Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  I woke up this morning before ten. That was a breakthrough! Then I dawdled around with my phone. Before I knew it, it was noon and Philippe was announcing today’s menu and reminding the world that it’s Jazz night. I haven’t seen him since Friday. I wonder if he notices I’ve not been there. Daniele was announcing his gig at Chez Papa. I still have options.

  I jumped out of bed, making it up as I went so I wouldn’t be tempted to crawl back in. I headed into the bathroom, peeling off my three day old pajama wardrobe and throwing them into the washing machine. I carefully climbed into the tub. This would not be the day I slipped in the tub and cracked my head open, not to be found until Saturday by the cleaners. I scrubbed my hair and soaped every inch of my body, letting the hot water rinse away all my negativity.

  I brushed my teeth and let the electric toothbrush run through its cycle twice! I moisturized everywhere. I threw a laundry pod into the washer and turned on the machine, heading into my bedroom to dry my hair and get dressed.

  In only a few short days the weather has changed completely and I have to go into the bottom drawer to pull out a turtleneck sweater. Red. To cheer me up. Get me started. Claim my place on this planet! Let the Parisians have their black. I’m the American girl. Well, short of the MAGA cap and dreadful politics.

  I pack up my books, my computer, my bag and head to Cépage. Today’s feature is parmentier de canard, the dish named after the pharmacist who cleverly tricked the French into eating the humble potato. Bruno keeps me company while I eat my duck. I respond enthusiastically to Magalie’s invitation and send a friend request to Eva. I send a message to Philippe, “seulement moi ce soir, s’il te plaît”.

  There. Decisions made. Now I’ll research a trip to Marseilles with maybe a stop in Lyon on the way. Maybe I need a little break from Paris.

  Domestic Bliss (or not)

  Ninon kept to her commitment of never marrying but there was a period of time when she was almost as good as wed. Louis de Mornay, the Marquis de Villarceaux was the perfect match for her. He was brilliant. He was confident. He was exceedingly rich. He was handsome. He was very highly placed in Court, but Ninon was willing to overlook that one tiny fault. And he was already married, which took the problem off the table. For over five years she spent most of her time at Louis’ chateau in Meulan, only 50 kilometers from Paris but as good as light years away.

  In Meulan Ninon had everything she could wish for. She could read, write, play her lute. She had a house full of servants. She could bring anyone to her side with just a wink and a nod. The countryside was quiet. The air was fresh. Birds sang, cattle lowed, cicadas buzzed. All of the hustle and bustle of Paris seemed a million miles away. Ninon was in love. And her Marquis loved her.

  It was during this time that Ninon gave birth to a son! Louis de Mornay was a delight to both his mother and father but also the cause of conflict. The Marquis being married refused to officially recognize the child. It did not take long for Ninon to retaliate by taking refuge in Paris where the delights of her salon, her good friends, the stimulation of intellectual discourse and if truth be told, freedom from the infant, reminded the beautiful epicurean what she most valued in life.

  Sometimes the heart wants what the heart wants. Ninon’s heart was not finished wanting the Marquis. As such, she found herself pregnant yet again. She took her bloated self back to Meulan to await the birth of a second child. Sadly, after nine months of gestating, both the child and Ninon as she pondered her best future, the pregnancy ended in a stillbirth.

  The devastation brought an end to the five year love affair with de Mornay. Ninon left the Marquis, the château and the toddler, providing a financial future for him and swearing on her soul that she would never ever tell young Louis that she was his mother. This would have tragic consequences in the years to come.

  Seasons

  Only a mere month shy of the one year anniversary of my first arrival on rue Caulaincourt as an official resident. Today is the first honestly cold day. Cépage has put up the plastic walls on the terrace and turned on the heaters. Parisians are bundled in coats and scarves. The bright colors and exposed skin of Indian summer, could it have been just two short weeks ago, are gone. Everything is somber colors, the famous Parisian black. It’s really only 48 degrees Fahrenheit, not exactly what I could call coat weather and I’m wearing a sweater and silk scarf, the same wardrobe for inside and outside, but it’s only a very short walk.

