Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  What other warm socks can I add to my quiver? Better language skills; whether they be from a class or from a bed. Or both.

  Caroleen

  There is a crazy contradiction in the way Caroleen describes herself and the way she behaves.

  “A French woman never goes out without being completely put together!” In the dozens of times I’ve seen her she always looks the same; summer and winter. I suppose the scarf is a nod to being French, summer or winter. In the winter she is hidden beneath a black wool poncho, a little pilly. Her streaky hair looks finger combed and pulled into some sort of top knot. She wears a bit of makeup, mostly eye liner. Her resting bitch face sports more of a sneer than a smile.

  The thing that boggles the mind about Caroleen is how she absolutely devours any food that appears on the table, whether it’s for her or not.

  We were supposed to meet at Cépage for une verre at 5:30. She showed up twenty minutes late, having just met with clients (like that?!) To be fair, she had her nails done. I was finishing a glass of wine and she plopped down and snatched my little bowl of pretzels wolfing them down in an instant. Be my guest. I wasn’t going to eat those. Crazy, my plan was to treat her for a New Year’s apéro. I ordered two glasses of champagne, half a dozen oysters and some frites.

  When the champagne arrived we toasted to our health and a prosperous and profitable New Year. Then the oysters arrived. She nearly swooned.

  “For us?”

  “One for me and five for you!” I don’t really like oysters but I feel that I must eat one. For “chance”. For the “Nouvelle Année”.

  “But they taste like the sea!”

  So I’ve heard and I’d really rather go into the sea and swallow a mouth full of water.

  By the time I had managed to swallow my oyster she had literally inhaled the other five. At one point I feared she was going to climax! Then she made fast work of “our” frites, stabbing four or five at a time into her mouth.

  “Another champagne?”

  “Sure! We should have gotten a bottle!”

  Thierry

  I first saw Thierry maybe five years ago. At the time I didn’t know he was Thierry. I only know from the moment of first eye contact there had been another life and that we had shared it.

  All that from a single moment of eye contact, you might say? Stop the presses. Is this going to be that kind of book? Not to be dramatic, but sometimes this past lives thing just works that way.

  And for five years it has teased me. In this life he is too young, too married, and too much of a father. Well maybe the too young part isn’t such a problem. He does fall into the sweet spot for me age-wise. And after all, France is the country with a President some twenty six years younger than his wife. But the wife and the kids are a bit of a problem.

  So that’s where I played with the idea of cinq à sept, or the fantasy of just one week, secluded somewhere together, to get it all out of our (my) systems. And to remind him not to take so damn long the next time around!

  But even I don’t want to get in the way of a family. And every time I come to his restaurant, the thing that stands out more than anything; more than the sexy beard, that smile, those eyes, is that wedding ring!

  For a couple of years, I thought that my part of this story was about Thierry and who he was before he was him and I was me and this life was this life.

  He says I am his favorite client. It’s not that the connection, however inappropriate, isn’t there. It certainly is. But this story… my story… is about something else this time around. And I just haven’t figured out what yet.

  Of course, that doesn’t mean that it’s not still fun to connect and flirt and maybe become better friends. Who knows what twists and turns this life will take. After all, I live in Paris!

  Daniele C

  Another wrong path, but it’s becoming very clear that these wrong paths take me interesting places and towards the place I think I’m supposed to be going.

  First there was Daniele J, my celebrity chef crush who actually ran with the bulls. (And look how that turned into an actual let’s hold hands moment.) It was by virtue of stalking him that I discovered Hotel L and by liking it on Facebook that I was lured by the tiramisu martini. I promised to do a research trip for my BFF C’s annual holiday party. Sitting at the bar, videoing the making of said cocktail it just happened to be the then every other week appearance of Daniele’s jazz group at Bar L. I’ve no idea why he caught my eye. Too skinny. Too hairy. A bit greasy. A drummer. But he did.

