Dr. Bob in Paris

No doubt suffering from serious jetlag, Dr. Bob and Carole arrived at Astier one evening earlier than our scheduled dinner with M, the Berlin connection. After notifying them of their error, the always charming maitre’d/manager, Robert, escorted them to a terrace table and poured two complimentary flutes of champagne.

Dinner, the ensuing evening, was gastronomically splendid and delightfully convivial. The recent lovers hadn’t seen each other since high school and told of their reconnection with joy. As a grand finale to the evening Robert walked us next door for a preview of Jeannette Astier, the epicerie, traiteur, that will be opening in September 2010. A bas Armagnac helped us appreciate te work in progress.

Serendipity in Paris

Fernand Braudel in his book “Civilization & Capitalism from the 15th to the 18th century” wrote “All thought draws life from contacts and exchanges”. Over the years I have experienced the truth of this in many ways through people I have met. I am a great believer in “serendipity” that wonderful word coined by the 18th century English dilettante Horace Walpole. So it was that on a recent visit to Paris that serendipity struck again and I met Terrance Gelenter.

Having just received my PhD for my thesis on the 19th century English lawyer and Positivist Vernon Lushington, I was in Paris to visit le Musee d’Auguste Comte to present a copy of my thesis in acknowledgement of the help I had received in my journey to understanding Comte, Positivism and his remarkable and bizarre “Religion of Humanity”. I have to say that there was a secondary reason for the visit - that being the lure of the annual Comte prize for a completed thesis related to Positivism!

After presenting my thesis and spending an enjoyable hour or so discussing my work and Lushington’s role as a propagandist for Comte amongst the elite of the British “intellectual aristocracy”, I found myself with a few hours to spare before I needed to be the Gare du Nord for my return to London.

Midday was fast approaching and I needed to attend to the requirements of the inner man. I was on the left bank with all its literary associations and, on looking at my guide book, found that I was but a short distance from Café De Flore famed for its artistic and literary connections. Here, so the guidebook said, writers would come to relax after meetings with their publishers. Jean-Paul Satre and Simone de Beauvoir would meet here to discuss their philosophy of existentialism over  a drink.

Here then I thought was the place for me to lunch even though the guide warned of it being a bit pricey. I felt in need of the atmosphere and, more practically, the air-conditioning that was offered on the first floor.

On my arrival at the renowned Café, with its classic Art Deco interior which has changed little since World War II, I found the downstairs crowded and noisy and so headed for the first floor with its air-conditioning. Here was a haven of quiet with just one other table occupied by three people in deep discussion (a literary meeting perhaps?). A quick read of the menu led me to an ‘Omelette jambon ou fromage”. But I also needed my morning caffeine intake.

Two men ascended the stairs deep in discussion – one smartly dressed in a grey suit – the other looking – well - er – shall we say “casual”. The man in the suit turned out to be the manager but he was still happy to take my order. But there was a problem with the all the important coffee – I wanted an Americano with warm milk on the side. This is where the casually dressed man came to rescue with his broad Brooklyn accent, rescuing me from my appalling lack of French.  You’ve guessed, it was Terrance Gelenter, organising the launch of his book “From Bagels to Brioches”.

In what I now understand as typical Terrance fashion, he introduced himself and said that he would like to join me for coffee. Having completed his negotiations with the Manager, Terrance told me of his book launch and, of course, he just happened to have a copy with him, so how could resist purchasing this as a reward for his having made certain that my coffee was as I wished.

Terrance and I then enjoyed one of those serendipitous moments of enquiring and stimulating conversation as I shared with him my interest in Comte, my work and my life. (It really is amazing what can be covered in the short space of an hour!). Terrance in his own inimitable way told me about himself, his life, his work and how he came to Paris. I have to complain though that I did not have his full attention as any attractive female who happened to ascend the stairs to make use of the “facilities” was greeted by Terrance with a smile or a word of greeting!

So it was that I met Terrance Gelenter and left Café De Flore having filled both my stomach and my soul with good food and good conversation and clutching a book for me to read on the return journey. I have to admit that I am only half way through the book having succumbed to sleep on the train (a result of the lunch and not the book, I hasten to add.) What I have read thus far I have greatly enjoyed. Terrance’s book would do well on the radio –with Terrance reading it of course!

So serendipity led me to Café De Flore where “contacts and exchanges” stimulated new thoughts and secured a new friend who I will certainly look up on my next visit to Paris.

David Taylor , Surrey, England

***

M, the Berlin connection, and I were wandering in her hood looking for a drink and stumbled (bad choice of word) found, par hasard, the bar of the recently refurbished, chic, Hotel Banville



Chanteuse Mariane Moreau, the owner, turns Tuesday evening into an intimate musical soiree featuring jazz and great French Classics, accompanied by pianist Frank Monbaylet. With a little encouragement I was persuaded to sing a few songs.

***
Speaking of bagels and to prepare you for from Bagels to Brioches I recommend the best bagels in Paris. Truly par hasard SCOOP was out of hamburger buns and substituted a fabulous, crunchy poppy seed bagel that I thought to be unattainable in Paris. Sometimes it’s nice to be wrong.

Now, with a little lox (saumon fumé) in France, sliced red onion, sliced ripe tomato and crème fraiche (cream cheese is too expensive) the opening chapters will fly by.

***
I was looking for shelter from the rain and an after dinner drink when I heard music wafting out of the Café des Beaux Arts .  Manu, Manu, a guitar duo influenced by Wes Montgomery were quite good and I settled in with a Jack Daniels and listened to a set–
Wednesday nights.

Two Gentlemen from Brooklyn

In my par hasard world It shouldn’t come as a surprise that David Abramovitz, the pianist performing an homage to Chopin at the Vichy Opéra and my fellow dinner guest, compliments of Diane Polya, the Artistic Director, would also be from Brooklyn. Not just Brooklyn but my Flatbush neighborhood in the very same era.

Always be Marketing

I have been given your name by Norma Mouser, the owner of Travel Options for whom I work.  She met you last summer (time frame may be incorrect) in the Metro while you were giving travel advice to several people.  She thought you so knowledgeable;

Madame aux Cerises

I was cooling off at Le Nemrod with a rosé de Touraine when I saw her approaching from across the street. Tall, black hair, brown eyes, bronzed skin, wearing a navy blue, sleeveless, cotton dress, she scanned the terrace, took a seat to my left and opened a book,

MELNITZ, an award-winning novel by Charles Lewinsky had been translated into French and being a literary guy it was a good conversation starter.

Thinking her to be Italian I employed my limited vocabulary but I had guessed wrong. Coquettishly she refused to confess to a national origin until I had, in French, navigated the map in my minds eye eventually alighting at Dubrovnik.

After identifying the ring on her left hand as being more than a way to discourage window shoppers we settled in for a lovely chat. 

After switching to Perrier after a pression she darted across the street to the primeur and returned with a bag containing two varieties of cherry.

We never did exchange names and after smiling adieus she went off to tell her husband of the day’s adventure but for me she will always be Madame aux Cerises.

The Book

The Early reviews are in:

Regular recipients of  Terrance Gelenter’s  Paris Through Expatriate Eyes newsletter are familiar with “Paris par hasard;”  each column whisks the reader to a different part of the city, often beginning  at Les Deux Magots and then on to an adventurous chance  meeting or private tete a tete in another arrondissement. Whether the adventure is culinary, flirtatious, or the convivial meeting of old and new friends, one is presented with a peek at a previously unknown sliver of the City of Light, or becomes reacquainted one’s own memories of past visits.

Terrance’s new book, From Bagels to Brioches – Paris par hasard also offers insights, this time into the life of the author himself.  Gelenter’s past is as varied and fascinating as the man himself today. Who could envision that the child born in Monongahela, PA,  or the little boy who sat “on the porch in summer sipping lemonade” would one day become one of the foremost expatriate guides to Paris?

The reader is guided through the author’s anything-but-normal childhood, his entry into young adulthood with a number of careers, a marriage and family, and ultimately to the beginnings of the idea which facilitated his drive to become a true Parisian – Paris Through Expatriate Eyes.

The autobiography is marked with  humor and humanity, but with loss and acceptance as well. Frankly, it was difficult for this reviewer to read of  the child often passed among relatives, however kind and loving.  But the author remembers only the good he found in everyone, and shares his joy in reconnecting today with the family of his past.

The narrative is also punctuated by personal favorites and passions of Gelenter – films, French coffee, bistros and cafes, and of course the remarkable people whom he calls his friends, acquaintances and companions today.

From Bagels to Brioches – Paris par hasard is an entertaining  look at the author and his vision, and at the Paris he has created for himself and others. It is a book not quickly forgotten.

Joe Fama

Are you ready for a whirlwind trip through the 1950's complete with East Coast and Brooklyn nostalgia?  Well, hold on, because it doesn't stop there.  Get ready for an even faster ride that will take you back to the 1920's and '30's in Paris right up to the present day.  All this though the fast paced memoir Bagels to Brioche, Paris par hasard, by Terrance Gelenter.  Enjoy the experiences and exploits of Terrance as he takes you along his magical mystery ride and his love of life and Paris by recounting his experiences in the City of Light (and love - a la Terrance). 
Stan Hays, San Francisco

I was impressed with the vivid descriptions, the scenes you created, the food, wine and colorful scenarios you painted really came alive on those pages.
Jeff Warren, Mill Valley

After a mic test-I sang FLY ME TO THE MOON, and a promise not to bore my readers by reading from the book, I did just that and it worked.

