Aimee tells me about her difficult six months of unemployment since we last saw each other, about some web development training and her discouraging job search. She has been told she is too old (she’s 40!) and too inexperienced. She finally got a job with a famous Parisian bread chain, creating a point of sale website. She beats herself up everyday worrying that she’s not good enough. Her employer constantly reassures her that she’s too hard on herself and that she’s doing great. But she’s not sure.
We talk for over an hour and our glasses are empty. “Would you like another drink?” she asks. “I have to take a quick break and go out for a cigarette. Only number five for the day!” She’s trying to quit.
Ten minutes later she’s back, with her mother and her sister! I “almost” met Veronique a couple of years ago when I used to go to Hotel du Jardin for their Wednesday night jazz. I jump up and there are bises all around before they join us.
Veronique has aged ten years! Or at least it seems that way to me. I remember her being a very pretty petite blond, very charming and very French. She seemed to have gotten puffy, messy and sarcastic; friendly enough, but somehow cynical about my being here. She introduces me to her mother in French. They say that her mother’s English is like my French. I get the implication that my French is nonexistent.
Veronique asks Aimee if she had seen Philippe. “Yes, he gave me a bise”. Then she asked me about the job I retired from. She seems to know a lot about my new life.
“So, when you and Philippe talk, what language do you speak?” she asks with a bit of a sneer. Can you do a friendly sneer? Evidently Parisiennes can.
“A bit of French. A bit of English. We kind of help each other.”
Hmmmm, could it be that Veronique likes Philippe? There’s something more than a little off about this potential friendship. I’m disappointed. I think I could learn a lot from Veronique. Maybe as competitors for the same man, there’s even more I could learn from this woman!
The evening proceeds and we decide to have dinner. Philippe is long gone. Guillaume is our willing server. We mostly talk about Veronique’s job, the changes she’s making at the Hotel du Jardin, the monthly regional theme menus, promoting Julien’s sous chef to head chef, trying to win back that first star. Her focus for the du Jardin has gone from the Royals of the 1600s to Hollywood royalty, focusing on celebrities who have been guests in the past; Marlene Dietrich, Orson Welles, Elizabeth Taylor. When I ask about the woman’s portrait in the bar, I had imagined one evening that it was perhaps Ninon herself, she said “I hate that painting! I want to replace it with Marlene! And on the other side, Elizabeth Taylor!” Her French accent is so strong it takes me several times before I understand who she’s talking about.
To be honest, I’m not crazy about the direction she’s taking the lovely hotel. She seems to be infatuated with America, specifically Hollywood America. She recently went to California for a conference and she loved loved loved Santa Monica (again it took several tries before I understood) and her “convertible Mustang!”
She has never been to San Francisco but she said she’d like to go. But she adores Los Angeles! And maybe New York city. I told her we should trade lives. But in reality. I don’t want her job. Too much pressure, not enough reward. And I certainly don’t want her thirty square meter apartment! Actually, I think I like my life just fine.
Saturday I loafed around. My activity for the day was dinner with Charlotte and her friends in the evening. My only venture out in the daytime was to the boulangerie to get a croissant. I made a mushroom and cheese omelet in my little French kitchen. I’m saving euros now that Le Cépage is off limits to me! Caught up with a bit of cleaning, reading and studying French. I even took a little nap to build up my stamina for a night out on the town.
In the early evening I was Facetiming with Izzy and a little message flashes across my phone screen. “Philippe waved at you”
WTF! The gods are playing with me. First Daniele. Now Philippe. I choose to take these as signs. Maybe I’m not invisible.
After I finish with Izzy I send back a little kiss blowing emoticon. Later he responds, “Thank you. I hope to fine”
Don’t try to read between the lines.
Today I woke up to an “Invitation from Daniele to Jazz at Pop Up du Label” Me and his 2,000 other Facebook friends. This social networking stuff is going to make me crazy!
Dinner with the Girls (and Gareth)
I continue to struggle with the concept of on time here. When is it expected that you show up en retard; when should you be on time; what if God forbid, you arrive early?