  Fast forward to stalking him and falling in love with him and following him to every jazz club in Paris. Then that fateful day, following rentrée, when every Parisian returns en masse from the August vacation he came back with a wedding ring!

  I was devastated. Daughter number one said “like you thought you had a chance to be with him?!”

  The every other Wednesday at Bar L turned into every Wednesday at GCA. It took me a stupid long time to actually go. I Google street viewed it. I watched GCAs videos of the sessions. I made reservations. I cancelled reservations. And then I took the plunge. It was great.

  Each time I was greeted by Philippe. Soon he remembered my name. He played a bit part in my weekly jazz interludes. All my focus was on Daniele, who occasionally even seemed to notice me.

  Until one night while I watched Daniele and Philippe told me a story in French that I didn’t quite understand but seemed to be how I went from Bar L to GCA. For the first time I noticed Philippe with new eyes.

  So fast forward to a place to write and a man with a continual soundtrack playing in his head and the bise.

  And let’s just see where this path leads.

  New Year’s Eve

  The man across from me in tiny Truffes Folies pulled off his sweater, revealing a t-shirt that said in huge blurry letters “The Future”.

  Among the things that came to mind; I would never wear a t-shirt to Truffes Folies (where by the way it smells like what Heaven must smell like), Have I already had too much to drink on this New Year’s Eve Day, although it’s only lunch time (For anyone counting, champagne and two glasses of Côtes du Rhône helped wash down the foie gras and artichoke tortellini with black truffles), and finally If that “The Future” is representing my future it would have bright shooting stars and neon letters. The only mysteries about my future are good ones. How will it play out? How will my book turn out? How will my story turn out? How many more times am I going to fall in love? (When will Ninon’s story start to be written?)

  The sun came out but the wind howled as I staggered to the bus stop. I’m trying to be mindful of burning through my life savings. Uber is usually quicker and more comfortable but the number 80 bus takes a very scenic route, crossing the Seine at Pont d’Alma. Look to the left; there’s the Eiffel Tower. Look to the right and there are the Grand and Petit Palais. Avenue Montaigne, my favorite glamour street in Paris always dazzles at the holidays with Plaza Athénée and the Dior Atelier setting the standard for the bejeweled decorations and window dressings. It may be freezing, but that doesn’t stop those wanting not only to see, but mostly to be seen from grabbing patio tables at L’Avenue, wrapped in scarves, furs and hats. I notice that the same refugee family has been living on a mattress just adjacent to the chi chi restaurant, the passersby with their Louis Vuitton, Gucci and Jimmy Choo bags blind to them.

  A couple of blocks further and the bus passes the Artcurial building, one of the most beautiful buildings in Paris right before it circumnavigates the Franklin D. Roosevelt roundabout. Look quick to your left, the Champs Elysées leads majestically to the Arc de Triomphe and the Grande Arche de Défense beyond that. To the right, the Place de la Concorde with the Egyptian monolith and the Grande Roue at the holidays. The controversial great ferris wheel is certainly a landmark from all vantage points of the city. The elderly King of the Romanian Gypsies who owns and operates it won th
e right to run it this holiday season - a small concession by the city’s Mayor for refusing to allow his Christmas Marché along the Champs Elysées.

  The bus continues past the ritzy streets getting increasingly ethnic and increasingly more like the real Paris as it nears Gare St. Lazare. Here’s where Claude Monet painted his famous series of steam trains arriving at the station in the late 1870s. (and where today you can catch a train to Vernon to visit Monet’s impressionist home in Giverny).

  The next couple of stops are packed and people shove onto the bus loaded down with rolling shopping carts, luggage and baby strollers. This is where I often snicker at the cliché of the well coiffed, well dressed Parisian. There are no rules. Parisians come in every size, shape, color and smell. All of the restaurants and shops for the next couple of stops are Chinese, Thai, Italian, Chinese and African. Turning right at Place de Clichy the neighborhood takes on a whole other feeling; grunge tourist, with a host of tacky souvenir shops, cheap restaurants, local markets, news kiosks. Boulevard de Clichy veers right and enters the sex zone. The Moulin Rouge pulls in the huge tour buses unloading scores of Chinese at nine and eleven. Irish pub. Cockney Bar. Shop after shop advertises sexy; girls, toys, lap dancers. It may be the only street in the world where you can buy an Eiffel Tower vibrator.