  When Laurent greeted me, he asked me to feel his hands. They were cold.

  It’s Saturday lunch and the restaurant is full. The entire staff is working today and everyone except Garron is friendly to me. He hasn’t got a smile or a friendly word for me. I noticed that he got la bise from Caroleen a couple of weeks ago so I suspect that she has been turning his ear. Everyone else seems to be going out of their way to show me that I am indeed welcome and if they had to choose sides, which they clearly don’t want to do, they would choose mine. After all, she’s tried to get two of them fired and a third she’s called a terribly nasty name.

  The sidewalk in front of the florist shop is covered what I suppose are cold weather perennials. Still very colorful. In four short weeks there will be Christmas trees. And the quartier’s lights will welcome all to Montmartre with Holiday greetings! By then I dare say I will break out my puffy coat.

  The produce vendor displays persimmons, pomegranates, and pumpkins along with an assortment of late season fruits; figs, apples, oranges, pears and a couple of pineapples, front and center. I wonder where they have been shipped in from.

  Cépage is doing a brisk business from its shellfish counter displayed on the sidewalk, oysters, shrimp, lobsters and limpets. Some of the families inside order big seafood platters. Some shoppers with bags already laden with the goodies from the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker come into pay for the crustaceans that they are taking home with them. One of these guys has a pineapple poking out of the top of his bags. I wonder what his table will look like!

  It all makes me wish I like oysters. The bountiful platters that are brought to the long table next to me, a table full of celebrating young Italians, are so attractive and tempting! They taste like the sea, exclaims a friend who is a fan of the slimy little globs of … there’s no other word for it… snot! Dress it up with seaweed, add bright lemons, serve it with wonderful bread. I would rather take a slurp of the ocean. They drink bottles of Pomerol. That part looks good. Garron opens more bottles and fills their glasses. They are having fun. I stick to my French onion soup.

  Book Clubs

  Elliot and I have been tossing around the idea of a book group for months now; something small, limited to four people at most, and with a longer term duration. Years ago, he, Joan and Charlotte spent every Thursday reading the complete works of Shakespeare and discussing each over an appropriate dinner and wine.

  I suspect a weekly effort might be too much. After all, Elliott has his tribe to take care of. Maybe every other week? I’ve made a couple of recommendations but they were not to Elliot’s liking. Yesterday I suggested Proust’s seven volumes of “In Search of Lost Time”. What could be a better way for me to augment my drinking from the firehose education I’m getting about my adopted country?

  “Ha ha ha,” responds Elliott. “I haven’t read it since university days. The downside is that I don’t like reading in translation and it is pretty important when reading something as textually dense as ‘A La Recherche’ together for everyone to have the same edition to uhm, uh, be on the same page as it were. (insert winky eye emoticon). What about Madame de Stael? I’ve always meant to give her a thorough read through.”

  So off to Wikipedia I go. I have never heard of Madame de Stael.

  “Her intellectual collaboration with Benjamin Constant between 1795 and 1811 made them one of the most celebrated intellectual couples of their time. They discovered sooner than others the tyrannical character and designs of
Napoleon. In 1814 one of her contemporaries observed that “there are three great powers struggling against Napoleon for the soul of Europe: England, Russia, and Madame de Staël”. Her works, both novels and travel literature, with emphasis on passion, individuality and oppositional politics made their mark on European Romanticism.”

  Oh good grief, yet another important contributor to Literature who I know nothing about! And yet, yes, she does sound important. Especially if Elliot is willing to consider reading her in English!

  In the meantime, my efforts to understand Ninon better have me buried in Molière, Richelieu, and Cardinal Mazarin, and my online book club with the Earful Tower has me deep in reading about the German occupation during World War II. Throw in a bit of Bruno, Chief of Police in the Périgord and it’s a wonder I ever take my nose out of a book. Much less finish writing mine.

  Maybe I’ll tackle Proust on my own. In English.