The initial print run of the Author’s Collector’s Edition replete with typos and sans photos was sold out. The luxury first edition will be available on Sept 1 in time for the Paris launch. If you plan to be in Paris watch the newsletter for details about the launch party.
If not place your order now for a signed first edition
20 euros including shipping and handling.

Uncle Bill

There are many personal pleasures to be derived from writing a book beginning with the pure satisfaction of the completion of the project. I knew I could write 500 - 750 word essays and punchy film reviews with flair and humor but the idea of sustaining a sixty-thousand word narrative was intimidating.

Until my friend John Baxter supplied the key: examine my own life and the roads that led to Paris, I was very un-Confucian and could never get beyond that first step. Then it flowed at the rate of a thousand words per day.

As I reached back in time to remember my childhood I found myself feeling more compassionate towards my mother and biological father, assisted by the rediscovery of my Uncle Bill, the youngest of my father’s brothers whom I hadn’t seen in forty-three years.

In an effort to get on with my life and my new identity I had stopped communicating, but memories were resurrected and I located my Uncle Raymond Evans in Monongahela, PA. He was eighty-two and married to Palmira - unlikely to be two Palmira Evans in a town of fewer than nine thousand persons. Feeling embarrassed and guilty, my letter asked for a new chance; I was prepared to understand if they wished no further contact.

Happily I received an overwhelmingly enthusiastic response beginning with an email from Uncle Billy in Scottsdale. Over the next two weeks we Skyped, emailed, swapped photos and he and Pat made arrangements to fly to San Francisco where I would be celebrating my son’s fortieth birthday and the launch of this book.

We had seen each other on Skype and had begun to reacquaint but the hug and kiss when we met was very moving. My first observation - filtered through my potent memory of his adolescence and my pre-school years - was that he had shrunk; however, it was just his hair. The four-inch pompadour was gone and I had caught up and passed him in height.

Over the next four days we celebrated my birthday with my ex (who couldn’t resist reprimanding me for not staying in touch; somewhere in the divorce decree she retained the right to berate me for past behaviors in perpetuity) and hoisted brews with my son who had an instant rapport with his new uncle.  On Sunday in the garden of my friend Read Adams, whose son Sturdy provided an Oscar Peterson-like musical accompaniment, we shared the overwhelming support for my book that friends and readers gathered to give me.

My pleasure in welcoming Bill to the stage for an intro and hug left me speechless.

22 June-28

It’s Good to be a Writer

22 June
Off to California for my son’s 40th and a soft launch of my memoir PARIS PAR HASARD: from BAGELS TO BRIOCHES.

I had stuffed 70 books into my luggage. I was seriously overweight and the penalty was big-time to play Luggage Roulette.

I approached Sylvie at check-in and immediately put my cards on the table hoping that I could charm my way to a reduced charge. Twenty minutes later with the cooperation of a supervisor and a colleague my bag cleared for a modest $50.

My New York contact had requested an upgrade and during the negotiation Sylvie had identified me to the gate as un homme très important improving the odds of a biz class seat.

I may be new to the self-publishing biz but I’m an old hand at self-promotion. During superb champagne-filled service in the forward cabin I had positioned the book cover in the seat pocket in front of me. My steward Philippe was attracted to the Hebraic fonts of Bagels and finally inquired. He bought a copy to be paid for with wine when he next gets to Paris.

I was stuck in steerage on the JFK-SFO segment and once again my book caught the attention of my flight attendant who recognized me from the cover and offered to buy a book. After comping me a sandwich, champagne and red wine ($24 value) I couldn’t take her money and dedicated a copy to her.

24 June

After all those Years
43 to be exact since I had last seen Uncle Billy. We were about to be reunited to celebrate my son’s 40th and my book launch.

We had seen each other on Skype and had begun to reacquaint but the hug and kiss was moving. My first observation filtered through my potent memory of his adolescence and my pre-school years was that he had shrunk, however it was just his hair. The 4” pompadour was gone and I had caught up and passed him in height. Lot’s more to come in the next edition of PARIS PAR HASARD: FROM BAGELS TO BRIOCHES.

Musings from the City of Light 15 June-21 June

Everywhere I turn there’s Carolyn Burke, par hasard. Two years ago walking past the ground floor window of my Marais apartment, last year sitting across from me on the Metro and this year walking on the Blvd. Montaparnasse.

And here she is chatting with guests while Alan Riding chat’s with Irene Nemirovsky’s biographer, Olivier Philipponat. Also on hand were authors, Mary Duncan, Hilary Kaiser, Naomi Barry and journalist and all around great gal Betty Werther.
 
• • •

Wondering whatever happened to Armand Assante. At Les Deux Magots or he has a doppleganger.

Until next week from San Francisco...




musical musings from the City of Light

En route to Meredith Mullins’ vernissage for her photography students at the Greenlane Gallery I was stopped on the terrace of Le Flore by Albert Nahmias. After a glass of a white from Domaine Ott and introductions to long time TV host Paul, journalist Yves and Marie from Christian Dior I was on my way.
•••

The gallery was mobbed so I grabbed a glass of wine and ran into Parisian pals Susan R, James Kigin, Heather Stimmler-Hall, Betsy A. and Teresa Teague from Springfield, MO.
•••

I had promised visiting pianist Sheldon Forrest that I would join him at the Swan Bar for a few songs. Betsy knew the owner and joined me. There we were greeted by Lionel with glasses of red. Moments later Sheldon arrived and I did three songs before saying bon nuit. (actually it was 1AM.)
•••

I was hoping to make it to bed by 1:20 but as I attempted to slink past le Bistro Landais, up the street from my apartment, Richard bounced out from behind the bar and offered me a glass of wine and coaxed me into singing a song for the seven guests on the terrace.

I may never get any sleep.

Until next week…

musings from the City of Light

I was working the New York Times crossword puzzle at my new morning hang, the Bar de la Marché, when a slim gent sat next to me and inquired: “Are you Terrance Gelenter? I read your newsletter.” There being no outstanding warrants for my arrest in any of the forty-eight contiguous United States I nodded in the affirmative.

David is a photographer with his own gallery in New Orleans who has published two books: KATRINAVILLE CHRONICLES and SOUTHERN WRITERS.

And for a dash of lagniappe he is the son-in-law of former New Orleans mayor “Moon” Landrieu.
                       • • •
It was New Orleans week as I spent a delightful day with Jack Hopke, the local producer/announcer for National Public Radio’s ALL THINGS CONSIDERED and his wife Barbara Siede, a medical illustrator with an engaging smile and an easy laugh.

A fellow Brooklynois, jazz DJ, Brooklyn Dodger fan and Doo-Wop singer we had much to talk about including MY Paris.

Trois fois, Trois verres

I had time to kill before my 2:45 meeting and plopped down on a bench on Blvd. Saint-Germain to work the NY Times crossword puzzle in today’s International Herald Tribune. Five minutes later I lifted my head to visually connect a clue to a word and found myself being smiled at by a tall, long-legged blonde in black pants “up to here” and a black leather blouson.

Appreciative but curious I asked if we knew each other. We did. About one month ago, on a Saturday morning, I was leaving the Belgian home design store FLAMANT as Anne was entering. We bantered a bit and went our separate ways. A few days later I was entering Le Flore and she was leaving.

Although she lives in the Perigord where she operates a B & B from a small chateau surrounded by a moat and is rarely in Paris we had managed to meet three times, par hasard. This called for un verre and off we went to Le Danton at Metro: Odéon for what turned out to be 2 hours and three glasses. We swapped bisous and promised to keep in touch.

PS: We have begun to collaborate on a tour of the Perigord: truffles, cepes, foie gras, walnuts and Bergerac red wine and a stay at her chateau. You’re invited-watch the newsletter for details.

Trois jours

I packed my bag and headed for the Gare Montparnasse and a 10:45 TGV to Libourne with local connection l to Bergerac. Four hours later Anne picked me up at le gare and I began my introduction to Perigord with a 30-minute ride interrupted by a stop at Chateau to taste and buy wine for the week.

You cross a stone bridge over the moat that at one time protected the 18th century chateau and enter Chateau du Rayet through an iron gate. Off to your right are the barns that once stored tobacco and to the left an expanse of green and the swimming pool.

The rooms have been beautifully restored and are inside of thick stone walls that Anne has decorated in muted tones of beige, grey and green-modern and warm. The bathrooms are of a size that one expects to find in a four star palace in Paris.

None of that was a surprise but the guest table was. A young couple from Paris were the only other guests during a quiet weekend leading up to two groups of twenty meditators
over the coming weeks and on Friday night we began with light nibbles of olives, red peppers, sun-dried tomatoes and chips followed by foie gras served with glasses of white Flock de Gasgogne.

The plat was merlan lightly cooked in herbs with vegetables accompanied by a white Bergerac. Dessert was pan cotta with fraises des bois from the fields out our window.

Saturday night’s Dinner was just as good. Red Flock de Gasgogne, D’Artagnan’s favorite aperitif. locally smoked and seared slices of salmon and mignon of pork with a mound of herb-scented mashed potatoes and carrots with a red Bergerac were fabulous. Dessert was a tirimasu that would have been applauded in Rome.

I’ll be back and I’m producing a three-day weekend beginning on Aug 26. For details and reservations contact me at Terrance@paris-expat.com.


A Doisneau Kiss

It was one of those early March days that come in like a lion-high winds and rain. I anxiously await the lamb of late March after an excruciatingly long and cold winter.

Mme. Chapeau begged off from our habitual Sunday morning rendezvous at Le Flore and I settled in with my magazines, newspapers and notebook and ordered a crème and tartine. I was quickly joined by a fellow Floriste who was quickly followed by a newcomer to Paris via Hamburg and Greenwich,Connecticut.

