsanitary habits of certain French men who have no desire to find an actual toilet in moments when they probably should.  No part of the ground or public hard surface (or the Seine for that matter) in Paris seems to be sacred.  Sometimes you're so tired that your exhaustion overrides any mental battle you might feel and that is what happened for me.  While I rested there, I quieted.  I needed it.

As I left the spot, I noticed a few people in an art class taking inspiration from their surroundings.  They sat with little sketchbooks and small trays of watercolor paints and it was so quiet.  I was excited about the cooking class, but I really could've stayed down there another hour.

I made my way back across the bridge and noticed a couple of quaint restaurants on the way.  Sometimes I would see restaurants like these and even if I wasn't hungry, I just wanted to eat something--if only to get to linger in a cafe.    

But it was time for the cooking class!  Welcome to La Cuisine Paris....

Everyone except Jenny was game for the croissant class.  The seven of us went in to La Cuisine with our wonderful instructor, Diana, who was a pure joy--and who taught us how to make croissants.  We were given recipes and a pencil for note-taking, which I did for the first ten minutes--but then came to the realization that I would never be repeating this process at home, solely by virtue of the fact that I have three children and a regular lack of 5-hour time slots in which to recreate such things.  So I put down my pencil and just listened to Diana and tried to do what she said.  We laughed, we gasped, we whisked, we rolled, we sliced, we kneaded and we sampled our efforts.  And at the end, we had actual croissants.  Unbelievable.  I'm not going to say they were the lightest, flakiest, most professional-grade croissants I'd ever had, but darn it--they were croissants.  That was more than enough.

Shannon gets serious about her whisking. 

 Everyone was trying so much to do everything *exactly* as Diana instructed.  And then something happened--I think Jennifer had a snafu with the almond paste?  Anyway, everyone in the room was watching it happen and we all gasped as if something truly earth-shattering had just occurred.  And then our gasping made us howl with laughter!

 Beautiful pastry dough and pastry chefs!

Here is Grace pictured with Diana, our instructor.  At one point in the steps, we were instructed to knead the dough in a particular way which involved slamming it down on the counter with great force.  For whatever reason, Diana felt compelled to center on Grace's efforts with extended personalized pointers.  Grace's face!  We were all in stitches.  Diana was very...animated about this part.  

Ta-da!!  Can you feel the pride?  Many thanks to sweet Diana for all her patience and instruction!!

Dinner tonight was split because we were only able to get a reservation for 4 at one of the places on our list, Le 6 Paul Bert--the quintessential modern French bistro.  It was decided that the four of us who had been most involved in restaurant-choosing and reservation-making during our trip planning would go, since we probably cared the most.  Fabulous meal.  I recall a mushroom dish that was especially memorable.  

At some point in the evening, Emily spotted the owner, Bertrand Auboyneau.  Naturally, she chatted him up.

We were all so jazzed that we'd even gotten a reservation at Le 6 Paul Bert that when we first looked at the menu (which threw no English translation bones our way) we were mostly at a loss...but playing it cool was a priority.  In other words, I couldn't whip out my Google translate app quickly enough.  This was a mostly helpful exercise, but every once in a while, things didn't really translate.  In the photo, the one on the left was a Google translate misfire which sent us into hysterics.  The one on the right I had to figure out because we strongly suspected the sommelier (who spoke little to no English) was actually making fun of us.  I asked him in French.  It made him laugh.  This is called, "Americans giving it their best shot."  Guaranteed to please the French 98% of the time.    

And then there was that time Emily, who is a rep for J. Hilburn men's custom clothing, noticed a fellow diner's covered buttons and, in short order, was conducting an on-site inspection--much to his great amusement.  

Eventually, we looked at our watches and noticed it was 11:30 in the evening and we still hadn't paid our bill...and we were actually kind of overjoyed at that.  It was a very, very good night.  