  The Actor

  Jean Baptiste paced back and forth while Ninon read the latest reviews of his play. He grew increasingly impatient which irritated Ninon to the point that she tossed the pages onto the table in front of her and exhaling pointedly stared at her dear friend.

  “What did you expect, mon ami?” Ninon admonished Jean Baptiste, known to the greater Paris population only as Molière. “You are making fun of their very lives!”

  The night before the author had introduced to the public, at Le Palais Royal, his new play, L’Écoles des femmes (School for the Wives). For most of his career the author had much preferred tragedies, but his audience and his patrons made it very clear to him that they preferred his comedies. Last night’s performance was attended by the brother of the King.

  The play, with its twists and turns finds Arnolphe, the lead, played last night by the author, a man terribly awkward with women and scheming for years to see his charge, Agnès, to be raised by the nuns to grow up naive and ignorant enough to believe when she comes of age that marriage to Arnolphe is a good outcome. Of course, nothing goes that easily and nature and hormones take their own course, resulting in Agnès falling in love with Horace, a family friend and much much more appropriate husband for the young Agnès.

  Arnolphe schemes, Arnolphe lies, Arnolphe deceives only to be foiled in the end, when Agnès of course marries Horace. Who could not predict the outcome? Yet, the audience had been scandalized. Reviewers complained that Moliere had gone too far. Ninon lifted the pages again and continued to read. “Wanting in good taste, sound morality, and rules of grammar!” cried one critic. “All else aside,” wrote another, “the play is horrendously dangerous of undermining the principles of religion.”

  “And these disturb you why?” Ninon asked. “What did you expect? And more importantly, why are you concerned?”

  Molière continued his pacing. He admired Ninon above all others but like every actor and playwright, he lived for praise and positive affirmation. Maybe Madame de l’Enclos was accustomed to being roundly criticized and but the morning’s reviews were just too much for the poor aging author to take. He sunk down onto a padded stool near Ninon’s chair. Elbows on his knees, he lowered his head into his hands, burying his fingers into his thick curly hair and moaned.

  “Regardez! Look at all these raves about the work.” Ninon flipped through the pages, pointing at the positive, even glowing reviews of last night’s debut. The fact that all of Paris seemed to be talking about Molière’s most recent work, whether they were at the performance or not, was significant. That alone should have made the playwright ecstatic. After all, silence would have been a far more devastating result today.

  Moliere slowly raised his face and dropped his arms to his side. He gradually raised himself back to his feet, regaining his composure as if all of the air that had left his body had found its way back. It was still not easy for him to meet Ninon’s eye. He walked to the window and looked out onto the Square below.

  Ninon could barely hide her impatience. “Listen,” she said, “You will answer these silly claims with a follow up play.”

  The writer turned away from the window and finally met Ninon’s eye. He tilted his head, wordlessly considering the idea. His mind sped. There was nothing more for Ninon to say. Moliere was already writing his great answer to his critics in his head.

  Ninon slipped out of the room without him even noticing. An hour later, one of the maids entered the room, finding Molière continuing to pace as he formulated La Critique de L’École des femmes in his head. The maid gently steered Monsieur towards the exit, him mumbling out loud to himself as he was guided towards the door. As he walked down the cobbles below the window Ninon watched out the window.

  The Elephant and the Six Blind Men

  A group of blind men heard that a strange animal, called an elephant, had been brought to the town, but none of them were aware of its shape and form. Out of curiosity, they said: “We must inspect and know it by touch, of which we are capable.’’ So, they sought it out, and when they found it they groped about it. In the case of the first person, whose hand landed on the trunk, said “This being is like a thick snake”. For another one whose hand reached its ear, it seemed like a kind of fan. As for another person, whose hand was upon its leg, said, “the elephant is a pillar like a tree-trunk.” The blind man who placed his hand upon its side said, “elephant is a wall”. Another who felt its tail, described it as a rope. The last felt its tusk, stating the elephant is that which is hard, smooth and like a spear.

