The terrace at Cépage was full. I grabbed a seat inside and ordered a four euro glass of red. It came with a bowl of pretzels. What a difference four blocks makes. I watched the traffic jam work its way up rue Caulaincourt, sipped my wine and chatted with the lovely staff of Cépage. At a few minutes after eight o’clock Magalie texted me, “we are in the restaurant!” Parfait!
Around the table were a big group of French people, most of whom I didn’t know. Magalie, Stephanie and Jeff sat at one end of the table. An empty seat was next to Stephanie. I introduced myself with the others who turned out to be Sebastian, Isabel, Renard, Gils and Eva. They each offered some little tidbit about themselves along with their introduction. Isabel and Gils are married and lived for five years in San Francisco where he was a Software Engineer. Eva is actually Danish but has a French boyfriend (who seems not to be present) and has two French children (who are also not present). Renard tells me that I will not be able to pronounce his name, which of course starts with the guttural “R” and laughs. Sebastian begins his long evening of annoying seduction. He is sitting next to me and can’t seem to get close enough, rubbing against me throughout the entire meal.
Suddenly there was quite a ruckus in the small restaurant when a group of Fête dignitaries made their way inside. There were half a dozen men dressed in ceremonial garb; elaborate hats, capes, sashes draped across their chests, adorned with medals, badges and epaulettes. It seems le Président de la République de Montmartre, Monsieur le Maire and their assorted henchman had chosen to eat at the same restaurant. Well done Magalie! Along with them, their wives (or mistresses) and soon their table was overflowing. Three of them chose to be seated in the three empty chairs at the end of our table. Renard and Eva bore the brunt of entertaining them. Oddly, their fare was added into ours and we included them when we split the tab!
Dinner was a lively affair, mostly in French, with some token English thrown my way. The wine flowed freely. Afterall, we were celebrating the noble grape. Because I was a relative novelty, much ado was made of my presence with lots of questions, tidbits and unexpected attention. I was well lubricated between wine with lunch, wine while waiting for dinner and wine for dinner.
Sebastian was becoming a bit annoying. He got closer when it seemed there was no room to get closer. He told me he was forty-five and not quite divorced and embroiled in a complicated relationship. (a “complicated relationship” is a huge red flag for me). It was essential, he claimed, that he gets the best out of life now because he was 45. In 20 years he will be as good as dead! Know your audience, dear Sebastian! He kept making vague references to a “French helicopter” which after about the third reference was clearly some sort of puerile reference to oral sex. It got old very fast.
I gave the last half of my plat to Sebastian, which may have been a mistake because I think he might have thought that made us a couple. Just before the dessert arrived Stephanie went to the bathroom and I took the opportunity to play musical chairs and move onto the couchee next to Magalie. Stephanie returned and somehow managed to get Sebastian’s chair next to Renard, her “best friend” (last week Stéphane was her best friend but he just moved to St. Martin so I guess best friends are a fluid thing) That left Sebastian next to me again but far enough not to effect the rubbing.
Finally it was decided that we would head to my apartment, seven doors down the street, where Stephanie and Magalie knew there was at least half a bottle of Jet 27 and a wine rack with at least a few bottles of wine! We paid the bill, a not uncomplicated process with 9 of us and 3 of the forces of la République de Montmartre, and headed out into the night, or at least navigated our way down seven doors. I was walking with Jeff when we passed Cépage and Tomas was outside. “Bon soir, Katrine!” he called out. “Do you know everyone?!” asked Jeff.
Six French people traipsed up the stairs, Sebastian got into the small elevator with me. Ugh. By the time we got to my second story apartment the windows were open and every chair was taken. I brought two more out of my bedroom and opened some more wine. Somebody brought out glasses, ice, and poured out the remaining Get 27. There was talk about going downstairs to the mini market for more but I think everyone was pretty well saturated by then.
Sebastian kept talking about French helicopters. Magalie and Sebastian hung out the window and smoked. Somewhere along the way Sebastian asked if I wouldn’t prefer to be told I love you even if it were a lie to get me into bed. I would prefer that you just go home Sebastian. The wine kept flowing. The talk kept going. How do you get people to go home once they are in your apartment? I just wanted to go to bed. Alone.