And just in case you ever need to know:  Ce repas était un changement de vie. Je ne serai jamais le même.  {This meal was life-changing.  I will never be the same again.}

Bonus:  Taxi ride video on the way home.  Emily is scrolling our driver's cell phone and tries to have a conversation where he repeatedly indicates he is speaking about his "petit frére," which is "little brother" but somehow got interpreted as "girlfriend" or just "little friend."  Which makes the fact that 'she' was involved in WWE especially confusing.  Coupled with Emily's wrestling pantomime and Mary Beth's continual, "Oui, oui," AS IF we understood anything about this conversation brings me great joy in the hereafter.  Wish I'd taken more videos.

  

Day 8: A Full French House at Maison 1400, aka: The Knoxville Invasion

Presto change-o, one group departs, another arrives!  It was time for Group 2 to descend on Paris and settle into things!  Group 1 left for the airport and Group 2 arrived at the apartment about an hour later.  They were only slightly coherent and pitifully sleep-deprived but so thankful to finally be here!  We all decided to celebrate by taking a nap...which was interrupted in the worst way by metal scaffolding being erected on the street outside the apartment.  Quel dommage!

Before I go further, allow me to make some introductions.  Group 2 consists of the following friends:  Jennifer Hinton, Claire DeLozier, Emily Miller, Mary Beth Maddox, Jenny Adams, Grace Bishop, and Shannon Cofield--all currently from Knoxville except Shannon (who is in Atlanta), but we count her as a Knoxvillian anyway since she used to live there.  Mary Beth, Shannon and Jennifer had arrived the previous day (October 2nd) and stayed in a hotel with plans to move into Maison 1400 on October 3rd, which is how they got roped into dinner the previous night at Verjus (see the Day 7 post).  The other four friends arrived in Paris on October 3rd and had plans to stay in Paris a couple of days after they left Maison 1400 on the back end.  But for the next four days, seven friends plus Lesli = EIGHT.  Prep the sofa beds, it's a full house at Maison 1400!    

It became readily apparent a nap would not be happening.  Claire, Jenny and I gave up the fight against the scaffolding insanity and decided to head out for a bite to eat.  They were open to suggestions and thankfully, I had a few of those under my beret.  It had been a whole week since I'd had the For'bon Tartine at Poilane so obviously, it was time for a revisit.  Just to refresh your memory: Bayonne ham, whole ripe Saint Marcellin cheese, olive oil, marjoram and Poilâne bread.

I had a dear friend and experienced French linguist and traveler, Karen Costello, tell me before we left:  "You may have ten different places you want to go for breakfast, but I would encourage you to keep going back to one you really enjoy.  They appreciate it when you return and then you establish a relationship." Wonderful advice.  The lady who took our order today at Cuisine de Bar was not there the first time when I went with Dean, but I definitely noticed her during this second visit.  She was so full of life and fast-talking that I smiled every time she came to our table.  I asked her name:  Isabelle.  Isabelle was busier than a honeybee in a mess of Provence lavender.  She was the only server in this cafe with seating for probably 30.  She was constantly moving and working--every single second.  And she had JOY.  

This brings me to something Dean and I learned from Michael, our invaluable landlord at Maison 1400.  Restaurant staff positions at any level are generally not considered dead-end or temporary jobs to bring in a paycheck while in a holding pattern, waiting for something better to work out (as they are sometimes viewed in the US).  Someone in a restaurant staff position in Paris has chosen it specifically for the industry and they take it seriously.  For a cafe like Cuisine de Bar/Poilane, Isabelle is the server, busser, and cashier for every table in the cafe.  There is only one other staff person in the cafe and he is the cook.  The cook was there the last time I ate at Cuisine de Bar and as I recall he didn't smile very much.  But today, I went out of my way to go over and make eye contact and tell him, "Merci beaucoup!" and "C'est bon!" and "Au revoir!" as we left.  And guess what:  I got a smile.  Voila!!  Repeat customer.  By the way, stay tuned for one more forthcoming blog post regarding Isabelle.  I'll give you a hint:  it involved much bravery on my part and occurred my last full day in Paris....

We departed Cuisine de Bar and headed to Pain de Sucre.  Grace and Emily also met us there.

Salted caramel macarons elicited either groans of deep culinary satisfaction or blank stares of revelation followed by a complete lack of words.  This was my second trip to Pain de Sucre and certainly not my last.  The sweet man who works in there is so patient and helps me pronounce very hard words like, "millefeuille."  I still don't know how but I try every time.  He is helping me.  I must ask his name!

