(3 of 5)
That, among other places is where Temple Fielding comes in. Fielding sells more general guidebooks than any other American writer, cares not a whit about Europe's treasures. He dismisses the Louvre in 16 lines, half of which are devoted to its snack bar, and his principal comment about the ruins of ancient Rome is that "there's a remarkable permanency about the Colosseum." Fielding's forte-is leading his readers ("the normal Mr. and Mrs. Smith of Middletown, U.S.A.") gently by the hand to a real wingding of a time. He directs them to restaurants that will give them the red carpet and offers them personal introductions to a champagne magnate. He devotes whole sections to showing them how not to make fools of themselves, how to avoid being cheated, how to act with customs inspectors ("Keep your mouth shut"), and even how to beat the airlines out of excess-luggage charges (stuff heavy articles into coat sleeves, tie knots in the sleeves, carry the coat).
Fielding displays a spurious heartiness that can be depressing, and occasionally he may overplay the nursemaid bit. But the heart of Fielding's guidebook is his personal advice on where to eat, sleep, drink and be merry. It is current (this year's book contains 125,000 lines of revisions), caustic, and in reliable taste. Maxim's (ranked by Michelin as one of France's twelve*** restaurants) has been off Fielding's list since the death of Maitre d'hótel Albert Blaser in 1959, and he attacks Chez Denis (*) for serving "the costliest meal in Paris today." As for the London Hilton, it is "the closest version of a 'hotel machine' that America could export. It functions, it looks (and it is) sleek and modern; it provides food, drink, comfort, and even luxury. The only two vital ingredients it lacks are warmth and humanity."
Much gentler is 75-year-old Sydney Clark, whose All the Best books are pleasant introductions to 26 countries. Clark genuinely likes every place he goes, loves to lead his readers to spots that other guides ignore, such as the Buttes-Chaumont Park in Paris' 19th Arrondissement, but gives restaurants little more than a lick and hotels not much more than a promise.
Harvey Olson, a Chicago travel agent who lumps Europe into something called Aboard and Abroad (the latest edition of which was published in 1964), is more pretentious than Clark about his restaurants but hardly sounder. Olson's favorite restaurant "in all the world" rates only— in Michelin, and third on his Paris list is a copy of Chicago's Gaslight Club. Olson is both a dictator and a square (his idea of Paris fun is going to the Folies-Bergère). As far as he is concerned, the only possible way for any American to enjoy Europe is as part of the herd. For their first trip, Olson sends his readers on a 39-day Grand Tour of ten countries, and their second can be only to England, Ireland, Scotland and Scandinavia. If they're still with him after that, he recommends a really daring "off the beaten path" tour to Chartres, Biarritz, Saint-Tropez, Rome and Paris.