Dinner with the girls was set for 7:30 at Le Yacht Club in the 9ème. So far the rule, as far as I can tell, is if you are expected at a French home, be fifteen minutes late. Never on time, Never more than twenty minutes late. What I don’t understand is why you don’t ask me to come at the time you really want me to be there.
At a non-French home you are most likely expected at the time stated, although it’s possible that you will show up and the hosts are still in the shower, or one has gone to the market, or people are at various stages of dress or undress.
For dinner with the girls, all non-French, at one of the newest neighborhood hotspots, I would assume you show up on time.
So I arrived at Le Yacht Club at 7:30. It was completely empty. I walked down the street a bit and took some photos of Eglise Notre Dame de Lorette, then a few of the pretty flower shops nearby, walked back to Le Yacht Club ten minutes later; still empty. I hitched up my big girl panties and walked in.
“Bon soir! Je suis avec Silvie.” Silvie made the reservations.
“Bien sûr!” the server said and pointed at two tables in the center of the large dining room, indicating that I should take my pick. I pointed at another, along the wall with a questioning look. Frankly quite a lot can be communicated without ever saying a word. “non… an incomprehensible French sentence or two..” clearly all the other tables are spoken for.
It’s only a few minutes before Silvie sails in. We have never met before but several people have told me I need to meet her. Canadian by origin, she’s been in Paris for over twenty years. She married and divorced in Paris, has a teenage daughter, runs her own apartment rental business and lives not far from me in the 18eme.
She seems to be friends with everyone; Elliott and Joan, Charlotte and T, Stephanie, Siobhan. Yes, clearly I need to meet her. She’s a voluptuous, outspoken woman, obviously comfortable in her own skin. She is just getting over a bout of bronchitis and a business trip to Las Vegas followed by a conference in Paris. Obviously this is a busy lady. “I’m so happy to meet you at last! I’ve heard so much about you and everyone tells me I must meet Silvie.”
Clearly she’s never heard of me. Or perhaps she’s simply not interested.
Charlotte and Elizabeth come in, at this point only thirty minutes en retard; muttering something about the métro. So, on time seems to be a fluid concept; thirty minutes give or take, mostly take, and murmurs about the metro (unless, like me you have an aversion to the metro).
Bisous all around. Another cultural lesson: inclusion into a group earns you bisous immediately. Coming on to a scene on your own means having to earn the bise. It took a year to move from a hearty handshake to la bise with Philippe. I got my first bise from Thierry only last week, after nearly two years of eating at Le Clou. The next visit his hands were full and I got a friendly “ça va?”
The girls are all travel writers, tour guides and bloggers so loads of photos were required; photos of the still empty restaurant, photos of the bar, photos of the menu, followed by photos of each of the exotic cocktails. We all tasted each other’s. I was happy I had chosen mine, la Barbe Noire (Black Beard, going along with the nautical pirate theme), Jameson, bitters and cassonade flambé et rallange au tonic with a dried orange slice.
Charlotte is right. Elizabeth is lovely and very down
to earth. She tells me about her coming to France, originally to a small village in the south where she and her husband bought a house. Yes, she agreed, living in a small village outside of Paris is the best way to learn French. Eventually she and her husband relocated to Paris where she is leading small cheese tours and writing about cheese. I like her instantly and am looking forward to getting to know her better at Charlotte’s dinner party.
Silvie takes the lead in ordering the first round of tapas and Elizabeth chooses a bottle of white wine. The wine is poured and another ordered immediately. Silvie tells us that Gareth will be joining us. I can’t help but wonder how Gareth got included in the girls night out.
“Gareth is in town and I told him he needs to get his stuff out of my cellar since I’ll be moving soon.” Silvie has been living in her ex-husband’s old apartment and since he’s moving to the South soon, she will have to move as well. “I helped him load it into a taxi and he’s unloading it into someone else’s cellar. Then he will join us.”