Here is Emily, modeling with a Pain de Sucre croissant.  Like the professional that she is.  

From here, the group split and I headed back to the apartment to try out some ear plugs and attempt a short nap before dinner.  And I just needed to rest.  One thing I am having a hard time doing on this trip is balancing--rest, time alone, connecting with friends, being a leader and being a follower.  Still haven't figured it out!  It would probably help for me to get in bed earlier than 1:30am every night/morning.  This is a pattern that requires reversal in short order.  It--is--making--me--s l e e p y and also possibly a smidgen cranky.  

Dinner tonight was the eight of us!  We queued up (actually, props to Claire and Jenny for getting there early to queue up; otherwise, our rather large group probably could not have been seated together) at the very quaint and trés délicieux Frenchie Wine Bar, which is near the Montorgueil district in the 2nd arrondissement.  We sat at a big table and shared wine, champagne and an assortment of small plates that came out in a nicely-timed parade of lovely, creative dishes.

Bon soir, cute little French man who served us.  Flirt alert.  

 We passed around plates and bowls and sipped and nibbled and ooh-ed and ahh-ed over our bites.  I am fairly sure that cartoon explosion captions like "ZOW!" and "ZOINK!" appeared over my head as I demolished the chocolate pot de creme with the thin blanket of passionfruit-infused warm butter sauce over the top of it.

For all you know, this could be Jell-O pudding in cute jars.  It is most assuredly not.

 Where everyone had been politely sharing everything else in equal portions, once the pots de creme came into play, I immediately morphed into the world's most selfish 4 year-old and took hold of the little pot with my greedy hands and heart.  Ah well, these are the perks of being the birthday girl, no??

A little blurry, but all the women of Group 2 had arrived on the streets of Paris to join with me in savoring every little bit (and bite) to the nth degree.  I am so so grateful and humbled that they would come all this way and am looking so forward to our time together!    

    

Day 7: Eclairs, Sweet French Jonathan and the Lady Who Knew David Lebovitz

It's been a little hazy, weather-wise, for Group 1's stay in Paris.  So Beth prayed that God would please help it be sunny for their last day in Paris...and it was!!  When the sun is out, I don't care where you are, everything looks different.  

Colleen and Danna headed out on a mission to conquer some museums and sights on their last day in Paris and Beth and I headed toward Poilâne for le petit déjeuner.

Beth took this picture of me riding my bike to Poilâne.  I love it because it makes me remember....

 "Le petit déjeuner" is the French phrase for breakfast and usually means juice, tea or coffee, toasted bread with jam and a croissant.  This is a perfect little French breakfast.  We stirred our hot drinks with our signature Poilâne baked cookie spoons, we spread the most beautiful jams and honey on our croissants, the juice was freshly squeezed...and we left having not eaten too much, but having taken the time to slowly ease into our day with nourishment.  I can already tell that le petit déjeuner is one thing that I will miss greatly once I return home.  After reverting back to my banana and granola bar in the car routine, I anticipate feelings of suffering.

This little friend belonged to a lady whom we presumed to be the owner or manager of the cafe.  He skipped around like he owned the placed.  

Again, Beth took a picture of me--this time at breakfast--and I love remembering this moment.  I am just sad we do not have one of the two of us!!

Le petit déjeuner.  Can you see the small glass cups in the background?  One with chunks of finest butter, one with smooth raspberry jam and one with the most gorgeous miel (honey).

Do you love honey like I do?  I hated to waste it so I had a few not-so-little spoonfuls.  It was the only responsible thing to do {said Pooh}.

The rest of the day was a mix of museums and sights--first was Musée d'Orsay with Beth, which was especially sweet because God has gifted her as an amazing artist and it was a unique experience to get to watch the passions in her come to life as she came face-to-canvas with the works of some of the masters who inspire her.  If you ever have the chance to go to an art museum with a painter, you should!  Then at Musée l'Orangerie, we viewed Monet's Water Lilies in the two oval rooms which Monet himself helped to design to specifically showcase these paintings.  Beth was in awe...which only increased my awareness of the giftedness of Monet and his use of color and light.