Amazingly something happened at about 3 am. Everyone jumped up to leave in unison. Of course that meant at least 10 or fifteen minutes of bises while everyone said their goodbyes. Renard hugged me, proving that French people do hug, and gave me a gift; a small magnet that commemorated La Fête 1969. “The Summer of Love!” I said, before I could catch myself. I stopped short of saying that I graduated from High School that year. He probably was born that year… or later. Sebastian pulled me into a hug and told me that he was going to be getting in touch with me so we could have some one on one time.
They all headed into the night and I turned off the lights and went to bed, breaking my rule about leaving dishes undone. Screw it. I would do them in the morning.
Les Chiens sont Rois
I don’t like dogs. You might even say I hate dogs. I suspect that I may have been mauled to death by a dog in a past life. At my throat.
I don’t want to touch dogs. I don’t like them to touch me. I hate when they jump on me with those nasty little claws of theirs, tearing snags in my stockings or my pants. I hate their drooly mouths and their stinky breaths. And those tongues. Don’t even get me started on those tongues.
So I was not happy when Stephanie et al showed up at Les Loups for our dinner with new friends with Bob in tow.
“Bob has really grown out of his bad puppy behavior!” she proudly exclaimed a couple of days before. Thank goodness. Last time he came to chez moi leaving a chewed up a slipper and a puddle on my bedroom floor I vowed it was the end of Bob’s visits to chez moi. If I hate dog drool you can imagine how I feel about anything that comes out of the other end.
I’m afraid that Stephanie is fooling herself. Bob was his old badly behaved self. He loped his way through the narrow restaurant on a very long lead. When everyone was seated he wove his way through our legs tangling everyone in his leash. His face was at table level more than it was under the table. He tried to eat from all of our plates and when he was foiled, he tried to eat from the neighboring table’s plates.
“Doucement!” cautioned Renee as she offered her salmon skin to Bob. He gulped it in one quick greedy grab. “Good dog!” she praised.
Good dog my ass!
He gobbled Magalie’s salmon skin, Renee’s vegetables, my spinach.
I’m sorry Stephanie. I love you but I hate Bob! Please leave him at home!
Things Still Happen Outside
Wednesday night. Jazz night. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks with too many people, too many lunches, too many dinners.
I feel something coming on; strep throat? tonsillitis? Something. Oh God; it’s time! I’m going to have to find a doctor. But I reached deep into the depths of me, brushed my teeth and gargled, got dressed and summoned an Uber.
Jazz night with Daniele by myself. It’s been a long time!
Philippe met me at the door with la bise, right in front of Daniele, playing his drums. He showed me to my regular “when I’m by myself table” not twelve feet from Daniele. It was very hard not to make eye contact. The restaurant was quite empty for a Wednesday jazz night. Indian summer continued to hang on, making the terrace too good to pass up for most drinkers (and smokers). Before long my second chair was snagged and taken out to the terrace. At the bar was a couple drinking beer; a fifty something man and a young Asian woman. The man
was seriously into the music. He danced on his stool and clapped wildly and off beat. At the end of each tune he shouted Bravo. His female friend seemed a bit embarrassed.
I arrived a little late so it wasn’t long before the group took its first break, Daniele stood to introduce the guitarist and bass player. The guitar player in turn introduced Daniele. The man at the bar went crazy with applause and shouts. Then Daniele headed right over to me!
He reached out to shake my hand. His hand was very sweaty. Is playing the drums a sweaty job? Or is this something I don’t know about him; he has sweaty hands?
“Votre père?” I joked.
“Désolé!” he smirked. I realized I was still holding on to his hand and quickly let go.
He asked me something in rapid fire French that went beyond “ça va.” I just stared at him. Finally I managed “En anglais s’il vous plaît?” At least I didn’t turn into the giggling fool I was last time he came to talk to me. If anything, he seemed to be the nervous one. He easily switched to English and I noticed how lovely his French accent was when he spoke English. He asked me about Vincent Bourgielle, quoting my Facebook comment to his announcement earlier in the week that Vincent would be playing with him at Pop Up Du Label.
