Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  The lid to her tagine had fallen off her stove top and broken so she needed to buy a replacement. She and a friend took the métro to Belleville, a neighborhood in the 19th arrondissement, where there are a lot of Arab markets. (She also noted that bundles of herbs are one-third the price there than they are at the Chinese market in the 14th arrondissement. Evidently, the Arabs are good for something!) She bought the tagine she was looking for and her friend pointed out a suitable café where they might get un verre. But no, upon looking in they saw only men. They walked on a bit more and the friend pointed out another café, again full of men. They decided to take a chance.

  They sat down and the server came over and admonished them; “Look about! Don’t you see that there are only men in here?”

  Caroleen launched into an anti-Muslim tirade. “This is Paris! We are not ruled by Sharia Law. You cannot prevent us from having coffee here!”

  “Weren’t you afraid he would spit (or worse) in your coffee?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t matter! I wish I had videotaped him. In fact, I think I will go back and this time I will video tape him with my phone!”

  She went on to opine about Madame la Maire, ranting about how she had passed a law requiring any apartment sold to first be offered to the Mairie for the lowest price bid. The Mairie would then purchase the apartment and give it to refugees (Arabs), who will in turn bring in fifteen other refugees (all Arabs) to live in the tiny studios.

  “Look about you!” she ranted. “Notice all the hijabs slinking into the buildings around you!”

  I personally have not seen any slinking going on around me. And in this cold weather most people are wearing some kind of hat, scarf or fur lined hood. She specified two nearby buildings where she saw a slinking Arabess. Sharia law is taking over Montmartre!

  Caroleen asks for an aperol spritz and shoves both little bowls at the reluctant waiter, “Plus snacks!” He smirks and brings her another bowl and her drink, along with another glass of wine for me. Both on one check which of course will be left for me to pay.

  At this point the subject changed from Arab takeovers to scams in general after I mentioned a conversation I overheard at the nearby bus stop. A British woman was speaking to companion about someone in the building across the street making ridiculously low offers on all of the apartments before the city takes over the building, a beautiful old building on one of the best blocks in Montmartre, for a major renovation. It turned out to be a scam.

  Which launched into the telling of a scam that happened to her and her two young guests at Le Cépage. They had three coffees on the terrasse, and the bill was eleven euro. She placed on the tray one ten euro note and one one euro coin. She repeatedly, like ten times, pointed out that as she stepped into the restaurant with the tray she held her thumb firmly on the ten euro note. She handed it to the “new Arab” waiter and then she and her two young guests headed up the street. A minute later the watier was chasing them up rue Caulaincourt.

  “Madame! You only left one euro! You owe me ten euro more!”

  That sent Caroleen into a rage. She marched him back to the restaurant where she pointed to the several cameras in the ceiling corners.

  “Let’s look at the cameras! I gave you eleven euro. You will not get away with this!”

  Eventually the waiter acquiesced with some feeble comment about maybe the ten euro note blew away (at which point she repeated for the eleventh time the claim of holding it firmly on the tray with her thumb)

  She reported the scam to the newish manager who remarked, “No! I trust him! I brought him in myself.” The next day she reported the scam to the owner, Marcel, who demurred “Oh I hope not.”

  A few days later she heard from another patron that the scam had been repeated and both the “Arab” waiter and the new manager were fired.

  It’s kind of funny. I have been to Le Cépage many times over the last seven years and I don’t recall any new Arab waiters or short term managers. All of this must have happened in one of those eight to twelve week gaps between my visits.

  Which brings us to the current manager, who Caroleen calls “an evil little faggot”. Caroleen reported that this past week he actually turned off the internet in an attempt to make her leave. When she accused him of doing so, saying that Marcel had proclaimed “C’est chez vous”, which she very generously translated as “you are family” he denied having turned it off at all. It was soon magically working again.

  “But of course the mean little faggot was lying! And now he always ignores me and will not wait on me at all. Or on F, by association! And probably now YOU by association as well!”