Everyone seems fine with it so who am I to bicker. Another bottle of wine is ordered, along with a second course of tapas. The razor clams are deemed too sandy to be eaten and are sent back. The waitress is unapologetic but takes them. The aubergine is delicious. If I could return, I would make a meal of the aubergine, the squid and a couple of Barbes Noires. In fact, I think I will! Another bottle of wine is ordered.
Gareth blows in. He is very tall, Finnish and flamboyantly gay. He immediately declares that he and I will be very good friends. He tells me about going back and forth between Paris and Finland, and about the new guy he’s fallen for. He tells me I’m beautiful and that he knows I’ve got an amazing sense of humor. He guesses my age, subtracting sixteen years. Why is it always the gay guys who get me? Then he tells me I absolutely have to get some Louboutins. Maybe he doesn’t get me. No way I’m spending hundreds of Euros on shoes with red soles and five inch heels.
At 9:30 the restaurant is absolutely packed. It seems impossible for the servers to navigate between tables. The guy behind me is smashed up against my chair. People ebb into and out of the restaurant to take smoke breaks. The sidewalk in front is jammed with smokers. Nobody (other than our table) seems to be over 40. Another bottle of wine is ordered.
Gareth tells me about his accident last year when he fell down a flight of stairs and was in a coma for eleven days. (Aha! Maybe that’s why he took sixteen years off my age!) It is so noisy it’s hard to hear exactly what everyone is saying. Are their voices slurring, or are my ears just slurring? Another bottle of wine is ordered. Silvie explains; “They are turning people away. I offered to consolidate our table so they could take another couple of customers but they assured me we’re fine.” I cover my glass when the wine is poured. Anymore and I will be in trouble. I’m thinking it might be time to call this lovely night over. Another bottle of wine is ordered.
Suddenly the check is requested. Nobody seems sober enough to do the math. “Let’s divide it by four and let Gareth pay the tip. He didn’t eat.” someone suggests. Seems reasonable enough. 95 euros each. I think Gareth gave the prettiest waitress 20 euro. I wonder briefly if she shares it with all the others who have waited on us tonight.
Sloppy bises all around and I’m at the door to call an Uber. I don’t really remember the trip home. I see that I texted Charlotte at some point to see if she got home safely. She didn’t text me until the next day. With a headache.
La Chope
I can now see that getting together with people from the travelers’ websites is going to get old. The fact that Noelle wanted to meet in Paris should have been no surprise. That’s what she does. She travels, finds out who else will be “in town” while she’s there, and sets up meetings. She says she felt like we knew each other from the travel board. I don’t think I was particularly aware of her. I was no stranger to meeting others that way, so I agreed. When she emailed me I suggested either La Chope for some Sunday Jazz Manouche or Wednesday for the jazz dinner. She chose both.
La Chope is a fun little café in Saint Ouen, in the heart of Les Puces, the famous Paris flea markets. I took a bus and got there early to be sure to get a table. The only one available was a high table wedged into the corner between the end of the bar and a few feet from the entertainers. I actually thought it was quite nice because it wasn’t smashed against the other tables. It would be great for talking and getting to know each other.
Noelle came in and spotted me right away. “Oh no!” she groaned. “This isn’t going to work at all. If I knew this was what the seating would be like I wouldn’t have come.”
Oh no… what to do.
“Well, let me see what I can manage”. She struggled to hoist her not insignificant heft onto the chair. I offered my arm, a hand, what could I do to help? “Don’t fuss!” she snapped, “Let me do it!” I tried to adjust the table to give her more space and knocked my wine glass over; on the table and on her. Well, this is going really well.
Finally she’s perched awkwardly on her chair looking very uncomfortable, and I’ve mopped up the spilled wine and handed her some towels.
“Red or white” I ask.
“I don’t drink.”
Le sigh
I check out all of the tables occupied by people eating. There are only 4 chairs in the café that are not high chairs. A mother and daughter in two of the low chairs look like they might be ready to go. Chairs where you can put your “feet on the floor” was a requirement I didn’t know about. Within ten minutes and some very quick moves on my part we managed to get those seats, dirty plates and all.