  “Oh my goodness, David Lebovitz is my favorite author! You know him?” exclaimed my new friend Neel. She’s a lovely woman visiting Paris with her husband John and introduced to me by John’s childhood friend Elliott. They were at chez moi for one of Elliot’s “I most miss tacos” Mexican feasts.

  Elliot sneers and lets out a disgusted puff of air. “I know him.” Clearly he doesn’t like him.

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “I find him incredibly pretentious. He writes about things he doesn’t understand and he passes himself off as an expert. And don’t even get me started on Peter Mayle. I’d like to assassinate him.”

  “Well, he’s already dead….” I mumble.

  Previously I had watched the man come unhinged about the movie Amélie! “It makes me furious! People think that this is Paris! It is NOT Paris.” Spittle practically flying from his mouth.

  “It is Paris.” I countered. “It’s one version of Paris. It may not be yours but it certainly is Paris on rue Lepic!”

  “Bah!” Elliott grumbled.

  Fast forward a few days and I met my fellow expat, Evelyn, for drinks after her first French class. She chose Le Bar at the Intercontinental Hotel near Palais Garnier.

  “We live in a five star bubble.” conjectured Evelyn. “We drink in luxury hotel bars. We eat at nice restaurants. We live in very nice apartments. Our bubble follows us around.” She took a sip of her 30 euro martini, Absolut vodka, three olives, not dirty.

  Well, maybe her bubble follows her around. Personally I was noticing that everyone around us was either a business traveler or a tourist. I was wishing we had opted for the cafe across the street from the Opera House where a glass of wine would have cost no more than 5 euro and the people around us more likely to be French. Even chi chi Café de la Paix would have been more authentic. Ironically Evelyn commented that a gentleman at the end of the bar was watching her. She was clearly watching him too. When we started to leave she stopped mid-step and walked back to him. “Enchantée” she said and turned and walked away. “Made his day.” she giggled. I was thinking that had she gone to the business traveler’s room and given him a magnificent blow job, THAT would have made his day. Her enchantée?

  “I’ll see you here Wednesday?” Evelyn asked as I got into my taxi to head back to rue Caulaincourt and my Paris.

  “I’m afraid I can’t make it Wednesday.” I said, my five star bubble deflating, thinking about my plans with my lovely Co
lumbian friend and how I convinced her to give my Paris, after dark, 9eme, jazz, casual dining and Philippe, a shot.

  Rive Droit vs Rive Gauche, the Marais vs the Latin Quarter, the Champs Elysee or Boulevard Saint-Germain, La Bastille vs Odeon, Jardin du Luxembourg vs the Tuileries…. Or neither! How about Square d’Anvers where you can see Sacré Coeur up the hill, just three short very touristed blocks away, but where you will only see locals, or their nannies watching the children running, jumping and climbing in the playground? Or venture down the stairway below the bust of Dalida, breasts rubbed to a shiny brass glow (why, I’m not sure) to the tiny Square Joël Le Tac, where you can watch the feisty Montremoise playing boules.

  Skip stones on Canal St. Martin (like Amélie) or sail a toy boat on the fountain in the Tuileries. Follow your toddler on a pony around Jardin du Luxembourg or take the always enjoyable Bateaux Mouches on the Seine. Find one of the iconic green chairs in the Tuileries, Parc Monceau, next to the Medici Fountain, or in Place de Vosges and read or nap or daydream.

  Take your place behind the Chinese tourists in line at Louis Vuitton where they will give you a glass of champagne while you decide which bag to buy instead of paying your mortgage this month, or see if you can get the door man at Dior on Ave Montaigne or at Chanel at Place Vendôme to unlock and let you in. Join the throngs at Galleries Lafayette or their humbler fellow shoppers across the way at H & M. Or shop for pennies on the euro at Tati in the Goutte d’Or.

  They are all Paris. Pick yours. Or pick a few.

  It’s Raining Men

  OK, what is the deal with married men in Paris? We’ve talked about the speculated statistics to death; 99% of married men cheat. I still don’t know if I agree with that number. After all, I would suggest that 99% (of married men) are not cheatable. In other words, I don’t know where they would find someone to cheat with.