  He actually had waited on me before she came in. I just spent ten euro buying my way back into the good graces of the pretty waitress who had shunned me by association on my last visit. I don’t think I can afford to be associated with Caroleen any longer! Now that I am living in the same building as the restaurant, I must figure out how to detach myself, or divorce the bitch!

  “What about working at Le Refuge?” It is after all the restaurant attached to her own building on rue Lamarck!

  “It’s the next best. But the coffee is not great. ‘’ The one cup of café crème she buys to give her access to the table, the power outlet and the free wi-fi all day.

  Maybe I should offer to meet her for un verre there a couple of times to distract her.

  “How about Chez Ginette?” just up the stairs from her building.

  “No, it’s really a restaurant.” Wait! Le Cépage is a restaurant!

  “What about Bibliothèque Mazarine? Have you been there?”

  “Can anyone just go in?” asks the tour guide extraordinaire.

  “Oui, you just have to show your passport. It’s so beautiful. I plan to write there once or twice a week. Terribly historical. But with wi-fi, power outlets and air conditioning on hot summer days.”

  “Tell me next time you go! I’ll go with you! I can use my press pass.”

  “But I have to do serious writing when I go…” Maybe that was a bad suggestion. And press pass? Huh? Does she not have any simple ID?

  By now it’s 7:30 and a plate with a lobster goes by. Caroleen stares greedily and looks at me expectantly. I can’t afford to be friends with this woman on so many levels!

  “I’ve got to be going,” I say.

  She checks her app for the time of the next bus; nine minutes. My walk home is one minute. I pay the bill and my change from the twenty euro note is six euro fifty. I take the five leaving the one euro fifty for the waiter. We sat at the table for nearly three hours.

  Why do I think she pocketed the change after I left?

  Locked out!

  What a fright. Home from an afternoon of writing at GCA and my door key won’t let me into my apartment. I got through the first four doors without a problem, using the fob on one through three and the passcode for number four. But the actual key won’t work in the door lock! I panicked! Did the Mairie catch up with my property manager and deem me an illegal leasor? Or was I just clumsy and didn’t use the key right?

  Lorna laughed at my text. “Were you drunk?”

  “No!”

  But here I sit at Cépage with another glass of wine a bit worried. Lorna said the said they had the same problem when they arrived at their apartment on the Ile Saint-Louis, years ago. They tried for hours and nobody would help. I think this door is my kryptonite! It’s the same door that Lorna closed last year, leaving the keys on the counter and her luggage behind the locked door when we left at 6 am for a flight to Spain.

  The brand new waiter at Cépage has agreed to help me when he gets off at 9 pm. It’s now 7 pm. Today is his first day and we’ve already exchanged our details; me living in this building since this week, him starting today. Maxim. Loves the SF 49ers, especially Joe Montana. His offer feels a bit intimidating.

  Who is the Patron Saint of Lock
s and keys?

  Maybe I’ll just try again. “Push up on the door while you turn the key” suggested Lorna.

  Eleven Days in Paris

  I am completely overwhelmed with all of the emotions and experiences I have had in the last several days. I told Elliott that I am sure there is some chart somewhere that explains the ups and downs of expat lives in transition. Elliott responded that the chart would probably turn into a multi-tome anthology of all the writers who came to live here. Big swaths of Pushkin and Hemingway, bits of Turgenev and Gertrude Stein, spiced with James Baldwin and sloppily flambéed with late Wilde.

  In some crazy way living in Paris sends me back into my twenty year old head, but without money problems, future career worries or a ticking biological clock (in the 70’s we thought all childbearing should be done before the age of thirty).

  Last night I went to Wednesday night jazz with Magalie. After our champagne orgy she did indeed get back with her boyfriend and was optimistic that things would go well. He was drawing appropriate boundaries with his son and realized how close he had come to losing her. She texted me, “Would you like to go for a drink on Wednesday”. I responded, “I’m having dinner at GCA with live jazz. Would she like to join me as my guest?” So I booked for two, which I rather suspect gave Philippe pause.