  Bus number 80 doesn’t turn onto Boulevard de Clichy. Instead it heads up hill, crossing over Cimetière de Montmartre where it enters an entirely different world; my world. Two more bus stops and I’m home. To the one perfect block in Paris.

  Welcome 2018

  I’m tempted to say that 2018 isn’t starting out well, but I’m definitely looking at things from a glass half empty perspective. I did a lot of nothing until three o’clock when I finally figured out I had to go outside. I planned to take a bus to the river and bid adieu to Paris for six weeks. Waiting for the bus was rainy and cold and dreary. I decided instead to Uber to GCA. It took ten minutes for the Uber driver to show up and by the time he arrived I was cold and wet. Then I had accidentally put in Le Clou so when we got to Avenue Trudaine, the road was closed for pedestrians and cyclists (who obviously weren’t going to be out in this weather). I explained to him that I wanted to go to Place d’Anvers and you would have thought I said I wanted to go to the moon. Quel inconvénient! Sheesh! So I let him drop me at the corner of Boulevard de Clichy and Place d’Anvers and swam the rest of the way.

  The place was packed; with families it seems. In fact there was only one table left and the people at the next table grudgingly moved their coats over enough for me to sit. No Philippe. But seated at a warm table with a carafe of wine and some vegetable soup I feel like I’m in my right place. Definitely better than Cépage, (which I think I have successfully bought my way into by now)!

  On top of that, I am waitlisted for a business class upgrade for my flight back to San Francisco tomorrow; number two on the list and it’s sold out. All I can hope for is that two people will either cancel or not show up. Dare to hope.

  I always feel so sad to be leaving and this time even more so. I’ve been telling everyone “j’habite ici” and although it’s just a tiny bit premature, I really feel like this is my life now. And the six weeks “in the way” are a vacation; to get my Visa, clean out my office, and say my goodbyes. And parties! One in Encino, with the beautiful people. The second at Beverly’s home with my 50 closest friends.

  So my glass is more than half full. It’s overflowing.

  On Writing

  Je suis ici! Pour une année. I have arrived at my new apartment a little after eleven and met Tara, Stephanie’s BFF. She’s a sweet little thing from Ireland. We agreed to have lunch together soon.

  I’ve stayed in this apartment twice before and it’s fine, but I don’t feel as warmly about it as I do my usual one. I will stay in this apartment for three months and then move in June for nine months. Maybe I can do some things to make it feel more like mine. It’s certainly convenient to Le Cépage! It’s in the same building.

  My plan is to write two days at Cepage, two days at GCA and one at Le Cafe Que Parle. Sprinkle in with the Bibliothèque Mazarine and the Terrass.

  Everyone at home says that I am so brave to do this. I don’t feel particularly brave. Maybe indulgent. Flying to Paris, taking a taxi to my apartment, going about my daily activities either alone or with someone, feels very normal. After all, I came eight times last year alone. What feels brave to me is leaving my job; walking away from both the prestige and the money. I’ve heard that the average book earns its writer $10,000. I earned that in two weeks in Silicon Valley. I think writing a book is more a labor of love than a job or a career. It’s about creating something and putting it out into the world.

