Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  Thursday night I continued my post rhume re-entry into Paris life with apero and dinner of tapas with Elliott, Joan and our Brazilian friend, Joao. We met for apéro at a newly opened hotel with a lovely inside courtyard terrace in the 9th. Elliott and I got there about half an hour before everyone else and had lots of time to chat. I forgot how great Elliott is at chatting. Although he definitely has his biases (the Champs Elysées and Avenue Montaigne are both truly a waste of space but these little neighborhoods in the 9th are fantastic), I do learn a tremendous amount from him. His references to authors and books alone are worth the effort of sorting through the vast volumes of Elliott’s opinions. I am tremendously grateful for this friendship.

  Besides, where else would I have learned about Le Petit Barcelone? Elliott calls it the one good Spanish restaurant in Paris (but then he says only one in ten Spanish restaurants in Spain are good). Definitely dive-restaurantish, the hole in the wall place on a tiny side street of the very diverse 9ème was a place you’d have to know to visit. The four of us ordered a vast assortment of tapas for partager. Or rather, Elliott ordered a vast assortment of tapas, with Joan reminding him what he did and didn’t like. But that is always the right way to go. Say what you will, but Elliott knows his food. My only request was the squid. I’m surely glad that Elliott had the foresight to order the padron peppers. I may go back myself just for the squid and the padron peppers! And maybe those little sausages on a stick. Of course, the wine flowed generously. And the conversation! We talked about bullfights and bullfighters (something that put a spark in Joan’s previously unsparked eyes) which led to Hemingway and then F. Scott Fitzgerald and reading Gatsby out loud (the only way)... twice. I think we even halfway agreed to take a trip to Arles next April to watch the bullfights in the ancient Roman amphitheater. We talked about potential vacation spots, where to buy the best house outside of Paris so you can get away for weekends, but not be completely overwhelmed by the nightmare of the weekly commute. (Hmm, maybe I should buy a house outside of Paris…) And we gossiped. I love gossiping. I love having smart, interesting friends in Paris. I love long evenings and café life in Paris.

  I dragged my almost not rheumy, definitely inebriated self to the spot where Elliott had arranged to meet the Chauffeur Prive driver (another one of his weird biases.. why not just ask him to come where we are? We quick-stepped three blocks to where he was impatiently waiting… well everyone else quick-stepped, I wobbled a bit drunkenly and definitely mindful of the cobbles in this ancient sentiere.) We again negotiated with the driver about a second drop off location. Elliott again had a confrontational conversation in rapid fire French about dropping Madame off at a second location. I again tipped the annoyed driver 5 euro. A successful and fun night.

  Next up - Le Bal des Pompiers! Why do Firemen have bigger balls than Policemen? They sell more tickets of course! Traditionally, on July 13th and 14th, in conjunction with the National Holiday, the fire stations of Paris open their doors to the public and host the Bal des Pompiers. My French friends Stephanie and Magalie texted me: come on Friday for apéro at 7 pm and then we will go to the Bal des Pompiers in the 18ème. Bring a bottle of bubbles and something to eat. It is a “good atmosphere”.

  Still rheumy I drag my sniffy self to my local cave to get a bottle of the champagne Monsieur Vincent was telling me about on the last visit. I picked up two and popped them in the fridge to cool. To satisfy the request for “something to eat” I stopped at the fromagerie and picked up my favorite Brillat-Savarin. I’ve yet to find anyone who didn’t swoon over the truffle-infused brie. So so good.

  Elliott had warned me about the tradition of les Bal de Pompiers. Originally, he said, introduced to recognize the contribution of the firefighters in France, and a coming together of community, old and young, it had recently and sadly transitioned into a rowdy party for the younger crowd. “Go early” he advised, to see the neighborhood locals and to buy your tickets for the drawings. Furthermore, “the pompiers are all extremely handsome and it is a tradition for them to get some action in the shadows of the fire station during the night.” Of course, this means some level of willing participation on the part of the women of the sentiere, anxious to participate in that action.

  Wait a minute, are there no female pompières? Of course, that sends me to my friend Mr. Google who tells me that since including women in their numbers, less than 5% of today’s firefighters in Paris are female! I hope they are getting a piece of the action!