Musée l'Orangerie, photo courtesy of Flickr

 We even met a wonderful lady, Sharalyn, while we were in line and ended up talking to her for thirty minutes while viewing the paintings.  Sharalyn is American and the three of us just instantly connected and easily talked together.  What a gift to meet a "stranger" in the middle of a foreign city--when you are surrounded by so many you cannot carry on a 2-minute conversation with and then God puts someone in your path whom you can hardly *stop* talking to and whom you feel you were just meant to know....  A fesitvus serendipitous.  Is that a phrase?  It is now.  

Beth and I left Musée l'Orangerie and biked over to meet Colleen and Danna at Notre Dame.  We unknowingly mapped our route for WALKING directions and then tried to use those directions for biking.  Which left us biking the wrong way on sidewalks through lots of people who most assuredly cussed us repeatedly as we 'expertly' maneuvered around them with our semi-cat-like reflexes and constant use of our bike bells.  My bike bell surely never saw an ounce of action its entire life compared to that 20 minutes on the way to Notre Dame with Lesli at the wheel.  Mercy.  By the way, there is a certain type of person whose brain does not register the sound of a bike bell, even when it is right behind them.  Woe to that person.  And move the heck OVER.

Notre Dame.  I just wanted all those hoards of people to go away and leave me alone in there so I could feel the magnitude of 850 years, welcoming centuries of men and women of faith and that massive, majestic building.  I wanted to channel what it would've been like to attend a church service here as a commoner in the 14th century...instead of as a tourist in the year 2013.  I used my whole imagination.

I think part of the gift of a building like Notre Dame which is so encompassing and swallowing is that you feel so very small in it.  And aren't we all just so very small?  Sometimes I think we get confused and believe we are larger than we really are--because while we are intricately and beautifully made by our Creator, we are actually small.  And I always exhale deeply when I am reminded of that.... 

With Notre Dame completed, Beth and Danna set off for other things while Colleen and I decided to go grab a bite to eat together.  We settled on Ladurée and were trying to decide what method of transport to use to get there since it was less than a mile away.  We could've walked but if memory serves, someone (Colleen?) had an injury/blister/ailment.  

We looked up to see a line of strong young men operating rickshaws.  Obviously, we chose the one who looked the most French.  His name was Jonathan and he was wearing a beret.

Sweet French Jonathan spoke broken English and did not understand that we only wanted to go a mile down the road to get our eclair hookup and some tea--that we merely viewed him as an adorable, curly-haired, human-powered taxi.  Maybe if we had simply read the sign on his rickshaw, this could've saved us some awkwardness.  It plainly says, "Cyclotour."  Sweet French Jonathan took us the scenic route and began commenting on the years buildings were built, etc.  With every un-useful fact given, it started to seem like we might never get our eclairs and I don't know about Colleen, but my tension meter was rising.  We eventually realized he was offering a tour guide service in addition to his transport service and only after we'd been carted around for 15 minutes did we think to inquire about the cost for such an adventure.  Oops!  We communicated about this and were finally deposited at Ladurée.  Thank you for all that constant pedaling, Sweet French Jonathan.

There he goes!  Au revoir, Jonathan.

Ladurée was overpriced and small (at the Rue Bonaparte location), and we loved every minute of it.

Great service, dining finery, c'est merveilleux.  It was great to get to spend some one-on-one time with Colleen and do something so girly together, which is one of my favorite ways to spend time with Colleen.  She comes alive in the most feminine of settings and activities.  Colleen is beautiful and filled with grace which flows only out of the Spirit of God and the gift of salvation in Christ which lives in her--I am constantly in awe because so often, I feel I am deficient in an abundance of grace....

A birds-eye view of things at our table.  Pieces, papers, pastels, plates, patina, pastries:  c'est parfait!

I can't remember what they called this, but it was basically an eclair in a different form.  Choux pastry, chocolate icing and creamy custard inside.  Can't fail.  

Our cozy little corner!  Take me back!

How things looked from Colleen's side of the table with her beautiful vanilla eclair, glistening in all its simplistic French glory.  