It’s the season for hats and hers was green and flexible. It covered her shoulder-length hair and lent an air of mystery or shall we say je ne sais quoi.

V proved to be utterly charming in three languages and when my friend Karen, the fragrance lady showed up we invited her to join us for the Doisneau exhibit at the Fondation Henri-Cartier Bresson.

It is a compact space tucked into an impasse in Montparnasse that showcases the great 20th century photographers (coming in May, Irving Penn.) Doisneau has a telescopic eye for people, especially the working class of post-war Paris, zooming into their very souls as revealed in a photo of a man with tattooed forearms and an extraordinary shnozz that would have made Jimmy Durante jealous, smiling at his woman who could most generously be described as plain with character.

The collection includes an iconic shot of an adolescent boy hunched against a wall with jacket collar up, hair combed back and channeling James Dean. And, of course, the famous kiss in front of the Hotel de Ville. Inspired, I tilted V’s face toward me and modeled the Kiss with a tender one on her lips.

Friday Night at the Opera (no Marx Brothers)

Groucho, Chico and Harpo couldn’t make it

My daughter was being taken to the Opera (WERTHER–Goethe /Massenet) by her new friends Patrick (Belgium) and Elsbeth (Munich.) Also in the group were Catherine an architect from Stuttgart, Hans, a publisher from Rotterdam and Nicole from the 16th arrondissement.

The BF (beau-fils) and I were left to our own devices until the midnight post opera dinner. As the curtain signaled the end of the performance we received a call and made our way to Patrick and Elsbeth’s 11th arrondissment loft, selected for its proximity to the Marché d’Aligre, for great food and lively multilingual conversation.

Patrick was the gracious host, immediately filling our wine glasses with Bandol before arranging seating à table. Elsbeth emerged from the kitchen with a platter of sliced, ripe tomatoes drizzled with olive oil and splashed with red wine vinegar topped by balls of tasty mozzarella du Barata-superior to bufala in flavor.

Next up was perfect pot-au-feu served in a white ceramic bowl with marrowbones on the side and coarse, grey sel de Guerande. The final act was a velvety, vanilla redolent ile flottant.

Bravissimo!

HOW TO EAT AN OYSTER

Oyster maven Jon Rowley and I each had our first oyster vicariously through Ernest Hemingway in A MOVEABLE FEAST. "As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans."

I was also moved and inspired by a passage in the same chapter when after observing a beautiful young girl seated at a nearby table he resumes writing and when he looks up she is gone but he writes: “I have seen you beauty, and you belong to me now whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again…” but that is another story.

We met under the clock at Metro Odeon next to the statue of Danton and walked down the rue de L’Ancienne Comedie to the oldest café in Paris, Le Procope, founded in 1686 by Francesco Procopio and scene of conversations between Ben Franklin and Voltaire, who is reputed to have drunk 40 cups of coffee a day. It has since morphed into a destination for tourists and bourgeois Parisians.

We sat down and immediately ordered a dozen of the plump speciales de Guillardeau and a demi of Muscadet, our preferred Quincy being unavailable. As the oysters were delivered I asked Jon to explain what to look for in an oyster.

You see the light dancing off the liquor? They’re very fresh. That’s the first thing I look for. And then the French shuck oysters differently than we do in America. They don’t sever the adductor muscle on the bottom so it’s easier to have a perfectly shucked oyster. I like to see an oyster that has been shucked so well that it doesn’t even know that it was shucked, laying there glistening in it’s juices.

The best oysters are fat. You may remember in Lewis Carroll’s The Walrus and the Carpenter–they invited fat oysters to go for a walk with them.

This white material in the oyster meat is glycogen that the oyster has stored up in the winter for reproducing and at this time of year (February) the glycogen will make them sweet if they’re fat and firm with a bite to them.

At home when we eat them the shucker severs them on the bottom. In France if they are served with the adductor muscle requiring a fork to eat them you miss at least half of the experience.

You may not know it but your fingers have tastebuds. When you pick the oyster up it’s cold, it’s rough, there’s nothing else like it. Shortly after you pick it up you start to salivate because you anticipate the taste. And if it is very fresh and came for good waters there’s an aroma.

So now we’ve engaged two of our senses and haven’t even got to the eating of the oyster. The next step is to just tip it back and slurp the oyster and when the oyster enters the mouth it’s bit like French kissing a mermaid-very special.

And then you chew the oyster very well so that it goes to every part of your palate. After that taste the oyster wine. There aren’t many wines that go with oysters. Since you are eating the oysters one at a time you don’t want anything in the wine to linger. You want the wine to just cut clean so you look for something cold, dry and crisp.

We delightfully slurped, chewed and drank until all was gone and Jon described his awakening to oysters: “ It came after reading the Hemingway book and I took the metro to Vavin and sat on the terrace at Le Dome and ordered a dozen oysters that cost all of the money that I had to my name.

Two days later we met on the terrace of Le Dome and recreated Jon’s Proustian memory with a dozen of the large, flat, fat Cancales  #00 from Brittany accompanied by a 2006 Saint–Veran from Burgundy.

Jon pronounced them the best of this trip and he has been all over own sampling. It was getting late and we both had meetings when the waiter arrived with another platter of 12 thinking that one of our nods was a command for more. Before he could take it away we accepted and finished off the bottle that had been placed on our table with the first order.

The director, Didier, who has been on site for 33 years came by and after Jon effusively praised the oysters returned with another round of coffee and snifters of a 20 year-old calvados.

Another hard day at work.

Visit Jon

Acapella at Le Flore

Mme. Chapeau was waiting for me at the appointed time-not very French. After bisous and placing our order for café and brioche she leaned in conspiratorially and nodded in the direction of the man seated in front of us with back toward us. It was the legendary composer/singer Jean-Jacques Debout and husband of the singer/actress Chantal GOYA who appeared in CHARADE and Godard’s MASCULIN/FEMININ –Rive Gauche royalty.

Jean-Jacques was engaged in an animated conversation with a pal punctuated by moments of acapella singing mezzo sotto voce. Having no shame and possessed of trace amounts of jambon I crooned a few bars of an Aznavour favorite: Au Creux de Mon Epaule.

He turned in mock shock and complimented me on the quality of my voice and phrasing. We chatted about Le Flore in the fifties, Julliete Greco, Leslie Caron, Miles Davis and other jazz legends.
As he left I proffered my card and sent him on his way to the sounds of I’ll be seeing you…
Next stop the Olympia?
Charles Aznavour
Jean-Jacques Debout
Chantal Goya

A Paris Homecoming

Five weeks after departing for America, kissing my grandchildren, being harassed by my son (the apple and the tree) and catching up with the publishing industry in NY I stepped off a red eye at CDG and was home.

No time to rest because I had a command performance at my daughter’s complete with tequila, ceviche and other Mexican delights. I lasted until nine and then slipped off to my warm bed in my cold apartment. Does anyone have a cure for jetlag?

I managed to sleep until 1PM and eventually made my way to Saint-Germain where Claire and Karen were meeting me at Le Flore for a welcome back to Paris. I was a bit early and stopped at le Chai de l’Abbaye for a noisette and was immediately engaged in an unsolicited conversation with two young women from Bretagne who were impressed with my French and the trappings of journalism: cell phone, flip camera and notebook.

A passing bisous from Martine, hands down the prettiest concierge in Paris and I was back in my Paris rhythm. I sauntered up to the Flore and over a bottle of champagne caught up with my gal pals and made plans to see the new film COCO AND IGOR and Les Ballets Russes.

Ah Paris!

Paris to the COFFEE HOUSE

She was a strawberry blonde from Memphis dripping with southern charm and gentility that forty years in New York couldn’t erase. She had heard about my Paris event with Jill Jonnes, author of EIFFEL’S TOWER and we became immediate pals sharing meals and connections.

So when I launched the Paris in New York Literary Festival in October of 2009 she volunteered to be my hostess. As a long time journalist in New York, PEOPLE and ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY, she spread the word and greeted my guests.

I was back in Manhattan to meet publishers and hoteliers in preparation for this year’s event and Martha Ann invited me to lunch at the literary landmark the COFFEE HOUSE. It was founded in 1914 by the publisher of Vanity Fair, Frank Crowninshield and a few pals who called themselves FOES OF FINANCE and wanted a private lunch club for convivial conversation–no business discussions.

Early members included Robert Benchley, Heywood Broun, W.Somerset Maughm, Max Perkins, Humphrey Bogart and Henry Fonda.

And a personal favorite, Heywood Hale Broun Fils, he of the bold plaid sport coats and witty sports essays on the Saturday broadcast of the CBS Evening News. A master of the metaphor he is memorialized in my mind for his description of a college football running back as “ having more moves than a dance hall girl in a mining town saloon.”

We ate at the long table and over meat loaf and mashed potatoes I was seated next to two stalwarts of the New Yorker, Roger Angell and William Zinsser, author of ON WRITING WELL, the companion to THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE that appear in the personal libraries of anyone calling himself a writer.

Ma Nuit Chez Naomi

S, the London Art Dealer was in town and we met at Chez Francis on the Place d’Alma for a view of the illuminated Eiffel Tower and champagne.

After catching up on our lives we strolled across the Pont d’Alma onto the Quai d’Orsay and headed for dinner chez Naomi Barry. The long time Paris resident and doyenne of GOURMET correspondents was preparing dinner for a collection of what in the fifties would have been described as “great broads”– charming, sassy, intelligent women of une certaine age. At the last minute S wrangled an invite for me.