It took another fifteen or twenty minutes for the plates to get cleared, the small staff running ragged. Clearing the plates didn’t include wiping the table and there was an annoying blob of something in front of me. At least I wasn’t still smelling the leftover food.
I guessed Noelle to be about my mother’s age, early eighties, but my mother looks younger. She’s a retired lawyer living outside of Boston with a variety of interests; symphony music (she plays the flute), French Literature, theater and opera. She calls herself a long time Francophile and speaks pretty passable French, certainly better than I do, and she corrected me repeatedly. She has significant mobility issues so you have to hand it to her for traveling to Paris solo. Her husband chose to stay at home.
There were two young guitar players. Noelle seemed to enjoy them and we ordered lunch, grilled tuna steaks and foie gras. She said they are two of her favorite things. Things were finally looking up!
While we were eating, an obviously more professional group of performers burst into the room; two guitarists, a violist and a base player. The room was charged! They played faster and faster and louder and louder and sang together, individually and together again. A bevy of thirty and forty something women came seemingly from nowhere. They loved the group, whooping and hollering and singing along. I looked at Noelle and she was loving it! I was so glad. After our poor start the day seemed to be a success!
Noelle leaned across the table to me, “I’m really enjoying this! Thank you!”
The A-Team finished and the young guys returned. We sat for awhile, talking more, gossiping a bit about other people on the travel board, about her life in Massachusetts and my decision to move to Paris. She was astonished at the progress and connections I have made. I kept reminding her that I’ve been working on this for years.
I paid the bill (I especially can’t keep paying the tab for all these visitors to Paris!) and we agreed to try to share an Uber. Her controlling and impatient side came back.
“Let’s just put your address in and then ask him to drop me off enroute.”
She wasn’t having it. “There’s a way to do this” she snapped. Ultimately she put in my address and then asked the driver if she could add another. “Pas de problème” he assured her.
I always get a little cranky when someone doesn’t pay attention to the sc
enery we pass, especially in Paris! We arrived at chez moi, dumped me off with her hardly noticing. She was busy figuring out the Uber app. But we would see each other in three days, at GCA for jazz.
Again I arrived early and got my regular table. By now Noelle and I are old friends. She talked a lot about her life, college, law school, a summer in Colorado, meeting her husband, Woodstock.” She loves Paris because “people like you and me, we are both the same age and size and we are invisible.”
What?! This woman is my mother’s age and half again my size!
“Not so in Paris.” She baffled me. One of us doesn’t have an accurate view of ourselves. I caught my reflection in the mirrored glass across the room. It wasn’t me. I was sure of it. She definitely has moxie and not a shred of self-effacement. Maybe it’s an East Coast thing.
I’m getting weary of this getting together with online people. But unfortunately there are two more coming up.
The Dinner Party
I’ve looked forward to the dinner party for months. Charlotte said she wanted to give a dinner party for me when I moved to Paris so I could get properly introduced to the right people. Charlotte is a busy girl. Travel plans, work, social commitments and a February detox, all got in the way, so by the time the dinner party actually happened I had met all of the participants except Elizabeth’s husband. Not to worry, I’m still really looking forward to it. I feel like it admits me to the inner circle; Charlotte, Elizabeth (and husband) and Elliott and Joan; the special friends.
Charlotte has brilliantly implemented the aforementioned Cheese Board Policy. Thierry’s recommendations “A Saint Nectaire can be nice, or Epoisse, but it’s strong, or Pont L’Evêque?” sent me to Google. Who knew they’d each have their own Wikipedia page? So I studied up. Epoisse is a nice cow cheese from the Côte-d’Or, first consumed by Louis XIV, Brillat-Savarin consecrated it the King of Cheeses in the 1800s. Saint Nectaire is another cow cheese, from the Cantal region. Looks a little blah. Pont L’Evêque cow cheese, from Normandy this time. The only thing that looks different between it and the other two is that it’s square. Next stop: Fromagerie down the street.
Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Page 9