We lingered quite a while in our Ladurée decadence and suddenly realized we were tight on time to get ready for dinner.  We taxied back to the apartment to primp.  Tonight's dinner reservation was at Verjus, a current hotspot that serves a tasting menu.  Somehow I convinced (read: forced) the three very jet-lagged girls from Group 2, who had arrived a day early that morning, to join us and we had a fabulous meal.  Bienvenue, Shannon, Mary Beth and Jennifer!  

Cannot say enough lovely things about this meal at Verjus--artistry by way of food.  And I loved having the seven of us together!!  My special people who came all this way!  

We even sat next to two very nice American ladies who were apparently foodies and shared restaurant experiences with us--what to miss or not miss.  One of the ladies has lived in Paris for 10 years and is connected to the restaurant industry.  She also mentioned, after it came up in our foodie talk convo, that she knows David Lebovitz.  This may be as close to a celebrity as we get on this trip.

 So I took her picture.  Naturally.  She tried not to look afraid.  

David Lebovitz is an American author/foodie/recipe writer/blogger/critic who lives in Paris and loves talking about food in Paris.  Basically, he was our Paris food leader and several of us on the trip would not be ashamed to say that we consider ourselves his groupies.  Also must say the Verjus wine bar (downstairs) was quite the place to be.  Stone walls, lovely lighting, small place packed with people enjoying one another.  Highly recommend.

With the Group 2 early arrivals feeling supremely exhausted from jet lag, they decided to head back to meet the Sandman as the Group 1 gals headed out for one last night together.

Somehow, we ended up on a lifeless street corner and flagging down a taxi proved to be near impossible.  We changed our positioning a couple of times and finally, after a slight eternity, one headed our way.  I walked intently toward it as it neared, my right arm and hand pointed diagonally skyward.  As it came almost close enough for me to touch it, I approached the passenger door to speak to the driver and tell him where we needed to go WHEN OUT OF THE BLUE, here came a cheeky monkey of a girl in her 20s, darting nearly under my arm to put herself between the car and me.  

She was spouting in French to the driver and all I could do was summon the full force of my inner Southern diva and shout, "Excuse me!  Excuse me!!"  I looked at the French cheeky monkey and back to the driver and back to the FCM and back to the driver.  I added with gusto, "We have been standing here FOREVER waiting for a taxi and this girl just ran up!!"  And then for emphasis, one more "Excuse me!!"  As if he could understand me which, maybe he could, but who knows?  In the end, it was up to the driver to choose who he would transport and I am relieved to say he chose this Southern diva and her ladyfriends and the French cheeky monkey retreated to her people in defeat.  Grace and peace, FCM.  Go forth and steal no taxis.    

The evening ended with the four of us in front of the Eiffel Tower at midnight in Paris with thousands of twinkling lights all over the tower and everyone giddy as schoolgirls, snapping pictures, taking video and embracing our identities as unashamed tourists.  You just cannot fight the magic in a moment like that.  City of Light, you win!!

It's far from the best quality of a photo, but sometimes a professional photographer just cannot be found in the moment.  Even so, I'll never forget this special moment with these three ladies!!

Nighttime at Maison 1400.  I think Danna took this picture and I love how it shows the peace and quiet of the little street outside our apartment--a street which no taxi driver in the whole of Paris ever had heard of, but nonetheless, a peaceful place.  

And a bonus:  face-timing with Dean and Dottie in the wee hours.  Dottie didn't have a whole lot to say and was generally confused during our face-time chat.  

Paris is six hours ahead of Knoxville so if we usually got back after midnight from dinner, it was about 6-7:00 p.m. back home, which was a good time to call and catch people home and awake.  As a result, by the time I talked to my dearly missed family, got ready for bed and then attempted to journal or look through pictures from the day, much less check email or social media, it most often put me to bed around 1:30-2:00 a.m.  Not the best pattern in which to emerge while on vacation, but ah well--it's a vacation and after a week in Paris, I had vacated with my whole body, mind and soul...and was loving every second of it.

The rest of Group 2 would have already boarded their plane by now and would arrive tomorrow.  Full house ahead!  Sweet Parisian dreams, Group 1!!