  He greeted me with bises when I arrived. “Pour deux?” he asked, with a look.

  “Oui, j’attends un ami”, a noun that when spoken designates neither masculine nor feminine.

  He takes me to my usual table and asks “Or would you prefer…” indicating a table further into the room.

  “C’est bon.”

  I settle back into my banquette and listen to the jazz. Daniele, playing the drums still makes me sigh, with his three day beard and his dark Italian eyes. But now the real heart palpitations are because of Philippe. Oh what a fickle girl I have become!

  “An apéro?” Philippe asks. “How about if I bring you a coupe de champagne?”

  “Oui, merci!”

  Magalie arrives only a few minutes late “le métro”. Warm greetings and introductions to Philippe and our waiter (whose name I asked but didn’t write down. These French mens’ names are impossible to understand and harder to repeat or remember).

  Magalie tells me about her boyfriend’s come to Jesus moment. We talk about Paris apartments after the new short term rental laws. She expresses concern about Stephanie’s business future. I tell her about my worries that Stephanie will be surprised by one of the apartment owners telling her that they have gotten an offer they can’t refuse. I’ve heard too many of these stories, alternating with stories about leaking pipes in neighboring apartments and warnings to get a lawyer. Magalie tells me that if the owner wants to sell they are obligated to offer it to the renter first, but I’m not sure I believe her. How can I let the owner know that if they decide to sell their apartment, which I am probably renting illegally, please speak to me first! Full cash payment. Let’s make a deal!

  I remind Magalie about our conversation about the best way to learn French. We laugh about it again and I motion to Philippe, “I want to learn with him.”

  She looks him over and raises her eyebrows, “Is he married?”

  “I think not.”

  “He’s nice looking. Is he the manager?”

  “No, he’s the owner.”

  “Even better! Does he sometimes sit with you?”

  “Yes” (I exaggerate) “We talk about my novel. He wants to be the hero.”

  Magalie laughs. The evening goes on. Lovely jazz, good food; parmentier de canard for her, tartare de boeuf for me, two bottles of Bordeaux.

  Towards the end of the evening Magalie leans in for a confidence. “I don’t think he likes you that way.”

  My face freezes into a mask of frank interest in what she wants to say as she goes on with “He doesn’t look into your eyes or focus attention on…” My face appears accepting I hope but my head cannot absorb the words. “You never know when the right person…” I can’t think.

  I wasn’t looking for anyone! I like my solo lifestyle. I certainly wasn’t looking for rejection!

  My phone buzzes, indicating a new message. Aimee.

  Aimee was my translator at my cooking class a year and a half ago. We had lunch the week after but then both kind of dropped the ball to follow up. Yesterday she “liked” a picture I posted on Instagram of the Paris rooftops from my living room window. I shot her a message, “I’m living in Paris now! Would you like to have a drink sometime?”

  “Hello Parisienne, I know that you came back. Philippe, (the Grand Comptoir owner) told me. I would be happy to have an apero with you…”

  What a weird, small, incestuous city this is! How on earth do two people from two completely separate parts of my Paris life come to be talking about me?

  I choose to see it as a sign. I think my 37 year old well intentioned Parisian friend is wrong.

  Eager to get out of the apartment where my upstairs neighbor seems to be doing what can only be jogging in place (in wooden clogs) right over my head, I pop into Cépage to see if Caroleen might offer a bit of distraction.

  “Are you working?” I ask as I take the table next to her.

  “Yes, and it’s very important and I can’t chat.”

  “No problem, I’ll just have lunch and read.”

  For the next half hour she lectures me about the facts of living in Paris as an American that I absolutely must be aware of… this is what she gets paid good money for! Older French dislike and distrust Americans but the young ones love us. Don’t ever talk to the French about money. The census? There is not a census going on! (This in spite of posters in the lobby of my building and on bulletin boards of shops and restaurants.

