“Yes, of course” I respond. “But children of people who came here from somewhere else. For example, where was F from?”
“F is Parisian!”
“He was born in Paris?”
“Well no, he was born in Provence but…”
“Exactly, what I’m wondering is why do people come to Paris? Why did F’s family come to Paris?”
“For work opportunities. There were no jobs in the provinces.”
“And you, where were you before you came to Paris? And why Paris?”
“I was in London, and I think I came here to be close in spirit to my Father. I was a Daddy’s girl.”
“Was your Father born in Paris?”
“No, my Father was born in the South.”
“How did he meet your German mother?”
“During the war.” She sipped her Aperol Spritz. “My father was doing classified work for the British and the Americans during the war. And he met my mother.”
“That must have been controversial!”
“Yes, they couldn’t even get married for many years. They married in New York after my first brother was born. Why are you asking all the questions? You know I hate talking about myself.”
I told her that I had just watched a documentary about women during WWII in France; women in the Résistance.
“I can’t imagine what Paris was like during the war. And I don’t understand how an entire nation of people were so easily convinced to follow Hitler.”
“Because he was the solution to the Jewish problem! My mother is still a Nazi, and while I don’t agree with her, the Jews really did control everything! The banks! The media! It was a solution to the Jewish problem.”
I sat there with my mouth hanging open.
“It’s a problem today in the US. There have been times when I have had articles declined simply because I’m not Jewish. The media, the banks, the movie industry… all controlled by Jews!”
“Have you followed the Harvey Weinstein situation? Have you seen the list of all the offenders? All Jews! And have you seen the women making the complaints? No Jews! They just don’t fuck their own!”
At this point I was determined to change the subject. “French women, you said before that French women are very jealous. How about Macron and his wife who’s so much older?” I was reaching.
“He’s gay! She’s his cover.” She spurted out.
“No he’s not! I read a piece disproving that rumor!”
“No, he’s gay. Everyone knows. He wears two rings because he has a gay husband. Look how he holds his head and looks down his nose. I have gay friends and they have a thing called gaydar and they all know! Why are you asking me all these questions?”
Good god! Jews. Arabs. Gays. Is anyone safe?
“Have you been following the Italian election today?” she asked.
“I haven’t had time to read about it yet.”
“They are going all Right! Everyone is going Right. It’s the immigrants. Nobody is controlling the Arab problem. It’s a real problem!”
“We need to change the subject” I said firmly.
“No! We can’t change the subject! This is important. France needs to get out of the EU!”
“Caroleen, we need to change the subject. I can’t talk to you about this. You know you and I have very different opinions about this.”
“We have to talk about it! It’s important! It involves all of us. You live here now! It involves you! This Arab problem is out of control!”
“We have to change the subject or I will leave.”
“Fine! Let’s talk about jealous French women and other petty things that don’t matter. F and I are going to have to leave Paris and leave France and you just get to be an American. Think about trivial things and ignore the important things.”
“That is BS!” I raised my voice. “You are not leaving Paris. You and I have very different opinions about this and neither of us will change the other’s mind. I’ve said this before and you continue to go on and on. After you text me that you’re sorry you kept on but it’s important to you. You do it again and again. How dare you accuse me of being trivial!”
I paid the tab for both of us (again) , “I’m leaving”.
“Well, I guess we both should leave.” But she stayed seated while I put on my coat.
“Au revoir”, she said airily.
I walked the seventy eight steps home, my blood boiling, feeling completely impotent. My phone buzzed, indicating a text.
“Thanks again for the drink – just joined F at Francoeur – great group of French guys talking Italian vote all at the same time. Great fun – no one agrees on anything. C’est la France”
I deleted the text.
I deleted her Instagram account.
I blocked her from mine.
Stupid I know. But I felt divorced at last. It’s a pity that she’ll probably get Cépage in the division of assets. I’m sure they’d rather have kept me, too. I tip better.