The apartment was filled with original and valuable art, first editions of great books in French and English and ephemera appropriate to one who had left Westchester County (NY) for a rich life Paris in the fifties.

Red wine and amuse-geules in the living room with a stunning view of the Seine and a brightly lit neon sign announcing BATEAUX MOUCHES gave us a chance to get acquainted before sitting down to a meal from her cookbook ADORABLE ZUCCHINI.

In the style of a Passover seder I was seated at the head of the table flanked by Naomi and Patricia Poullan, artist and RADA trained actress who appeared in Olivier’s film of HAMLET.

Next to Naomi were journalist extraordinaire Betty Werther, a Parisian since 1949 and still staying out late to party and the London Art Dealer, a great broad in her own right but requiring more age to compete with these gals.

And next to Patricia, the artist Andrea Tana, raised in LA by a show biz family and once married to restaurateur Dan Tana whose restaurant has been a hangout for pasta eating celebrities for forty years.

As the designated male I opened and poured wine, reached into the oven for hot casseroles and provided a measure of testosterone to the proceedings.

François Truffaut once counseled: Never keep the company of men after 7PM.” I couldn’t agree more.

With a Little Help from Miranda

I was having coffee with my neighbor Jan and her little dog, Miranda, at Le Bistrot Landais, one of our neighborhood hangs. From off in the corner a voice implored us to calm our chien who was yelping.

After Jan left and as I finished my noisette, collected my things and put on my coat the voice apologized and offered an explanation. Naturally this became an opportunity to connect and add to my subscriber base for it turns out that Kathleen Kelly, quite a name for a nice Jewish girl, the family changed the name when they emigrated to Montreal from Hungary, and Michel, a Parisian of Lithuanian parents were also fluent English speakers.

Kathleen is a psychoanalyst who has written a book about Peter Pan and psychology that is only available in French so after I slog through it I’ll give you a heads-up. Even if they don’t attend this week’s events I’ve discovered two nice neighbors. They weren’t anti-chien just seeking peace and quiet for a tète-a-tète.



Liberace in Paree

Blues pianist Mitch Woods and I had enjoyed a wine-filled lunch at Astier and with time on his hands between gigs and money in his pocket he wanted to know if Taillevent had lost it’s edge after the death of owner Jean-Claude Vrinat. Here’s his report.

Bonjour Terrance

Wow! I had a Taillevent day. Dropped a few shekels but it was a total experience. Service was impeccable and friendly at the same time. The little things were the best–very creative. Then (I) went to their cellars for some vin to go. Brice who is the wine guy said: "the best things in France are hidden" after they took me down into the cellars.

I still think the wines at Astier were better. I will try and call Boris for his recommends.

Feel like a fat cat. They never blinked an eye at my day–glo midnight blue suit!!!
True French reserve.
A bientot
Libo


Furniture Shopping with Diane (Johnson)

When your landlord is the celebrated author Diane Johnson shopping for furniture is a pleasant adventure.

We met at the #1 exit of the Alésia Metro stop and scurried out of the rain and into Le Zeyer. Burnished brass fittings and railings, mirrors and spotless glassware lend elegance to this brasserie that you’d expect to find in a more upscale neighborhood.

A tuxedo clad maitre d’ passed us off to a similarly attired waiter and we were directed up the staircase to a table rond in a charming dining room- a perfect spot for tète-a tète.

The formule of entrée, plat, café at 21 euros was a no-brainer. For Diane a tomato and mozzarella tarte and for me my first oysters of the season-6 Quiberon with the salty taste of the Atlantic that blended perfectly with a sauvignon Blanc from the Touraine.

Two salmon gave up their lives that we might savor them in a sauce of dill and butter that was absorbed by the splendid boiled potatoes–doesn’t pommes vapeur sound more appetizing?

Having sold my library of over 2,000 books when I moved to Paris I began, as all true bibliophiles to start a new collection. They had been accumulating dust on the floor of the apartment when Diane announced: ”We must get you a bookcase.”

Our initial discovery back in June (2009) was a beautiful metal and wood étagère from Blanc d’Ivoire. The planets were aligned and delivery was scheduled for that afternoon but when the Transports Lucien arrived we had a small problem-although we had measured the space in the apartment we had failed to measure the downstairs doorway and no matter how they twisted and turned the piece we were about 4cm too tall.

On this rainy November day, after our relaxed and satisfying meal we walked down the discount shopping district on the rue d’Alésia to La Salle des Ventes, a depot-vente for furniture and found the beautiful piece you see below. FYI-our route took us past the Sonya Riekel outlet at #64.

All that was left was delivery and knowing the piece could be dismantled into two sections there was no problem except that the M. Joseph Transports company that worked with the store wanted the excessive price of 120 euros for an item that we had negotiated down to 160 euros. As a self-respecting Brooklyn guy I found someone else who would do it for 80 euros at which time M.Joseph agreed to meet the price.

My books now have a home and I’m happy to report that after the bad start M. Joseph proved to be a good guy. I had miscounted the 80 euros and gave him 100 euros that he discovered when he arrived back at the store. His phone call wiped the cynicism off my face

Saturday Night at the Movies

Karen, the Fragrance Lady and I met at Le Flore for an “order” of Black Pepper and Salt Kettle brand potato chips (3.50 euros the bag at Le Grand Epicerie) and red wine to discus movie options. Consulting Pariscope our best bet timewise was Michael Haneke’s palme d’or winning LE RUBAN BLANC.

Having seen La Pianiste I knew it would be dark. I wasn’t disappointed. Beautifully shot in an austere black and white resembling a Bergman film it reveals the strange life and strange children in a German village prior to start of the First World War. My German, despite recent flights on LUFTHANSA is terrible and the French subtitles often blended into the white on the screen. Mr. Haneke’s films are never boring but they do challenge you.

Karen was equally challenged and over pizza e vino at Da Pietro we attempted to sort out what we had seen. I think another viewing is required but I may wait until the DVD. Da Pietro has modified their tradition of a prosecco for diners waiting for a table and now offer an Americano (campari, sweet vermouth, a lemon twist and a splash of club soda, served in sugar rimmed glass) as an option. 

The staff was festive, Patrizia gave me my complimentary bisou as Sergio looked on and our neighbors were a charming young Tunisian couple and a mother and daughter whose striped boat neck sweaters belied their Belgian roots.

Par Hasard in NY

Being a Brooklyn boy I still get a rise out of my visits to la grande pomme but as a citizen of Paris I find myself missing her more and more every time I’m away. The lack of eye contact, fear of spontaneous human interaction and rigidity between men and women are the polar opposite of Paris.

I took advantage of this brief visit to do some on the ground research. My first interaction was on the monorail from Newark Liberty International Airport to The New Jersey Transit link when a simple question about directions drew an icy response from an airline hostess. I had to remind her that I was merely asking for help, not trying to pick her up.

The next day I had coffee in Bryant Park prior to my first business meeting of the week and once again smiling equivalents of bonjour to random passers by were met with a look away or a wrinkling of faces attempting to grasp the unusual situation. 

But it wasn’t all gloom-I did earn a few smiles but upon inquiry they all proved to be European. And of course the Latina hotel and restaurant personnel were uniformly warm.

The debate continued at the Paris in New York Literary Festival where two of my French panelists supported my thesis and one French speaking American teacher of French provided more support for my argument by describing her experience with dating in America.

In a day filled with eloquent, renowned authors the discussion of WHAT FRENCH WOMEN KNOW ABOUT LOVE, SEX AND OTHER MATTERS OF THE HEART elicited the most visceral response. I may have to host this discussion in Paris.

And the very encouraging news was that I and  several other men present received lots of smiles from American women.

BONUS
But the most par hasard moment was the discussion of French crime films with a 32-year old cabdriver whose nylon YANKEE shirt and madras plaid shorts didn’t suggest that he could intelligently discuss LE CERCLE ROUGE, PICKPOCKET and RIFIFI during the cross town ride from Penn Station to my hotel.
.

Friday Night Jazz

Sheldon Forrest, the resident pianist at the Swan Bar put out a call for singers to create an impromptu jam when the scheduled act canceled. We had worked together informally at parties with a keyboard, no mike and lots of noise. I welcomed the chance to have a microphone in my hands once again.

Karen, the Fragrance Lady provided moral support and met me at Le Nemrod for an aperitif that became three when par hasard we were joined in succession by Jan and Anjelica, a petite, pretty and striking version of Anjelica Huston.)

After a quiet dinner at Le Rousseau we walked off the alcohol en route to Montparnasse and the Swan.

A folk guitarist and two singers preceded me but finally after two Jameson’s to soothe the throat (Sinatra liked Jack Daniels) the mike was passed on to me and opened with the Cole Porter standard, EVERYTIME WE SAY GOODBYE.

As a talented amateur I can present problems for the professional pianist who plays by the book, however Sheldon can hear my key and sense the subtleties of phrasing that make a performance unique. He never rushes the music but rather allows me to take my time.

We followed Porter with BLAME IT ON MY YOUTH, MY FOOLISH HEART and my favorite bolero, SABOR A MI.

Quel fun!

PS: As a sidebar I was intercepted by the Algerian guitarist in front of the potato pancake stand at the Marché Bio Raspail on Sunday morning and coerced into singing BESAME MUCHO after which a charming lady tried to place a euro into my palm, pour la musique. I, of course refused but…

What do French women know?