“The most enthusiastic jazz pianist you’ve ever heard!” he quoted. “Where have you heard him?”
“Oh yes! He is wonderful!” I replied. “I heard him at Sunside. Avec Alan…..” and I couldn’t for the life of remember Alan’s last name. “An American singer, guitar player, from New York….” Was it seconds? Minutes? Hours? “Harris!”
Daniele knew of the performance, an Eddie Petersen tribute (I personally don’t know Eddie Petersen from Bob the dog) but said he didn’t know Alan. Yes! I watch someone besides you, Daniele Chandelier! I am not the complete groupie I may seem!
“He will be at the Ducs de Lombard next month,” I said. “You should go.” He looked doubtful.
“You should come to Pop Up Du Label on Tuesdays,” he suggested. “It’s mine!” Of course I’ve known about his Tuesday performances at Pop Up but I’ve never gone. It’s in the 11eme and seems like a young venue. In addition to being too far away it didn’t seem like a place I would be comfortable. Of course, look how long it took me to actually go to Le Grand Comptoir for a jazz dinner. Now I practically live there. If I added that venue to the occasional other places I watched him, and my every other week presence at GCA I would really become a groupie!
I looked at him reluctantly. “C’est trop loin. J’habite dans le dix-huitième. I don’t know,” I added. “It doesn’t really seem like my kind of place.“
“No! It’s nice!” he protested. “It’s OK, I live outside of Paris! Completely the other way!” (I didn’t know that.) “You would like it! It’s very nice. There is a restaurant with very good food, bio! You should come. It’s very nice. You would like it.”
Oh my. “D’accord!” I said. “I will try it.”
As the evening went on I realized that Philippe was giving me space; walking by, doing his little dance, winking but acceding space for Daniele. He thinks I am here for Daniele! And Daniele thinks I’m here for Philippe.
Daniele plays with great enthusiasm. He smiles at me from time to time but we don’t talk again. I get my bill from Guillaume and order an Uber. It’s one minute away when Philippe brings the cognac bottle to give me a refill. “My Uber is one minute away!” I say, slugging down the cognac. As I walk out the door he comes for la bise. I plant a single kiss firmly on his cheek. “Je t’adore!” I blurt out. He looks at me with a puzzled look and I get into my Uber.
Who am I here for? Can I be here for both of them?
And the Crazy Goes On
I just had a drive by shooting. As I wrapped up the day’s writing at Cépage, answering a couple of texts and emails, Caroleen passed my table. As she walked by she murmured “fucking bitch.” Then she actually took two steps back and hissed at me “You are going to pay for trying to smear my name.”
I was stunned. I have pretty much gotten over her nastiness and decided that yes her angst really is about jealousy. “She makes friends in five minutes!”
How is that a criticism worthy of warning my landlord? The truth is, she has no friends. It must be very frustrating for her to watch me, the new kid on the block (my block, by the way!) making so many friends. I’m sure she looks at my social media pages and realizes what a rich full life I have. She still can barely get served at Cépage and I get greeted by name and accommodated with helpful gestures to maximize my writing efforts.
It wasn’t over. Twenty minutes later she came over and completely laid into me. I am a horrible evil person! Everyone in Montmartre hates me and knows how awful I am. (ok, that should be a clue that she’s unhinged). Two men at Cépage were just talking about what a nasty person I was. I suggested she just leave me alone and I’ll leave her alone but she insisted that it was too late for that! She said I used her like I use everyone. Then she brought up Elliot and said “you buy him dinners to get him to be your friend!” I said, the only person I bought dinners for was you! And she said “we had an agreement that you would buy me drinks and dinners and I would help you out with Paris info.” (we did? And why am I even talking to her?) “You invited me for a drink that night! You had been bad mouthing me for months before that! I liked you. You betrayed me. We were friends.”