  “You should NEVER tell anyone anything about yourself! Just lie. Tell them you don’t speak French! Tell them you’re visiting a friend! We would never tell them anything. What if he is trying to find out if you are renting legally and he reports you to the Mairie? Did he show you his identification?”

  “When I lived in the Marais… and I had a dinner party for my husband’s stupid relatives… and I know how to entertain; candles, music, art… and his wife whacked him under the table…”

  “I thought you wanted to work!”

  “I told you I can’t work when someone is next to me. Pass me your bread basket. I want to take a photo of this beautiful gluten. Look, where do they get their bread when the boulangerie is closed? You know, this bread is much better!” She eats two pieces.

  “You know, when they bought the boulangerie they had to keep all of the employees. You can never let anyone go in France.” She began to choke a little on the bread she inhaled. “Can I have some of your water?”

  I pass my glass to her.

  “Do you have a cold?” she asks.

  “No”

  “Well I do so now you shouldn’t drink from that. I guess I’m going to have to go home to work.”

  She paid her 3.80 for the coffee she had ordered several hours earlier and sipped the rest of my water. Marcel, the owner walked by and glanced at her.

  “He always flirts with me! I wonder if I’m his type.”

  WTF?! He might have almost smiled at her.

  Les Salons

  Les Oiseaux des Tournelles: An invitation to Ninon’s salon was the most sought after ticket in the City. Her guests included the absolute who’s who in Paris in the mid seventeenth century; Charles de Marguetel de Saint-Denis, seigneur de Saint-Évremond, soldier, hedonist, essayist and literary critic, Écrivains Jean de la Fontaine, Molière and Paul Scarron, Bernini, the acclaimed Italian artist in town briefly to do a sculpture of the King and propose a new façade for the Louvre. Madame de Maintenon, the secret wife of Henry was often in attendance. Even Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin, who was suspected to be the vrai Papa of the Sun King. All wer
e eager to enjoy the pleasures of Ninon’s hospitality.

  Fast forward to the early twentieth century, between the Great Wars. Gertrude Stein and her life long partner Alice B. Toklas watched a gaggle of artistic creatures track through their Saturday evening salons on a regular basis. Most famously among them were Ernest Hemingway, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Pablo Picasso, Toulouse-Lautrec, Sherwood Anderson, Henri Matisse, Ezra Pound, accompanied by a host of talents and thinkers as they forged a new reality, modernizing literature and art.

  I came to Paris determined to host a modern day Salon; à la Ninon, à la Stein. Clearly my apartment was too small to invite but a few people at once. I have neither the art or accoutrements to set the stage, not the well enough stocked bar nor the appropriate barware to host such an event but I could easily visualize the guest list. My imaginary Salon was getting to be a bit crowded with habitués if they all accepted!

  Where to host these show-stopping events? (And how much will they cost me? Caroleen suggests that they not be hosted and that the guests pay for their own drinks. Why did I ever tell her about this?)

  I considered venues representative of Ninon’s grand salon on rue des Tournelles, or decadently decorated with Matisses and Picassos on the rue de Fleurus. First to come to mind was the beautiful restaurant Le Mandragore at Hotel Particulier, hidden deep on a private cobblestone alley in a secret garden in Montmartre, former home of the Hermes family. If it doesn’t have a Michelin star it should.

  I have been to a private book event in the lovely dining room. The plush velvet chairs and canapés (only the French word for “sofa” adequately captures the essence of these lush versions of sofas). Gorgeous damask curtains hang from the windows and candelabras and chandeliers provide the exact right lighting. The room was perfect for a lively discussion on living in French.

  The practical side of me saw Euro signs. Such a privatized event would not be cheap. Twelve to fifteen people, a dozen bottles of champagne or wine, platters of canapés (the small food items, not sofas) and coffee to send my guests out into the night, would quickly total 1,000 euro! One salon a month would put a big dent into my own dining out budget.