  Of course we are well lubricated by the time we walked the block and a half from Stephanie’s apartment to the firehouse (thank GOD she is well protected!) and there is already a rowdy and jovial crowd. Elliott’s right; the music is definitely geared toward the younger crowd. It feels a bit like the parties I went to in college. And Elliott’s also right; there’s nowhere to sit. My sick and slightly drunk self is desperate for a place to light. Before long I run into Caroleen and F. Then into a couple other of my expat friends. I’m amazed that in such a short time I’ve become a part of the Paris scene. Or at least the scene of Montmartre.

  I’ve tasted the infamous Firemen’s Ball and I’m ready to go home. I make my excuses to Magalie and Stephanie and head towards chez moi; just three blocks and the 105 stair steps between rue Lamarck and rue Caulaincourt... or another couple of blocks and stair 43 steps plus 400 meters. Not a big deal, unless you’re crippled with a summer cold.

  July 14th dawns clear and sunny - unfortunately my head not so much. I really need to think about drinking less. I spend about half a minute worrying about what mon foie may be looking like these days. The cleaners are coming today so I have to go somewhere by noon. I drag myself into the kitchen and make fresh coffee in my French press. While it’s “brewing” I wash the three or four dishes that are still in the sink from yesterday. There is absolutely no activity on rue Caulaincourt. The buses seem to be running toward the marie but nothing is arriving in the other direction, towards the Seine. All of this morning’s activity centers around the Champs Elysées, a massive military parade and the spectacular aerial flyover the Arc de Triomphe with the red white and blue smoke trail. A tiny part of me wishes that I were not averse to crowds and could catch a view of it all just once in person. Naaah, I will watch it on TV.

  Clearly a good decision. I watch President Macron driven from the Elysée Palace up the famous boulevard and back down to his viewing station at Place de la Concorde. I see close up while he greets each of the many different branches of the military’s leaders. I note the intimacy with which he shakes their hands, makes almost intimate eye contact, then grips their arm or hand with his second hand. I make a mental note how genuine and effective it seems.

  The endless stream of military and police cadres who parade in front of the President is impressive. I can only imagine that last year, when the (#notmypresident) leader of the US sat beside Macron for the parade, he had to be wetting his pants for something so extravagant.

  I’m torn. Do I want to watch this extravaganza in person or am I better off viewing it all on TV? I head to Le Cépage for un cafe crème before taking an Uber to GCA to do a bit of work. It’s so tranquille. Even though the terrace is crowded with Montmartrois it is nothing like what I imagine the crowds on the Champs Elysées to be. I got to see everything on TV. I would have seen a small slice of the action in person. And yet, when a friend posts a video of the dramatic red, blue and white fly over, I feel like maybe I made the wrong decision.

  I worked at GCA for several hours, enjoyed maybe the best meal I’ve had to date for lunch; dorade and grilled courgette with a bottle of rosé. I rave effusively about the courgette and dorade which seems to make Philippe extremely happy. Is he insecure about my impressions about GCA? I rave on social media about other working lunches (and the beau patrons). Am I not effusive enough about him? Am I so invested in working when I’m at GCA that I don’t appear to be interested? Does he have any idea how much of my time spent at GCA is about hi
m? He puffs up his chest and grunts something to the effect that he was involved in the decision to put this combination together. I’m very happy to have made him feel this good. Note to self: more compliments. A nearby table wants to know about caviar d’aubergine. He asks me to translate. Eggplant, I say. “Eggplant?!” He’s learned a new English word today.

  The remaining challenge of the National Holiday… les feux d’artifice. The fireworks. Last year Christine and I watched from L’Oiseau Blanc. They are advertising the dinner for a mere 575 euro per person, excluding alcohol. It was a once in a lifetime experience. Last year was the once. As tempted as I am to inquire whether they still have a table for one, 575 euro (sans alcool) is a lot of money! It is spectacular. Fireworks shoot from the structure of the Eiffel Tower. But I think my once in a lifetime was last year. I can see the very top of the tower from the bench on rue Caulaincourt just half a block up from the Terrass Hotel (where they offer dinner for 275 euro sans alcool) . It’s only about six inches of Eiffel Tower. For some reason six inches come to mind, although it’s probably some 75 meters of Eiffel Tower) but maybe some of the feux d’artifice will show. And then it will be an easy 400 meter walk back to chez moi. Or I could watch on TV. And see the whole thing. Free.