“Yes” I said, “we were friends and then I couldn’t take any more of your bigotry and racism!”
“I’m not a bigot! How dare you! You are just a pansy. You want everything to be the way you want it to be.”
Why oh why am I engaging with her? Stop! And I did.
It boggles my mind that she thinks I am the problem here. But why on earth am I giving her any mind space? Her part in this tale is over.
What would Ninon do? Nothing. Although all out warfare is tempting. I will do nothing.
J’ai le Cafard
J’ai le cafard. It’s pretty much the opposite of j’ai la pêche. The latter is a phrase I’ve taken to using when someone asks me “Ça va.” Ca va is what everybody says when they see you. Not the “comment allez-vous” that we learn in school. Literally it means. It goes. The result can be a back and forth with both people saying Ça va repeatedly. Just put a question mark on it. Just tilt your head a bit. Or perhaps blow a bit of air out the side of your lips and shrug before saying “ça va”.
One might get clever and respond “Ça va bien!” It goes well. Or if things are not going so well, “Pas mal” Not bad. That one has actually resulted in raised eyebrows and a concerned look like, well, what’s the matter? Or one might respond “Comme si comme ça”. Kind of so-so. But I like to say j’ai la pêche. I have the peach. It’s something most non French speakers don’t know so it says, I know what I’m doing! I’ve been around the block and I’m as good as French! Well. Maybe not completely. But it also says that things are great. It always elicits a chuckle and a smile and the recipient wants to know why things are so good.
For the last two days j’ai le cafard. I have the cockroach. Or what we English speakers would call the blues. I haven’t tried using it on anyone. I’m not really sure I will because it’s kind of a turn off. Nobody really wants to know why I’m blue. I don’t even know why. I just haven’t wanted to get out of bed. I certainly don’t want to get out of my pajamas, or brush my teeth, or wash my face. My hair is taking on strange shapes.
I got out of bed yesterday intending to perk myself up; to do something fun. I made pancakes. And coffee. I ate them on the couch while I watched a movie on Netflix. When the movie was over I lay on the couch and finished my book. By the time I finished the book the sun was setting and it was too cold outside to really want to do anything fun so I downloaded the next Bruno, Chief of Police, book and started it. I made some dinner but I wasn’t really hungry enough to eat. I texted a bit with Elliott. He just returned from a trip to Marseille
s and said he really likes it. I should go. I told him I wanted to. I had only been once very briefly many years ago. He said that they say it’s getting safer, friendlier, cleaner. That’s good. I remember being a bit intimidated when I was there before. But I didn’t tell Elliott. I think he prefers it intimidating.
An invitation comes from Magalie, dîner chez elle avec Sebastian, the creepy guy from dinner after the Fête des Vendanges and Eva, the nice Danish girl, who turned out to be his girlfriend! I’m not sure which is less appealing; Sebastian, the expensive Uber trip to chez Magalie or the five floors up with no elevator. Other than that, dinner with Magalie is always a really nice thing. Something keeps me from responding right away.
I put my dinner into an old ice cream container I use in place of tupperware and put it in the refrigerator. It will most likely be thrown away next week when it grows fuzz. I poured the remains of a bottle of wine into a glass and took it to the couch. I went back to Bruno. When it was reasonable to do so I went back to bed. At one thirty I popped two Tylenol PM and went to sleep, vowing to do something fun tomorrow.
What am I leaving out?
Yesterday was Tuesday. Pop Up du Label day. As soon as I woke up I looked at my phone. “Daniele C has invited you to Mardi Jazz”. Now that would certainly be a fun thing, wouldn’t it? Good food. Good music. And Daniele. The man practically begged me to go. What more do I need? What is holding me back? All day my (in)activities were punctuated with “shall I go?” And then there was the further dilemma, Daniele would be with the same trio at Chez Papa in the 5eme on Wednesday and somewhere near Jardin du Luxembourg on Thursday. And of course Wednesday was jazz night at GCA, the vocal version. So that forces the answer; am I there for Daniele or am I there for Philippe? And does either really care?
Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Page 28