French Girls Think Differently
French girls think differently than we American girls. And they really don’t want to talk about it.
I’m not talking about fake French girls like Caroleen. She is, however, the perfect example of why even twenty five years in Paris can’t make an American girl think like a French girl.
I would never say a bad word about Stephanie. I love her with all my heart. I call her la soeur de ma coeur, the sister of my heart. The first time I met her, some five years ago, when she greeted me at my apartment as the new owner of the rental agency that manages my two favorite rental apartments we clicked as kindred spirits. She is strong, independent, intelligent and brave. And she’s pretty and very French. She was even born in Paris. Every day she jumps on her scooter, rain, snow or sun and runs her business. She vacations alone in Bali and once a year with a big group of old friends at Club Med in Turkey.
In the time that I’ve known her she has had men friends but no single boyfriend. There are a couple of men who are disappointed about that, nearly as disappointed as her mother who wants grandbabies. She refuses to settle. She owns her own impressive apartment in Montmartre where she entertains generously and fosters rescue dogs until proper homes can be found for them. I’ve been fortunate to be on the receiving end of her hospitality and every time I’ve been to Paris we meet for lunch or dinner.
Now that I’m an actual pretend “Parisienne”, I’m grateful to have Stephanie as my first French girlfriend. She introduced me to Magalie, making two French girlfriends.
Stephanie has been back from Bali for ten days but she has been slammed with work so last night was the first time we’ve been able to get together… for Wednesday night jazz dinner at Grand Comptoir d’Anvers.
When I finished up my Tuesday writing session, Philippe asked “Demain soir? Pour la jazz! C’est vrai?”
“Bien sûr” I assured him. “Pour deux, s’il te plaît”.
“Deux” his eyebrow shot up. “Ah, oui! Avec Aimee!”
“Non! Aimee es Vendredi” I had agreed to meet Aimee for an apero at GCA on Friday evening. “How do you know this stuff?”
Lost on him. Sadly it seems like Philippe’s English is getting worse and my French is going backwards. Even Duolingo has downgraded me from 70% to 68%! He’s taken to pulling Guilloume over to translate for us. I’ve seen Guilloume feed him other English responses for clients too. Maybe it was just not so good ever.
I walked into the restaurant and Philippe dashes over to me, la bise in front of the band, Daniele tonight!
“Mon table!” I exclaimed, seeing it occupied.
“Un peu de confusion.” Philippe said sheepishly. “How about this one?”
“Pas de problème” Actually this one was much better. Right across from the lovely Daniele, impossible not to be noticed. I make a mental note t
o ask Philippe to please make this my regular table.
The dour new manager heads over to ask me if I would like something and Philippe shoos him off. “I will take care of Madam.” Philippe whips out a white table cloth and sets my table. Guillaume comes over and shakes my hand.
Stephanie comes in looking fab; faux fur coat, knee high boots, cute little dress. We exchange la bise and she settles into her seat and takes in the ambiance of the restaurant. Philippe comes over and I introduce Stephanie. I tell him we would like a bottle of Pinot Noir.
Stephanie said she’s checked out the menu online and is very excited to try the boeuf bourguignon. After Guillaume opens the wine, I do the tasting ceremony and he pours for both of us. We tell him we are ready to order; the boeuf bourguignon for her, poisson for me.
I tell her about the divorce. She congratulates me and we toast to that. She tells me about her Bali vacation and the newest foster pup and that business is booming. We are well into the second jazz set and the second bottle of wine before I tell her about my disappointing conversation about Philippe with Magalie. She listens without comment. I tell her about my previous obsession with Daniele.
“He’s very cute!” she says, “I’ve noticed he’s been looking at me.” Between sets he bumped her chair going from the restroom back to his drums. He put his hand on her shoulder and apologized.
During the third set we’ve nearly finished the second bottle. Philippe has spent a lot of time at our table. For that matter, Guillaume has too. Only the dour manager has managed to stay away.