  Girls in Short Shorts

  In the winter the French are so wrapped in clothing that there is barely an inch of skin that shows. They wrap massive scarves, nay - blanket themselves - in wool and fabric. But come summer, skin is the word of the day. I am working in GCA, watching the girls come and go. As does Guilaume, and I dare say Philippe. Shorts. She bends over to retrieve her purse and her butt cheeks show at the bottom of her very short shorts. Both of them look.

  We Are the Champions of the World

  France has won the World Cup. Cue Queen and put the tune on replay (and replay and replay and replay). The City has gone mad.

  I am sad that I care about this so much. But I’m happy that they won because I know that it makes Philippe so happy. “Demain est la fête” he said when I wished him bonne fête on the National Holiday. “Tu espères” was my response.

  But Paris, and probably all of France, cares about it in an insane way. Every café and every restaurant on every street in Paris is jam packed with celebrants. What if they lose, I wonder? How will the French react?

  I chose to watch alone, from home, although options abound. I somehow felt that the stress of the event and the potential disappointment in the case of loss, was something I preferred to face alone. I did however open my windows to the cheers and honking of the celebrants on rue Caulaincourt.

  And they were plentiful! Oddly there was absolutely no vehicle traffic on the street. No buses came and went, no trucks double parked to discharge their goods to the local shops. Other than the big crowds that gathered in front of Nepo’s, Les Loups and Le Cépage, the street was eerily quiet.

  I’ve learned a lot about soccer in the last week, having watched my first and only three games. First of all, I’ve learned it’s both stressful and boring. Unlike American football and baseball, where your team actually gets it’s “ups” or controls the direction of the game, the ball just gets kicked, headbutted and bopped about endlessly with nobody really seeming to be in control. The first two games that I watched each had one goal apiece. So in 90 minutes, plus some unexplainable extra minutes tacked on to the end, athletes ran around a massive field and tried to move the ball into the other team’s goal. Boring but oddly stressful.

  France’s first goal came on a penalty against the other team. Evidently the Croatian teammate pushed, kicked or touched the French guy in some inappropriate manner. The French fans (and my neighborhood) went wild. The referee took a break on the sidelines while he reviewed the action on a laptop for several minutes. Yes, it seemed he had been fouled. The French player had an opportunity to kick the ball into the goal, guarded only by the Croatian goalie. Score!

  The neighborhood went nuts. Suddenly there was moto traffic on the street, blaring their horns, waving their flags (hey, where are their helmets and why are there three people on that moto?) The fans at all three cafés went wild. They jumped and shouted and sang in the street.

  Just minutes later Croatia scored an actual goal. Silence! I have to admit, I felt a bit good for Croatia. Afterall, I have Croatian friends, and they are clearly the underdog here. And my friend’s friend skipped his own wedding for this event! But at the same time, I was sweating and anxious and fearful that Croatia might actually win!

  Another goal by France left a margin of comfort at halftime (I presume that’s what happened at 45 minutes into the game when both teams took a break and the advertisements took over). I checked social media and indeed it was full of posts that France was leading at halftime.

  I poured a glass of wine.

  In the next 45 minutes (plus 5 mysterious minutes) France scored two more goals, each to the absolute delight of my neighborhood. And with some time to spare, Croatia countered with another goal. Very respectable effort on the part of the Croats! And possibly worth missing one’s wedding for. The extra five minutes passed in an excruciating 300 seconds and it was over. In Moscow, where the game was played, Macron leaped in the air, a moment that was caught on film for the enjoyment of millions of French and all the citizens of the world. The French team leapt onto the field in a massive dogpile and rue Caulaincourt erupted. Red, white and blue smoke filled the street. Horns blared (for the next twelve hours). Blue, white and red conga lines snaked up and down the rue for hours. Flags flew everywhere. People say that you can tell the French by the black clothing they wear. Not on this day. Everyone is dressed in red or blue. Everyone has the French flag painted on their body. Everyone waves a French flag, or wears a French flag, or sings La Marseillaise!