It was Sunday morning and the only difference in my routine was the absence of the potato pancake guy at the Raspail market on my way to the Flore. Armed with the complete Saturday/Sunday Figaro featuring the magazines, MADAME FIGARO and the LE FIGARO and a copy of Debra Ollivier’s upcoming book WHAT FRENCH WOMEN KNOW… I sat down at the only available table and ordered a crème.

At my feet a small female dog barked at me before eventually jumping up to the bench and sitting next to me. Lutece’s owner was a galeriste from Pittsburgh, PA who spends a great deal of time in Paris.

A lively chat erupted in French and English about the differences between French and American women. Heads all around us turned to absorb our conversation

Using the info in Debra’s book and lots of anecdotal evidence I filled her in on the differences that she had been curious about.

For Men Only-buy the book and use it as a conversation starter-it’s a no-brainer.

September 1, 1939

On this day in history Hitler’s Wehrmacht launched the blitzkrieg that became the nightmare years that we call World War II.

Nine months later after gobbling up country after country on his way west his troops arrived in Paris and began the four-year occupation that to this day the French struggle to come to grips with. After years of denial the 1971 release of Marcel Ophuls’ epic THE SORROW AND THE PITY that only made it to the screen after intense lobbing by François Truffaut, provoked heightened interest in getting at the truth.

LACOMBE, LUCIEN, AU REVOIR les ENFANTS, MR. KLEIN and THE LAST METRO are just a few of the films that addressed the subject and recent films like LAISSEZ-PASSER and BON VOYAGE keep it in the forefront of France’s collective mind.

The contemporary writer Pierre Assouline’s LUTETIA and the recent publication to international acclaim of Irene Nemirovsky’s, long hidden manuscript SUITE FRANÇAISE have served to keep the fires burning. Mme. Nemirovsky perished at Auschwitz.

As one walks the streets of Paris it is impossible not to hear the echoes of the past and be reminded by plaques proclaiming that a resistant was gunned down by sniper fire on this spot in August of 1944 in the waning days of the occupation.

Or to stop at the Jewish elementary school in the Marais where 165 children were sent off to the crematoria. The Museum of the Shoah in the Marais with its room filled with baby pictures of Hitler’s victims will tear at your heart.

I pass by the Lutetia Hotel every morning and when I look up I don’t see the tricolor but imagine the swastika flying over her roof as when it had been Abwehr headquarters and ironically the reception center for those Jewish survivors seeking family members after the war. A plaque on the Boulevard Raspail side serves as testimony.

On the other side of the Seine the Hotel Meurice served as Headquarters for the occupying authority and the Commandant of Paris, General von Cholditz. As Lapiere and Collins write in IS PARIS BURNING? he refused to obey Hitler’s order to destroy the city, not wanting to be remembered as the man who destroyed Paris. There is no evidence at the Meurice that any of this ever happened.

As I enjoy my new home I cannot help but imagine the sadness if Paris didn’t exist for all of us. No Eiffel Tower, no Louvre, no Pont Alexandre III, no mornings of greeting the day with the smile of those lucky enough to be here and be inspired by her breathtaking beauty.

The French will have made peace with their past when a statue of von Cholditz is erected.

Another Day at the Beach in Paris

Paris in August resembled the Cote d’Azur without the sand-hot, gloriously sunny days until Mayor Bertrand Delanoe opened PARIS PLAGE in 2002.

George, my American morning coffee buddy who has been in Paris since 1952 and I occupy the corner tables at Le Chai de l’Abbaye at the junction of rue de Buci and rue de Bourbon le Chateau in the 6th every morning except Sunday from 8:30AM-10AM. Having no desire to abandon this most desirable perch where we are treated to a passing parade of beautiful women clad in summer dresses we renamed the corner BUCI PLAGE and designed a sign posting beach hours.

Our cordial bonjour, madame is invariably greeted with a smile and a reciprocal greeting. We have suggested bikinis as proper attire and one woman even jokingly offered topless but to date–no such luck.

Just in case you think that we speak only to women, two guys that I know from San Francisco stopped by yesterday for a noisette and a lengthy philosophical discussion.

Today was Assumption Day and traffic was light but Edwina, the Australian journalist and her friend Carole from the BBC stopped by and a bottle of Deutz Champagne was ordered and appreciated in honor of Carol’s birthday.

After a light lunch chez moi and a brief rest I headed to my PM hang, the terrace of Le Nemrod for a refreshing glass of rosé. Five minutes later, in succession I was joined by Anjelica, Vanessa and Jan and over popcorn, jambon, fromage and 4 glasses of wine each we savored another beautiful day in the neighborhood.
All in all–a lovely day at the beach.

Happy Valley

Truffaut once said: “I never keep the company of men after 7PM.” I’ll go one better-no men after 5PM.

Since I moved into my 6eme neighborhood between Rue de Sevres and Rue du Cherche-Midi I’ve developed the custom of an apèritif before dinner at Le Nemrod where I am invariably joined by my gal pals.

The single apéritif inevitably becomes two. I’ve redubbed the neighborhood “Happy Valley” in memory of the decadent life practiced in Kenya in the 20’s. The conversations are spirited, wide ranging and occasionally we are joined by Frenchies. On a recent summer evening in July I sat down alone for a glass of rosé de Touraine, my new summer quaff and not 5 minutes later Phylllis, still a head-turner, stopped by after having her red hair done at the local beauty parlor, oops salon.

Five minutes later Evalina joined us, she too having been at the same salon. It was Phylllis’ turn to buy so in the time-honored New York tradition of never leaving on a free round I ordered another.

Intent on going straight home without stopping at any other watering holes I walked up Cherche-Midi and I was about to turn down my street when Susan waved at me from the Bistro Landais on the corner. Not wanting to be rude I joined her and we shared a glass of rosé.

Moments later my neighbor to my left Daniel who was having dinner with his daughter inquired as to my national origin, The French can never quite figure me out because my accent is clearly not from any part of the hexagon but my fluency and speed suggest a polyglot European, never an American.

In this case I opened with one of my standard mensonges-Argentine. Once he accepted that I told him it was a lie and that I was from vicino Milano to which he began to sing in a lovely voice, O SOLE MIO.

There is a little ham in this Hebe so I joined in and windows began opening, heads began to emerge form them and we were soon imitating the two tenor’s Domingo & Carreras in a duel of arias from Puccini. Bravos and applause were showered from windows and adjacent tables.  And for you wise guys –no barking dogs.

As I got up his daughter began to sing New York, New York (I had ultimately come clean and identified myself as a Brooklynois) and I joined her and her father to crown this par hasard evening as the terrace drinkers stood up in unison and applauded.

Summer Reading at 3 Euros

In America I had become accustomed to white noise–the continual reruns of Law & Order that passed for company as I wrote, did a New York Times crossword puzzle or read a Paris-focused book for review.

In Paris although my telecom package includes television I almost never turn it on preferring to relax with a spy thriller or detective novel: James Lee Burke, John Connolly, Michael Connelly, Phillip Kerr and Daniel Silva. My source is Jim Carroll’s San Francisco Book Shop on the rue Monsieur Le Prince in the 6th arrondissement.

For many years Jim ran a store of the same name in San Francisco’s North Beach until he consolidated and expatriated. You will often find neighborhood writers like John Baxter shopping here. And if you are looking to make room for additional titles in your overcrowded Paris apartment Jim will buy your books as well. If Jim is not on hand there is another Jim or Chicago’s Jack Sontag.

His system is simple and cheap. Bring in a pre-read thriller and receive 3 euros in trade to which you add three euros in cash and you have a book. I usually bring it back the next day and swap for another. It’s a great way to read an author’s entire output, unless his name is Simenon whose prodigious output would require a lifetime of summers to complete.

San Francisco Book Co.  
17 Monsieur Le Prince
Paris 75006

Learning to Live with Ambiguity

I was meeting my old friend Debra Ollivier, author of WHAT FRENCH WOMEN KNOW About Love, Sex and other Matters of the Heart and Mind at Camille in the Marais to discuss our upcoming video interview.

I was uncharacteristically late as I had broken the metacarpal of my left hand and my appointment at the clinic ran late so she was already seated when I arrived.

As I approached the table the woman to her left, a combination of Miou-Miou and Nathalie Baye, with reddish-auburn hair, navy-blue sweater and hint of sun darkened skin suggesting Mediterranean ancestry and fashionable reading glasses sliding down her nose looked up and we simultaneously smiled and I told her that she was ravissante!

Now hopelessly distracted I swapped bisous with Debra and started to catch up on recent history. Miou-Miou/Nathalie and I peeked at each other indiscreetly throughout lunch while our companions smiled. Since the subject of the video interview would center on the differences between French and American women Debra thought that my flirtation with Miou-Miou would be an apt element to include.

In America, she said: “You’d never get away with that behavior, however, here with your unusual accent, fluency with the language, un-Frenchlike boldness and directness and the pleasure that women get in flirting with and being flirted with you are where you are supposed to be.”

As we prepared to leave I passed my card to Geneviève from Genève whose simple gold band with a tiny ruby on the fourth finger of her left hand may or may not mean anything but as I’ve learned since living here it’s not about final score but the style with which you play the game.

I love Paris but every now and then I need a fix of my roots –New York.

In preparation for Paris Through Expatriate Eyes’ First Annual Paris in New York Literary Festival on October 10 I scheduled 25 meetings in five days with New York publishers and grabbed a redeye from Charles de Gaulle.

The problem with flying westbound at 7PM in late June is that you never see darkness and you arrive believing you are in Norway or the Arctic Circle. My seven PM flight left in glorious sunlight and the skies didn’t darken until my 9PM touchdown at JFK. A fast cab ride and a quick drink at the festival’s host property Park South’s bar and I collapsed until daybreak.