Philippe takes our photo and we send it to Magalie. Then we take a selfie including Philippe. We are laughing and talking and Daniele calls out, “Alors!” We were so busy talking that we hadn’t noticed the last number had ended and nobody was applauding. Philippe jumps up clapping loudly. Stephanie and I join in.
Now Stephanie’s chair is turned about 80 degrees giving her a more direct view of Daniele.
Aha! An opportunity for me to observe first hand le regard! Nineteenth Century French writer Stendhal says you can say everything with the look, and you can deny it because it can’t be quoted word for word. I guess when two girls are sitting at a table and twenty feet away sits a drummer, it’s kind of impossible to say who the drummer is actually looking at. I do think however that Daniele played his heart out last night. And married or not, Stephanie was under his trance. I can certainly understand that. I’ve been under his trance for nearly three years.
Wine is gone. Cognac comes out, followed by a final coupe de champagne for each. When the final song of the final set ends and Daniele stands up to introduced his group I am buzzed and clapping loudly, happy with the attention we’ve gotten from Philippe and the fact that Daniele was playing for our table. OK, for Stephanie most likely.
I pay the tab and we are ready to leave. Stephanie pops up and heads to the end of the bar where Daniele is standing. OK. American girls… watch this! A French girl in action. “I’m going to talk to him.”
How many years have I watched him end his set and stand at the end of the bar while I slink out, maybe with a nod or a thumbs up, content to wait until next time. I follow about ten feet behind, to give Guilloume a 10 euro note and to say au revoir to Philippe. By the time I’m finished she turns away from Daniele and he’s looking at me.
“Merci beaucoup.” I say and follow her out.
“What did you say? And what did he say?!” I ask while we wait for our Uber.
“I told him how much I enjoyed the music. He just said merci.” She wistfully added “He’s not interested.”
The Uber driver dropped her off, then me one hill further on. I staggered into my apartment, peeling off my clothes as I made my way into the bedroom.
This morning I woke up thinking about French girls and American girls. French girls believe they are what they want others to believe they are. American girls who learn about this secret can try to believe it. They might even convince others they believe it. I don’t know if I will ever believe it.
I reached over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand. There was the picture of Philippe, Stephanie and me. When I looked at it last night I felt like I was the intruder in a snapshot of the two of them. This morning the photo was clearly of Philippe and I with Stephanie in the corner. My phone buzzed, a new Facebook notification.
Daniele had sent me a friend request. I almost fell out of bed.
Days of Confusion
Sitting in GCA and I’m just stuck. La Séduction has me confused and maybe even a little sad. Some of the things I read make me feel rather French after all, and then huge swaths of it leave me sure I will never be French.
Still a bit high from the Daniele friend request and struggling with the differences between the way my French girlfriends think and the way I do, I didn’t tell Stephanie about the friend request. I’m discovering a great deal of competition, even when you think someone’s your friend.
Thursday night I had dinner with Charlotte at Bulot Bulot, a new hipster oyster bar in Montmartre, on rue des Martyrs. It seems like everything in Montmartre and the 9eme are going hipster. The restaurant is a teeny tiny place with very uncomfortable seating for the 15 or so patrons they can actually accommodate but time spent with Charlotte is always good. I hadn’t seen her since before Christmas so took a little bit to establish our connection again. She has an amazingly busy, interesting life and she knows everyone. Her blog, app and podcast have such cache that she seems like a true celebrity. Celebrity aside, she is completely down to earth and we just click. We see things the same. We talked about Elliott and Joan. Joan remains a mystery to her as well and in 15 years of friendship, she’s never done anything with Joan alone, Elliott alone, yes. But never Joan. I told her I was determined to crack that. She responded “Good luck with that!”.