  I wonder if the street is blocked. There are no cars for hours (but there are motos; honking incessantly) Rue Caulaincourt is a river of people coming from up the hill; singing, dancing, shouting, waving flags. Where are they all coming from? That’s when I realize that every cafe and bar and restaurant in Paris is filled with people celebrating France’s victory at this moment. Rue Caulaincourt is just a small representation of what’s happening at Place du Tertre, Rue des Abbesses, Avenue Trudaine… and that’s only my small part of Paris! The Champs Elysées is one massive swarming mass of humankind. On the Champs de Mars people have been picnicking all day, their spots claimed for watching the game on the massive screen. The same thing with the Esplanade des Invalides, La Bastille and Place de la République, every little rue and boulevard in the 10th and 11th lined by trendy bars and bistros; they were all teeming with people insanely happy and celebrating France’s 20 year return of the World Cup trophy. People were leaping into Canal St. Martin. People were climbing the lamp posts and news kiosks. People just jumped up and down. For hours. And hours. And hours.

  I went to bed at midnight. At 3 am I woke to honking. What is even open at 3 am? Evidently nothing has to be open to honk one’s horn.

  I sensed that I was awake. I didn’t really want to open my eyes but I sneaked a peek to see how much sunlight there was, a sure clue to the time. Hmm, I guessed, 7:50? Sure enough it was very close to 8 am, my usual time to wake up these days that I didn’t have to be sitting in my Silicon Valley office by 7 am. lt was eerily quiet. I look out the window onto rue Caulaincourt. One woman walks a dog. One jogger runs by. Not a car. Not a sound. The produce man hasn’t pulled open his sheet metal door yet. It’s Monday. Most of the shops on rue Caulaincourt are closed on Monday but today is eerily quiet. I rather suspect most Parisians are calling in sick today!

  I go into the kitchen to make coffee. While I wait for the kettle to boil so I can add the water to my French press I check my phone. Social Media tells me the French team is coming home today. The parade on the Champs Elysées will begin at 5:30 PM. The following metro stations will be closed while hundreds of thousands line the world’s most famous boulevard…

 
I am meeting Charlotte for dinner at 8. Will I be able to get there? Once again #youcantgettherefromhere.

  Maybe tomorrow things will again be normal.

  You’ll Get What You Get

  When you get it, you’ll like it. Or you’ll go somewhere else. And I say this with love. The French really don’t want my feedback (or anyone else’s from what I can tell.)

  For the last few years I’ve really been wearing rose colored glasses with respect to the stereotype of the rude French. I’ve argued that nearly everyone I’ve met has been lovely. The exceptions might be places that are primarily populated by tourists; the Jules Verne, very expensive Michelin starred restaurant that Alain Ducasse just got booted out of, any restaurant facing the river and especially those with a view of the Eiffel Tower, any restaurant on rue Hachette. But even as I list these I can think of more exceptions than rude culprits. Thierry’s tiny restaurant on Quai de la Tournelle faced the river and had a lovely view of the flying buttresses of Notre Dame. He and his staff were absolutely lovely to me. Service at some of the especially great places I’ve been; L’Oiseau Blanc atop the Paris Peninsula Hotel with it’s glorious view of the Eiffel Tower, Sacré-Coeur and the rooftops of Paris, Les Ombres, L’Ami Jean, La Scène Thélème… all top notch eateries, some with Michelin stars, all with plenty of people traveling specifically to experience their fare, and all extremely kind and gracious.

  As I get to the small bistros and restaurants in my local area it is even more the case of friendly service and helpful staff. The longer I am here, and the more I am accepted as a part of the neighborhood, it’s as if I’m a part of the family. Even the manager that Caroleen tagged “the evil faggot” greeted me warmly and asked how I was, moving a second table close to mine to accommodate my laptop, wine, salade nicoise, and water. This is the guy who turned off the wifi when he’d had enough of Caroleen. Clearly the key is it pays to treat people how you want to be treated.