Bright and early the next morning I walked across town to B & H, the Chassidic-owned and operated electronics empire where I purchased a hot pink COOLPIX digital camera for my niece who had just graduated from the University of Delaware. I had made the mistake of asking her mom what she wanted.

 Lunch with PR agent extraordinaire Marian Brown who had offered her services to make this event fly and then a meeting with the hotel and restaurant manager to nail down details for the event.

I mustered enough strength to grab a cab to Penn Station and my old friend Jersey Transit for the ride to Hawthorne and the Widow Gelenter’s place. A quiet Saturday was followed by a raucous celebration of Dana’s graduation at my brother’s home

Up at the crack of down I boarded the 7:02 for Secaucus/Penn Station and had my first meeting at 10 with three publicity persons at Penguin firming up participation by Jill Jonnes/EIFFEL’S TOWER and Mark Ovenden/PARIS UNDERGROUND. At 11 I met with Diane Johnson’s publicist who will scramble for funds to bring Diane to NY for a live interview with me about her career, life in Paris and the paperback release of LULU IN MARRAKESH.

Had lunch with the legendary New York journalist, long-time reader of my newsletter and recent pal, Pete Hamill. If the travel gods come through Pete will be my luncheon keynote speaker discussing the great journalist and New Yorker contributor A.J. Liebling. And if they are really cooperative Pete will join me later in October in Paris for a discussion of the state of print media in a digital world.

And through the magic of Facebook the author/editor Barbara Kafka invited me to her uptown townhouse for camparis and soda. We discussed books, NY, Paris and food in the non-stop New York way until I left to make a train.

Tuesday was more of the same starting at 9:30 at Random House where I secured tentative approval for Mark KURLANSKY and Alan Furst pending their October schedules followed by a relaxing lunch at Rockefeller Center with Myla, a client who became a friend.

My 62nd birthday kicked off with a breakfast meeting with Eryn and Marit of Harper Collins followed by a leisurely, Rhone-filled lunch with John Pitts, my first friend in the publishing business. A productive meeting with Paul, the head of publicity at Knopf and I called it a day.

Thursday was breakfast with Amanda my black-belted colleague and pal from Little Brown who looked smashing in her newly-straightened hair, flower à la Billie Holiday and striped cotton sundress-and it’s working- guys are approaching her on the street-ain’t spring great! I then met with John Baxter’s publicist to convince her to find a budget to bring John to NY for the event.

And then one of those events occurred that make you consider the existence of God. I was using my laptop at the beautiful 42nd Street NY Public Library when my cell rang with a call I had to take but security forced me into the hall with my laptop and I eventually just left the building and returned the call from Bryant Park (William Cullen not Kobe.) Twenty minutes had elapsed and when I looked down at my left wrist - no watch. It was a very special watch, a Cartier tank, given to me by my ex-wife on the first Father’s Day I celebrated as the father of her/our children, Patricia, 11 and Rudy 8. I had removed it due to excessive perspiration in the 95% humidity and in my rush to exit the library had left it on the table.
My mouth turned to cotton and my heart rate accelerated like a booster rocket as I tore off to the third-floor reading room where, untouched, unmoved and unnoticed my watch was where I had left it.

I sat in the park and let the anxiety and humidity driven perspiration bathe me while I savored a NY hot dog with kraut and an icy can of coke. I took out my book and read until dinner at Morandi, Keith McNally’s hot new restaurant on Waverly Place with Doug, Karin and their daughter, the incredibly beautiful, poised and intelligent twelve-year old Morgan who had insisted on joining us. They had taken my Paris au Flaneur tour two years ago and we meet in New York whenever I’m in town. They are proof that having money doesn’t have to be an impediment to raising lovely children.

I chilled out over the weekend with the widow in Hawthorne and got to Boston for my Sunday night steerage class redeye to Paris. But it helps to be TERRANCE as one of the crew recognized me from the site and my events and managed to upgrade me to First-Class-champagne all the way to Paris.

Hope to see you in New York on October 10.

My Hood

Just before the outbreak of the Second World War, Elliot Paul, the editor of the Paris Tribune, anticipated the arrival of the jackbooted Nazi war machine and agonized over the impending loss of Paris as he knew her.

To preserve his memories he wrote a delightful book about the street where he lived, la rue de la Huchette, and the cinematic clichés who lived there: le boulanger, le bucher, les poules. Le barman.

In contemporary Paris this quaint feeling can still be found if you take a few steps away from Blvd. Saint-Germain and the grand cafés: Le Flore and Les Deux Magots. Join me at my post at the corner of the rue de Buci and Le Bourbon Chateau for a noisette at Le Chai de l’Abbaye and meet George, a gentle soul, philosopher, and writer who came to Paris in 1952 and became a friend of Richard Wright and a contributor of erotica to Maurice Girodias under the pen name of the noted adverting legend J. Walter Thompson.

Today he lives on a small pension from his days as a pastor and the proceeds from the sale of hand-turned wooden candlesticks. He is known by everyone and is always found sitting with beautiful and charming regulars-in fact he schedules them for regular philosophical chats.

By mid-morning on Saturday you’ll hear the friendly voice of Ali Akbar manufacturing headlines to sell Le Monde-‘Monica Levinsky pregnant by Bush.” His escape from poverty in Rawalpindi and eventual 32 year career selling Le Monde is chronicled in Volume I of his memoirs: Je fais rire le monde…mais le monde me fait pleurer and in his new book, La fabuleuse histoire du vendeur de journauxqui a conquis le monde
I make the world laugh but the world makes me cry and The Fabulous History of a newspaper vendor who has conquered the world.
And he’ll be happy to sell you an autographed copy along with Le Monde.

And there goes Hervé to open Juan Sanchez’s wine shop: Le Dernière Goutte…

Shopping with Diane

My dear friend Joann Hays of San Francisco was in town and after a few days of eating and drinking with her husband Stan and his pal Bill we were catching up on family and San Francisco.

We were meeting for coffee and then off to the Palais Royal to pick up a pair of special order gloves from Maison Fabre. Before we finished our crèmes and croissants my landlord, the author Diane Johnson showed up to collect the rent.

We were all old friends. Joann had hosted a cocktail party in San Francisco that I produced to celebrate LULU IN MARAKESH. We refilled our coffee cups, ordered breakfast for Diane and then changed plans as Diane wanted to introduce Joann to shops in the neighborhood.

Youthfully clad in cotton pants, denim jacket and short boots Diane wowed us with a tour of shops including YASMINE CHAMBREY, and ISABEL MARANT and DRIES VAN NOTEN along the quai featuring 20 ft ceilings. She also found time to show me a bookcase/étagère that she was considering for (my) apartment.

Exhausted by our shopping we sat down to cheeseburgers at the Café des Beaux-Arts along the quai Malaquais.

Another day par hazard.

 Remembering D-Day
They Will Never Forget

My friends Don & Petie Kladstrup were hosting me and two clients at their 17th century manse in Saint Marguerite de Loge, in the heart of Normandy’s  Pays-D’Auge.

Last night had been unforgettable. Champagne and fresh, hand made potato chips from their boulangerie and a whole salmon in a cream sauce with mussels and shrimp carted in on a wheelbarrow by the neighbor, Mme. Moutier We opened a Sancerre blanc and with the gigot d’agneau , pommes de terres dauphinoise a vertical drinking of a St Emilion from 1953 and it’s offspring from 1978. And, of course, calvados.

The next day we went calvados tasting at a small, nearby producer. I chatted in French with the hostess, English with my guests. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a couple, perhaps a few years older than me, watching us as if assessing whether or not to approach us. It was just at the time of the start of the Iraq war and the American press was having a field day with anti-French rhetoric and restaurants were serving “freedom fries.” Only later did I learn that this behavior had actually started during WWI when coffee shops served “Liberty sandwiches”-hamburgers.)

At last the gentleman approached me and in an uncharacteristic way for the French placed his hand on my shoulder and said: “Merci à vous , monsieur, pour si no pour vous, les américains, n’existe plus le people français.”
Thank you sir, for were it not for you Americans there would be no French nation.

Normandy-Oh Say Can You See…

I remember singing the national anthem, loudly, proudly, passionately feeling the lyrics, my adolescent tenor soaring over the voices of the other 6,000 students in the Brooklyn Technical High School assembly.

Then there was Vietnam and most grotesquely and dishearteningly the faux patriotism in the aftermath of 9//11. The wearing of American flag pins by venal politicians who had connived or bought their way out of Vietnam but shamefully sent our children to Iraq, ill-equipped and poorly trained-to die or be mutilated and then compounded the felony by criminally neglecting them when they came home. The VA hospitals are a disgrace.

Irving Berlin’s GOD BLESS AMERICA, his homage to the country that welcomed and inspired him and millions of other immigrants, including my son Rudy, is now obligatory at 7th inning stretches of Major League baseball games. Don’t even dare to not stand with the faithful.

Rudy had solemnly strode onto Omaha Beach towards the Channel while I waited on the site of the flags of participating nations. He found a spot where he could gaze, reflect and collect sand in a Ziploc bag to share with his son. We didn’t discuss the invasion, Normandy, the American cemetery, filled with Carerran marble crosses and Jewish stars and the formerly blood-soaked beaches that defy words.

But I know that he was remembering 6 June 1944 and the 3,000 American boys who had fallen in the surf, on the beach or scaling the cliffs and Robert Capa who had inspired him with his shots of the landing as he too tumbled out of a landing craft and into the nightmare around him.