  I listened to John August’s podcast “Launch”. He talks about the desire to write a book, a novel. He has been a successful screenwriter but a book is something he will create in total. To begin he feels like he has a very personal, very private thing he wants to create. It actually sparkles with flashes of light. It’s completely his own thing until he decides to share it. He sends his first eight chapters to a publisher. It’s no longer his personal baby anymore. He describes the anxiety of waiting for feedback from the publisher. Now, Mr. August has a big advantage. He’s a known creator. He’s sent his chapters to a top notch publisher. I’m pretty certain that the run of the mill first time writer does not enjoy the pleasure of attracting an eye so easily. After a few short days he gets the feedback he’s been waiting for. They love it. And then his baby is truly not his any longer. They give him an advance, my two weeks pay in Silicon Valley, and ask for 80,000 words in six months. Now Mr. August has an actual job with an actual deliverable.

  80,000 words at 1,000 per day, five days a week is four months of writing. The sparkles are gone. He overruns the six months by two. I wonder how he pays his bills on that $10,000.

  Then come the edits! Hundreds of edits from things as minor as challenging regional phrasing and Oxford commas to editing out entire story lines and changing a major character’s personality.

  How will I feel about someone attempting to rewrite my words? Once I contributed an essay to an anthology about being a working mom in Silicon Valley. I loved my essay. The editor cut it to shreds. She cut out sections that I felt were critical to what I was trying to communicate. And it was her book.

  The Rug Man

  For six years I have been watching the Rug Man. He has a small shop across the street from my apartment, ostensibly selling imported Persian style rugs. His hours are incredibly irregular although the sign on the window proclaims them to be mercredi, jeudi, vendredi et samedi from 11 to 7. The thing is, I have never seen him sell a rug. He typically stands on the sidewalk in front of the shop, watching people walk by, in cold weather, hot weather and everything in between.

  Year after year Monsieur has stood outside his shop, never selling a rug. Occasionally he pops over to Cépage to have a coffee or a beer. Caroleen tells me he’s a cad; that he made unwanted advances. She told him “Non!” that she’s married. According to her he replied “a little spice on the side makes life more interesting”. I can only surmise that there must be more going on at Tapis Berthoud than rugs, since to my knowledge he’s never sold one. Until…

  One January he had a big SOLDES sign and I decided to go see about buying a rug to bring home and put under my dining room table. Monsieur Bertoude speaks no English and at the time my French was pretty pitiful. We pointed and gestured and Monsieur pulled out a number of rugs, nearly flipping them like the Turkish rug sellers in old town Istanbul. I finally settled on a rug with a pretty tree of life pattern for 700 euro. Un petit problem. I wanted to pay with a credit card but Monsieur said his machine was not working. “Cash please”. No doubt he was trying to avoid paying taxes. Silly me. I didn’t happen to have 700 euro in my wallet! We ended up looping in the produce vendor next door. I think I actually ended up buying 700 euro of mushrooms and somehow the two of them
worked it out, probably cutting out the French Tax authorities.

  Today while I am writing and eating lunch at Cépage, Monsieur walks in with a son! Le garçon, about 15 years old looks exactly like his father. They sit across from each other, heads at 90 degree angles, both looking intently at their phones. Excellent father-son time. I look up from my writing to see them both watching me! Monsieur has completely turned in his chair. I smile at them and look away. Did they hear me writing about them? Will I be offered some spice on the side?

  Les Chiens ne Font pas des Chats

  (The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree)

  J’ai besoin d’une nouvelle amie. Ou j’ai besoin de me divorcer de Caroleen! I need to find a new friend! Or I need a divorce from Caroleen! What a miserable person she is turning out to be. We met for un verre last night, me buying of course. She sat down, unhappy with the table I had chosen and being forced to sit on the chair across from the bench seat. I was working on a glass of Côte du Rhône, which came with a small bowl of peanuts. Bises out of the way, she scooped up a handful of the peanuts. Our short conversation about the derivative of the French word for peanuts, cacahouètes, was the only non offensive part of the next two and a half hours. She surmised that it comes from the word “caca” or “pooh”. Maybe so. Little drops?

  The rest of the evening was a one-way dialogue about the evils of Muslims. “And I’m a democrat!” she kept saying. According to Caroleen they are taking over Paris. And it is not a good thing.