But few of my assignments were so tinged with tragedy. Some, in fact, were marvelous fun. On one that was particularly entertaining, I was paired with a young Frenchwoman, Simone Heller, married to an American and working as a reviewer and critic for Le Matin. Following a carefully prepared route we spent a day shopping the rue de la Paix, the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and the rue de Castiglione for expensive gowns, hats, and blouses; and the specialty shops along the rue Saint-Honoré for handbags, scarves, and shoes. We queried prices on rooms in hotels near the Étoile. At a cabstand near the Opéra we dickered with cabbies over the cost of a round trip to Saint-Cloud, where the French national tennis championships were about to be held. Finally at day’s end we dined, ordering the same meal, wine and all, at a well-known restaurant near the Comédie-Française.
We did not travel as a team but separately, Simone speaking her lovely, liquid Parisian French, I professing no knowledge of anything but English. We took the whole day for this and kept careful notes of all prices we were quoted or, as in the case of our dinners, were charged. The point of the exercise was to discover just how outrageous was the constantly claimed overcharging of Americans by the “greedy French.” The joke was on the cynics and complainers, for in every case the prices asked were identical. Except for one. At a small, chic milliner’s I had been offered the same hat Simone had earlier tried on, but for me it was to be a few francs less. Both stories relating our adventures in comparison shopping ran in parallel columns under our bylines in the Trib in English and in Le Matin in French. The feeling of virtuousness among the shopkeepers we had visited must have been immense—and rightly so.
One of the appeals of journalism for those who choose it as a profession is that every day brings something new, something different, and one can confidently expect the unexpected. Certainly for me those days in Paris more than proved that adage. How else could I ever have been a guest at the wedding that was the romantic sensation of the year, that of the nineteen-year-old American heir to a vast tin-mining fortune, William B. Leeds, to the comparably youthful Princess Xenia, daughter of the Grand Duchess Marie of Russia? It was held in the gold-domed Russian Orthodox Cathédrale de Saint-Alexandre Newsky on the rue Daru. At first the panoply, the pageantry, the plethora of titled, grandly garbed guests, the candles, the symbolic crowns, the cascading organ music were enthralling. But, as quarter hours expanded into half hours and we stood and stood and stood, even such exotica began to pall.
The next assignment might be a cultural event, as when in all innocence I went to the Galérie Montaigne to report on the first exhibition of what proved to be the fortuitously short-lived craze dubbed Dadaism. Like most of the rest of the bewildered spectators who studied such works of art as a row of dozens of ready-tied neckties strung side by side, I quickly concluded that this movement would never last. And it didn’t. But its natural child, surrealism, was born in Paris just a few years later. So much for prophecy in the world of art.
Surrealism aside, Janet Flanner, The New Yorker’s longtime Paris correspondent, once observed: “At any season, and all year long, in the evening the view of the city from the bridges was always exquisitely pictorial. One’s eyes became the eyes of a painter, because the sight itself approximated art…. The Pont Neuf still looked as we had known it on the canvases of Sisley and Pissarro…. In the early twenties, when I was new there, Paris was still yesterday.”
For all those who shared that time in Paris her words ring with a bittersweet truth. But Paris is also today—and tomorrow. Despite the encroachments of the startlingly new as in the Centre Pompidou or the ring of towering skyscrapers that seems to be closing in on all that has made Paris a place of unique beauty, it remains, after two thousand years, more immutable than any other capital city in the world. Perhaps that is because so many of us left our youth there. And gladly.
March 1988
AFTER THE WAR
Don Dresden
Returning to live in Paris again is a strange mingling of impressions: memories of prewar days when France was a soft and lovely place where everything abounded; crowding thoughts of first seeing Paris at an age when foreign capitals took on an added glamour and charm; recollections with a touch of knight-in-shining-armor feeling when returning with the invasion forces; reminiscences of the incomparable enthusiasm and joy of Parisians on their day of liberation when the capital was short of food but long on goodwill, and when old bottles hidden during the occupation were brought out in celebration.
All those thoughts of days gone by tumbled over one another when I first returned. I found myself looking for things I had remembered so fondly and discovering that more than one might normally expect were still in their places from prewar and war days. Yet Paris was a place of strange contrasts during the first winter.
Out of the fairyland dream that is Paris for so many who come just to see it and end up loving it, resolves a very real kind of being when one comes to the city to live again after several months’ absence. Even the weather seems to contrive to be different from how it was remembered, and everywhere one hears the natives remark, “Well, it has never been like this before.”