Then the silence and reflection were pierced by the taped opening bars of The Star-Spangled Banner, accompanying the raising of the American flag. Rudy turned and gazed in silent respect and I once again felt the emotion of that 16 year-old high school student.

A Day to Remember in Paris

It began in atypical fashion for May of 2009-a brilliantly sunny day. And then in my quotidian manner I headed for the Chai de l’Abbaye on the rue Buci for my morning noisette after stopping at the Hotel Madison to say bonjour to Christian and collect a complimentary International Herald Tribune and Le Figaro.

I signaled Virgil who quickly arrived with a carafe d’eau to accompany my coffee and said hello to George, an 80-year old Philadelphian, with the body of an NFL linebacker. He has been a fixture in the quartier since 1952 and knew James Baldwin and Richard Wright. Under the name of J.Walter Thompson (a prominent 1950’s advertising agency) he penned erotica for Maurice Girodias.

It wasn’t long before George, a consummate flirt, flagged down Catherine, an old friend who provides flowers and plants to cafés in the quarter and invited her to join us-on me. After an exchange of bisous and cards I grabbed the check (6 euros) and headed off to meet my clients for a day of flanerie.

I sat down on the edge of the flower box that surrounds the summer terrace facing the rue Bonaparte side of Les Deux Magots. The first par hasard of the day was Gerry Feehily, a young Irish journalist with whom I had shared a set at France 24 for a discussion about the impact of French culture on English-speaking countries. Moments later I was tapped on the shoulder by Sharron, the youthful grandmother from suburban Chicago who was bringing her last grandchild, 11-year old Ian, to Paris accompanied by two daughters and a 21-year old granddaughter.

I made a deviation in the usual route to show Ian the spot on the rue Jacob where in 1783 Thomas Jefferson, John Jay and John Adams signed the Treaty of Paris, officially ending the American Revolutionary War. We posed him in front of the plaque to share with his classmates.

And then things got interesting. Our stroll down rue Jacob eventually took us to the Place Furstumberg and Flamant, the elegantly upscale interior design store. The ladies oohed and aahed over the small human-sized glass vases filled with driftwood, plants and flowers; the inviting decorated rooms and for Sharron a giant sheet of glass resting on metal sawhorses. So intrigued that she backpedaled while admiring and in the blink of an eye I glimpsed the future and was powerless to stop it as she tumbled backward over two very small steps and braced her fall with her left hand.

She sat on the floor feeling more foolish than hurt and after a glass of water and a few ibuprofen and over her protests we grabbed a cab and headed for the Geoffroy St Hillaire clinic in the fifth. The good news-we were seen immediately. A young technician took an x-ray and 5 minutes later a doctor arrived to confirm that she had fractured her radius and would require a cast. Now the better news, the x-ray 79 euros, doctor 150 euros, time spent under 1 hour. I’m told that in America in addition to taking up an entire day you wouldn’t get out the door for under $2,000.

I offered to continue our tour later in the week and now desperately in need of nourishment and red wine we dashed off to Chez Janou where par hasard awaited us, the Australian journalist, husband of a LIDO dancer and soon to be papa for a second time, Bryce Corbett was having a drink at the bar with mates. I offered mazel tov and Sharron who had read the book via my interview was thrilled to say hello.

We all agreed that this day to remember should be part of the Paris par Hasard collection.

Pesach (Passover) in Paris

There is a tradition at the Jewish celebration of the exodus from Egypt. We pour a cup of wine for the prophet Elijah and open a door to welcome strangers because “we were strangers in the Land of Egypt.” It is that spirit and the enthusiastic participation of young children that make this my favorite holiday. Being new to Paris I was expecting a lonely holiday.

But in early February I attended a book signing in three languages at Village Voice books for the French translation of the Jersey-born Dominican, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Junot Diaz’s book, THE BRIEF WONDROUS LIFE OF OSCAR WOO.

I squeezed into the last remaining chair at the packed upper floor of the cozy shop and was immediately greeted by the vibrant New Yorker and long-time Paris resident Gail Negbaur. We talked about New York, Paris, Literature and one of her passions: Rabbi Tom Cohen’s liberal, young congregation and the challenges it faces.

I was, of course, invited to Seder on April 8 where a bilingual mix of New Yorkers, Californians, Pittsburghers and Parisians shared good food, unleavened bread and camaraderie in equal measure. Matzoh Ball Soup, gefilte fish topped with sinus clearing strength horseradish (something abut Jews and suffering even when we are happy), roasted salmon, leg of lamb and red wine formed the traditional menu.

Eight adolescents vied to locate the afikomen (1/3 of a ceremonial matzoh that is hidden)-the locator to receive cash. In my youth I had been happy to win $1, my son was thrilled to win $5 but the winner’s prize was 70 euros split evenly amongst 7 kids.

I personally prefer the winner take all program. 

Brooklyn to Paris
The Odyssey of an Anglophonic, Francophonic, Francophilliac

Why does a 61-year-old “adult” leave the comforts of family and friends after 35 years of living in San Francisco and move to 20 square meters in Paris?

The dollar had taken a severe beating and tourists were not coming to Paris, nevertheless I came because I had to. For the past 15 years the fantasy had been morphing into reality and repeated annual visits were not adequate to satisfy my thirst for the pleasures of the City of Light.

It all started with my paternal grandparents Charles and Anne Ferstenberg who upon returning from their first trip to Paris in 1973 said “ Paris– most civilized place on Earth. If I were you I’d move tomorrow.”  And I was the preferred grandchild–they weren’t trying to be rid of me. With those words in mind I made my first trip in 1974.

I prepped by rereading The Sun Also Rises, embracing A Moveable Feast and discovering two gems: Elliot Paul’s The Last Time I Saw Paris, a wistful freezing in time of the pre-World War II Paris that he feared would be lost forever after the arrival of the Germans, and John Glassco’s Memoirs of Montparnasse, a reminiscence of les années folles started in 1928 and finished in the winter of 1932-3 while waiting for life-saving surgery. It has all of the youthful exuberance of the eighteen-year old boy he was in 1928.

That initial voyage started in what I later discovered to be typically generous French fashion. At a party at the home of a San Francisco based cancer researcher I met a doctor from Paris’ Institut Pasteur who insisted that I stay at his home with his family when I arrived in Paris. Accustomed to hearing those casual cocktail party offers from people with no intention of honoring the commitment I sent a nite-letter (pre internet, pre cheap international calls) asking for recommendations for a modest Left Bank hotel and was told that I must stay with them–no was not an option.

So, instead of that one star hotel with bathroom and shower down the hall–remember this was 1974 and plumbing and toilet paper which Billy Wilder described as being unlike French money which disintegrated in your hands and rather like sandpaper, had not improved to American standards, I spent my first vacation in Paris’ chic 16th arrondissement, in a large, airy apartment with two- story windows on the street where Balzac lived.

 It was to be fifteen years before I trod the Paris pavements again. Matured by life, matrimony, parenthood and the reading of enough books about Paris to fill one bookshelf in my 2,000 volume library plus a firmer grasp of the language I discovered a Paris that had always been there but that I hadn’t known-the Paris of Walter Benjamin and les passages, tiny bistros and cafés off the tourist track and my favorite museum, the Carnavalet.

It was there that I was introduced to the beautiful and remarkable Julie de Récamier as painted by Jacques-Louis David. She is reclining on her divan revealing a naked shoulder and bare feet. As I walked by a tiny, slightly plump, very French guide wearing pumps and carrying a patent leather bag, dangling from her wrist explained that prior to this painting women were never depicted in so revealing a fashion, She spoke of Julie’s pies nues and gave me a conspiratorial wink and smile-you can listen but please don’t interrupt. I never fail to stop and say hello to Julie and never forget that charming woman and the value of a knowledgeable and passionate guide.

A year has passed and I’ve returned from a holiday vacation in San Francisco to settle into much larger apartment where I can entertain the many friends I made in the last year. The economy is worse but I don’t care for in the words sung by Johnny Mathis:
“It’s not just for what you (Paris) are yourself
That I love you as I do
but
for what I am
when I am with you”

Saturday Afternoon

It was a typical Paris day in February-grisaille (grey.)

I met my videographer, the Stockholm-bound Parkinson’s researcher Dr. PP for a café at the Marché d’Aligre’s Café Aouba. Dominique poured and Dr. PP shot him at work. I pirouetted over to his Spanish wife Maria, kissed her and watched her grind my favorite blend for my French press coffemaker.

A quick video survey of the market activity and we headed for lunch at Mères et Filles where our meal was punctuated by a complimentary glass of a Guadeloupian rum that would have made Long John Silver smile.

Our neighbors were Ferdinand and Eva, young couple from Hamburg who spoke excellent French and heard us discussing our next stop: André Bissonet and his collection of 17th, 18th and 19th century musical instruments just off the Place des Vosges. We encouraged them to sample the rum and were happy to let them join us.

On the way we stopped at the Red Wheelbarrow Bookstore and I crossed the street to say hello to my friend GinaLollo at Cassiopée,her elegant shop in the Village St. Paul antique center.

André has a head of curly white hair and friendly blue eyes. He is happiest when repairing his babies in his atlélier at the rear of the shop or when demonstrating his instruments in an impromptu jam session.

After regaling us by playing a diverse range of instruments including a lute harp with a beautiful inlay he wet a green plant leaf with his tongue and proceeded to entertain us with its pleasant sounds. And to cap this truly par hazard experience the popular French singer Sanseverino dropped by and played an antique banjo.