I asked what Elliott’s job was and she said he does some sort of consulting. “He’s very smart; one of the most well read people I’ve ever known. And incredibly generous. He frequently shows up with small gifts, perfectly thought of just for the giftee. To each of his curated dinners, often including a couple of dozen participants, he brings wine from his own cave, not expecting anything in return other than good conversation and fun. Very generous. We’ve just never talked about money and how he gets it. Maybe family money?”
“Elliot has alienated a few people. He will be the first person to admit that. But he has always been a good friend to me. I think you will learn to appreciate all that he brings to a friendship.”
For my part, I’m admittedly a little more catty, commenting that I think that maybe Joan wears the pants in the family. “Black leather” I add, “And a whip”
She bursts into laughter, her cool cocktail spraying an oyster.
Charlotte is generous with her connections and has invited me to two follow-on things; dinner with the girls, her closest gal pals, and dinner at her own house in a couple of weeks. That dinner will include Elliott and Joan and Elizabeth and her husband. Elizabeth is a neighbor and very good friend, another American who’s been in France for nearly two decades. She is a blogger, a tour guide and an expert in all things French cheese. For the dinner at Charlotte’s house, I was assigned to bring a “soft cheese”. Charlotte cleverley has her guests bring different cheeses as a way to involve them in partager and sharing the meal. How can I possibly choose a soft cheese that will pass the test of the cheese expert?
I shared my panic with Charlotte at Bulot Bulot. This is how lovely Charlotte is, “Oh no! Don’t worry! I just do this because it seems like a fun way to involve my guests! But wait until you meet Elizabeth! She’s great! She’s very easy going.” And so she is. But that comes later.
I could ask Elliott of course. He’s been tasked with a hard cheese. If I ask him it would just be Elliott’s cheese plate with me just bringing what he recommends. This must be perfect. My local fromagerie has a soft white cheese, I don’t know what, wi
th a layer of truffles. It was fantastic… to my unsophisticated cheese pallet. I thought it was exceptional, but what if it is pedestrian?
Aha! Ask Thierry! After all I took his wine and cheese pairing class last summer. I shot him a text and he quickly responded “A Saint Nectaire can be nice, or Epoisse, but it’s strong, or Pont L’Evêque.” I googled them all to prepare myself with a bit of knowledge on their source, terroir, age, and the names of the cows that gave up the milk. I think I’m set.
Then Friday evening happened. I was scheduled to have an apéro with Aimee at GCA at 7:30. 7:30 seems a little late for an apéro for me but when in France…
I got there early but thought I could write a bit. Philippe was just leaving, jacket on, motorbike helmet in hand. Bises.
“J’attend qui?” I ask him. He seems a bit confused. “Who am I meeting?” I ask, “You seem to know my social calendar.” Aimee, I confess, and he decides to wait as well. Maybe we’ll get the truth behind all this gossip.
Aimee comes in a bit ruffled. She seems maybe a little nervous. It’s been over a year since we’ve seen each other. There is something waifish and fragile about her. No makeup, hair pulled into a ponytail, her only nod to French femininity is a pretty glittery sweater. She collects a quick bise from Philippe and then we order from Guilloume; a beer for her, a margarita for me.
We spend the next hour catching up. We relive our fun cours de cuisine at La Table du Jardin with two Michelin star chef, Julien Rouchteau. She fills me in on Chef’s loss of a star. We both laugh that it was probably because we were in his kitchen. She knows that Julien has gone to a new restaurant (with one star) but she has not been there. She, like me, has noticed that the entrée on the new menu is the one we made at our class!
“How do you know Philippe and how does he know you know me?” I get right to the point. The mystery, however, was never completely solved. Veronique, Aimee’s sister is the Directoresse of the Hotel du Jardin and she lives across the street from GCA. Evidently she is at GCA at least three nights a week, sometimes with Aimee, sometimes with Aimee and their mother… She parks her car in the lot under Square Anvers, adjacent to the restaurant. OK, I get it. Veronique is a local and a regular but it doesn’t explain how my name comes into it.
Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Page 8