Most days during the winter have been rainy with a tomblike sky shrouding the city. The streets have looked black and wet from the moisture in the wood or stone blocks, and footsteps were muffled in the damp air. There have been bright days when the thin winter sun with its lemon rays burned off the nighttime mist, and the spires of churches and the outlines of the classical architecture slowly lifted as though they were being pushed up and out by an invisible hand for everyone to see. Waves of cold have hit the capital. The Siberian blasts have frozen the pavement, turned the dark streets white and sparkling. The heels of pedestrians clicked in a high, hollow sound as people hurried to warm themselves in the nearest heated place, a search not always fruitful. On such days and nights, the people who always have looked less cold and forlorn than the average person seemed unchanged: the news vendors, the roasters of chestnuts, the ticket collectors on the buses. But their apparent acclimatization had nothing to do with avoiding the penetrating kind of cold that seeped into every cell of the softened American and made him want to run for copious libations of hot grog. Luckily there were days when the temperature lifted, and snow fell softly as though designed for a city with lovely lines on which to shed its grace. People were happy, for le grand froid was temporarily at an end; children romped in la neige that for them is a rarity. All these meteorological variations have been striking.
So it has been with gastronomy—stark contrasts.
Disregarding such exigencies, it is possible to find a sound and most pleasant meal, provided one is well heeled and knows his way around. As has always been the case, refreshing one’s gastronomical lore about this center of eating is a pleasant process. It is possible that one might contract gout in searching for new taste sensations or in trying to recapture old ones, but the odds are that he won’t. Moreover, there is a better than even chance that the waistline will go down.
Before starting on a tour of the city’s restaurants, one must prepare for changes, the first and most important of which is monetary. Without mixing finances and gastronomy too much, the franc today is worth about eight tenths of a cent in contrast to about three cents just before the war. A bistro meal without anything to drink, an unsatisfactory way to eat, costs about 120 francs or $1 today. Before the war it was common to find the equivalent for a tenth that price, vin compris. At the other end of the scale, the average check at Maxim’s is about 2,000 francs or $16. Between those extremes are many small restaurants where prices range from 350 to 700 francs ($2.80 to $5.60) with a moderately good half-bottle of wine.
The next most striking change from prewar days is the lack of butter and other dairy products. This scarcity makes cooking with butter a rarity, a cream sauce practically unheard of, and also keeps one from bulging out at the middle. Chefs in some of the more bon ton spots refuse to have anything to do with substitutes for the real p
roducts with which they practice their craft. Like artists who don’t have the proper paint with which to do a scene, they refuse to attempt dishes that were common in happier days when there was plenty of everything.
There is still another change. Good drinking has always been a part of good eating in France. It has meant the effervescent joy of Champagne, the light white wines of Alsace kept in their long-necked bottles and served in long-stemmed glasses, the deep body and bouquet of a fine Burgundy, the delicate color and lovely aftertaste of an excellent Bordeaux. It has also meant the honest vin rouge and vin blanc ordinaire served for free in carafes with meals all over the nation. As this article is being written, the ration for two months ago has not yet been distributed; there have been scandals in many departments of distribution, including wine.
A reasonable amount of good wine can be found in most restaurants, but often it is young and unmarked except for the region of its birth. The price is approximately ten times as high as it was before the war. Famous cellars such as Maxim’s which were moved to the country just before the green wave hit Paris in June 1940 have been retained intact with their magnificent selections. The value of such stocks has jumped many times over; the owners are unwilling to predict what prices might be for their bottles several months hence. In a nation where prices have gone up at least ten times over prewar levels, it is understandable that dealers, distributors, and patrons should want to hang on to their tangibles (in this case potables) as they see their balance of francs diminish in value.
Throughout this past winter, during the seemingly endless crises in the distribution of meat, it was common to find much more of the insides of the animal on the menu, such as heart, liver, brains, and sweetbreads, than the steaks and chops and roasts, which had been sold in the black market or were being held under the counter in reserve for regular customers.
Restaurants that before the war would have offered seven or eight entrées could muster only two or three, and often the choicest items were quickly exhausted by hungry and wise patrons who came early.
Lastly, there are many little things that one misses in the cuisine, such as the variety of cakes and tarts now restricted because of flour and sugar shortages and the scarcity of lemons that always were linked with oysters, bis, and a good glass of vin blanc. It is possible to find the lemon at times, the bis at others, but rarely both together. Real coffee is scarce; the café national is a mélange of real coffee with a high percentage of some strange roasted thing.
Lest all these changes give the impression that dining out in Paris is so different that it is no longer enjoyable, the returnee to this land of the table can be assured that he will get full measure for his time and money. One of the best indications of the restaurant situation is the fact that a mess for newspaper correspondents and businessmen closed because members found other places to eat more interesting and not too expensive.
My gastronomical wandering started from the rue Cassette, which is on the Left Bank in the Sixth Arrondissement. I walked along the rue de Vaugirard that skirts the Luxembourg Gardens, somber in winter, gay in spring and summer, past the rue Servandoni, which tilts and winds and where the houses for centuries have leaned out and bulged over the street like portly gentlemen in suits made for them long before they have partaken so heartily of the table. My path took me past the Senate, where nearby Foyot stood for years as a landmark of excellent food and service. I was headed for the Place de l’Odéon where one can always find a good restaurant open, for hard by each other are the Mediterranée and the Restaurant Voltaire, while Au Cochon de Lait in the rue Corneille is nearby—no suckling pig at the last visit, but promised soon.
The oyster boxes with their bits of green seaweed bursting from the covers were stacked in front of nearly every place, but especially the Mediterranée, which specializes in seafood and has, among many delightful dishes, a fine soupe aux poissons, a kind of bouillabaisse.
I remembered the Restaurant Voltaire particularly from the days following the liberation of Paris, for it was there that I had my first meal outside an army mess. That day ended with much celebration in nearby haunts of the Résistance. The first time I went back this winter it looked just the same; the precise waiter who had served me three years ago and demanded ration tickets repeated himself. This time I had the tickets. The food was excellent: fine de claire oysters, cold and filled with juice, a tender poulet rôti cresson with french-fried potatoes, tiny peas, a tarte aux cerises, all helped down with refreshing Riesling and topped with passable coffee. The atmosphere was as French as the tricolor: the polite yet not obsequious waiter, the center serving table on which the oyster sauces and cheese are kept, the hissing of steam through coffee as it was freshly prepared, the view toward the columns of the old Odéon Théâtre through the falling rain.
After that first lunch, I wandered about a great deal renewing acquaintances with big and little places on the Left Bank. The Restaurant Polidor at 40, rue Monsieur le Prince seemed the same; so did the genial patron and his kitchen-handy wife whose combined arts have apparently meant a prosperous business, for there is little modernization compared to the days when the restaurant was largely a hangout at mealtime for ex–French Forces of the Interior. It provides honest food and drink for a relatively small price to habitués of the quartier. The Restaurant des Arts in the rue de Seine is operating under normal management and provides its usual inexpensive fare. About halfway down the serpentine rue Saint-André-des-Arts is Chez Vincent, long known to most Left-Bankers, and others too, as one of the soundest establishments where one can satisfy an appetite for excellent cuisine. It hasn’t changed, luckily.
Eventually one gets around to those places he remembers among the first he saw years ago. For me the Coupole on the boulevard du Montparnasse was one, for it was there that I was taken for an introduction to the Left Bank, and especially to French oysters. I remember how frightened I was of la Portugaise verte, the green oyster, unadorned except for a dash of lemon juice, I who had been brought up on the standard tomato ketchup sauce with oysters in America. Later I became a devotee of French oysters and longed for them when I was away from France.
The Coupole is a disarming establishment, for outwardly it isn’t the kind of place in which one would expect to find such excellent cooking. It is a large, airy place with something of the mood of the Left Bank; an artist with long flowing hair is often seated at a table sketching a client; M. Lop, the perennial and strange candidate for the presidency, pops in to make a quick and fiery speech. But most of the customers are interested mainly in food. They are ably cared for under the personal direction of Messrs. Fraux and Lafon, who keep a very close watch on their establishment during lunch and dinner.
Oysters come to the Coupole directly from Brittany, the wines are purchased directly from the producers. Beer has always been famed here: Today French, Danish, and the renowned Pilsen from Czechoslovakia are on draft; it must be admitted that the latter is not up to its prewar standard. English stout and ale used to be additional choices.
On the other side of the river at the rue Royale is one of the restaurants best known all over the world for years—Maxim’s. Going there today is like turning the clock back for as many years as one can remember, for outwardly it seems to have changed so little.
At first the restaurant seems to be closed, for the steel shutters are down and only a tiny light shows through the doors, like an imperfect wartime blackout. Inside, Albert the maître d’hôtel stands Buddha-like at the entry to greet the clientele, just as he has stood for years. The deep red carpet, the polished bar out of another age, the regiment of waiters, the faultlessly laundered linen, the flowers on the tables, the polished glassware—everything is complete and exactly as it has been for years. M. Vaudable, formerly at LaRue up the street, is manager today.
Every place that has a name with a glamorous past—Maxim’s has gone through a series of lives since its birth in 1893—is certain to attract foreigners. The crop of natives who patr
onize it changes with the winds. Today it is easy to distinguish many of the Americans even without their uniforms, for they can be heard across the room. The English are conspicuous more from their choice of food, for they come from an austerity country where the counterpart of a menu like Maxim’s is just about unknown. There are a few of the old-guard French with sufficient cash to take the check without whimpering, although their currency has been cut to less than a twentieth of its value of a quarter of a century ago. And there are nouveaux riches, whose bulging billfolds can take an inordinate amount of punishment.
The most striking differences between a menu at Maxim’s last winter and its counterpart of the early thirties are, first, the number of dishes, reduced by about half; second, the prices, which have gone up about ten times; and third, the complete lack of meat on the menu except young wild boar, during part of the winter of scarcities. There was plenty to eat—fish, chicken, duckling, pheasant, venison, all beautifully prepared—but to find Maxim’s without meat on the menu is an indication of the times in France.
Remembrance of Things Paris Page 2