André Bissonet
Instruments Musicaux Anciens
6, rue du Pas de la Mule

Paris 75003

Paris Nightmares and Pleasant Surprises

I’d been coming to Paris regularly for over fifteen years and had never experienced the infamous grèves (strikes), until this year.

I had never suffered through the mindless bureaucracy that drives Americans to imaginary suicide, until this year.

It all began in mid-July when my sweet landlord arrived to collect rent on the clean well-lighted, but technologically up-to-date, 6th floor, 14 square meter jail cell that I called chez moi and said: “Terrance, we have to talk.” Although she was hands down my favorite landlord and I hands-down her most entertaining tenant I had to vacate the apartment by September 1 due to a change in scheduled building maintenance that would have left the apartment vacant and vulnerable to burglars during the December work period. She did have a safety valve, if necessary-the 11 square meter apartment that I had once rented.

Recovering from the initial shock and the anticipation of moving 3 huge pieces of luggage down six flights of stairs-the elevator was out of service more often than in service I called my friend Claudia who coincidentally was having lunch with a woman who had an apartment that she bought for family visits and never rented.

Sylvie met me at the 20 square meter chateau near the Place des Vosges the next morning and after a five minute look see, handshake and bisous I agreed to move in on September 1 and she agreed to arrange for telephone, television and internet service.

The nightmare began on Fri August 29 when I was summoned to the apartment to meet with Sylvie and France Telecom (Orange.) The technician needed to access an adjacent apartment/office to connect my apartment and the owner was absent. So I moved in without technological services and spent every morning searching for wi-fi cafés in a neighborhood notorious for bad reception. Need I say that as of November 1- still no service although a second technician came out in Mid-September and encountered the same issue and never returned.

Fortunately, my friend the interior designer Myra Hoefer was going back to San Francisco for work and gave me the keys to her atelier/office that was two blocks from me and came with internet connection and telephone.

The next nightmare was inevitable-due to deteriorating cranial grey matter caused by advancing age I locked myself out of my apartment, leaving the key in the lock. It was eight AM on Rosh Hashanah morning and perhaps G-D was punishing me for not attending synagogue the night before.

I had heard horror stories about French locksmiths charging hundreds and sometimes as much as 1.000 euros to break a lock, replace it and make keys.

The matter was complicated by the fact that although a New York publisher had sent a time- sensitive parcel to me they had omitted the door code and it was returned to the shipping company’s Paris office and even though the sender had called with the missing information they would not release it until I made contact. I was too occupied with my door problem to call the non-toll-free 800 number and a friend spent 15 minutes without being given a delivery date or time-1 week later it finally arrived.

But the door nightmare never happened. After a coffee and croissant to settle my nerves I waited for a local locksmith to open at 9AM. He asked if I had turned the lock and when I said no he said: “ 79 euros” and agreed to come to the apartment at 10AM. I expected a toolbox, drill and other paraphernalia yet he only brought a plastic shim-an exaggerated version of the credit card that unlocks doors in Hollywood movies. But he couldn’t open the door and it was a beautiful door with a high-quality lock and he didn’t want to damage it but knew a colleague that could open it. I asked how much and he answered: “Nothing. I didn’t open the door.”

His friend arrived at 1PM and in five minutes and 79 euros later I was back inside. I felt like I had just earned 500 euros.

Obama Mania

It was the Sunday after what might be called the most historic and important US presidential election in history. John G. Morris, the 91 year-old former photo editor at LIFE, LADIES HOME JOURNAL, WASHINGTON POST and THE NEW YORK TIMES had worked tirelessly to achieve Obama’s election and invited over 300 elated supporters to celebrate at his Paris apartment/atelier. The price of admission was a bottle of wine.

The wine flowed and the party spilled out into the courtyard. The positive energy could have powered Con Ed’s New York power plants for a week.

I was practicing my usual party routine patterned after the noted romantic philosopher and one-time catcher for the Baltimore Orioles, *Gus Triandos-Find a spot near the alcohol and wait for women to find you-no searching and chatting (selling.) I was quickly engaged in several conversations with a variety of women and collegial men when the Intercultural Management Consultant went by to deliver her bottle to the bar and get a glass of wine.

As the other great philosopher of the fifties, Johnny Mathis, stated: “A fleeting glance can mean so many wondrous things.” As a true chevalier I filled her glass and we never separated. In between I swapped Jewish jokes and schmoozed in Hebrew with a black man from Oakland whose Yiddish intonations would have made Myron Cohen smile.

Dr. PP joined me and the IMC down the street at Les Caves St. Gilles for tapas, paella, garlic-fried gambas and Spanish vino tinto- see this month’s Bistro review.

Vive Obama!

*Gus Triandos-inventor of the oversized catcher’s mitt to facilitate receipt of Hoyt Wilhelm’s knuckleball.

The Triandos Rule (in 50’s vernacular-no offense intended to the politically correct) “Gals are like the knuckleball. You have to wait until they come to you. If you reach you lose.”   

GinaLola (après Raymond Chandler)

I first saw her on my first day back in Paris at le Bouquet St Paul, a local bistro, which I later discovered we both favored, at different hours. She was lunching with a man and a woman and guessing by the diamond on her left hand I assumed she was unavailable. She was too engrossed in conversation to notice that I had noticed.

Six months later I had changed apartments and the internet wasn’t connected so I sat outside Le Bouquet and accessed their wi-fi. Not long thereafter Mariane, soon to be renamed GinaLola for obvious reasons, and two friends sat next to me and ordered champagne.

I unctuously settled into conversation in French and Italian without asking for her phone number or offering my card and departed with a smile that could have illuminated the city at midnight.

I knew that our paths would cross again so I wasn’t surprised when two weeks later she stopped at Le Bouquet to chat with the owner before scurrying off to buy gardenias and dahlias for her apartment. She flashed me a smile and I knew she would be back. When she arrived I offered her my seat facing the street and ordered two coupes. Before she left we made arrangements to meet for dinner on Tuesday, one of the two days she closes her upscale Art of Living (crystal, linen, etc.) boutique in the Village St Paul.

Dinner with GinaLola was smashing. With her blue eyes, white coat, grey thinly-strapped dress with bare shoulders, sunglasses and cleavage that they stopped making in the 50s she resembled Elizabeth Taylor fleeing the paparazzi- quite an entrance into the restaurant Astier. The staff couldn't stop fawning over Monsieur Gelenter-my stock in this town is definitely on the rise.

Metro Gestapo

I should have known better. I’d seen them before-green uniformed, unsmiling, lacking only an unmuzzled German Shepherd to qualify for border patrol in Hitler’s Germany. They are in fact responsible for apprehending turnstile jumpers on the Paris Metro.

The secret is to never be without a return ticket when going out and to never discard your stub until leaving the system. Although I had witnessed this process many times and been subjected to interrogation on a few occasions I was always prepared.

Not however on this Sunday night. After watching Cary Grant woo Ingrid Bergman and uncover Nazis in post war Rio my pal Suzy and I had grogs au rhum to ward off the colds that we felt entering our bodies and hopped on the Metro at Cluny-La Sorbonne-in my case literally because I had violated Rule # 1. As I mounted the staircase at Gare d’Austerlitz to change for #5 line the queue began to slow down because three of the green-uniformed Metro Gestapo were waiting at the top of the stairs. There was nowhere to run-this was the last stop on the line so I couldn’t retreat and take the train to the next station.

I approached the bespectacled blonde who had all the charm of Heinrich Himmler and explained my one-time dilemma to no avail. She coldly told me that I could take care of the 40-euro infraction with a credit card and pulled out her hand held credit card machine to prove it. She didn’t offer options and I decided against extending my hands for manacling and produced a Visa.

I still love Paris!

Giovanni Le Corse

Not really Corsican, but after years of working as a waiter at the Corsican bistro LA MAIN D’OR on the rue de Faubourg Saint-Antoine this charismatic Sicilian and unofficial mayor of the Marché d’Aligre (Saturdays & Sundays) is known as Le Corse.

I met him months ago when we sat next to each other at the Le Cotte d’Aligre facing the covered portion of my favorite Parisian market. Over the ensuing months we often met par hasard for café served by the handsome, Ralph Lauren-clad Tunisian waiter Samir(o) and were frequently joined or at least greeted by the minions who seek his genial company.

It had been a miserable night, the first evidence of autumn-rain and a steep drop in the summer like temperatures but this Sunday erupted with a bright, warming sun. I hadn’t seen Giovanni since bumping into him on the Champs Elysées (he is a waiter at ROMANO on the nearby 11 rue Marbeuf) just before the August vacation period and sought him out at one of his preferred d’Aligre haunts, Café Aouba, where Dominique and his Spanish wife Maria serve the best coffee in the market and grind it into 250 mg bags for home consumption. And there he was, looking like he was at the beach-white cotton pants, black shirt, white cotton sweater draped over his shoulders and sandals.

A quick espresso and we arranged to meet at Le Cotte after marketing. I found my tomatoes and avocados at one of the stalls and then went inside for a big slab of Cantal from the fromager Philippe Langlet.

By the time I arrived Giovanni had been joined by Tina, Sophie, Marcel and eventually Marcel’s fiancée, Luticia. We ordered a round of red wine and by the time we nodded for round two I spread the package of Cantal on to the table and opened it for all to share. Marcel bolted across the street and returned with two piping hot baguette tradition. By the time the wine was gone so was all evidence of the cheese and bread. 

Game in Paris

Ever since I saw Robin Hood (Errol Flynn) saunter into Prince John’s (Claude Rains) feast at Guy of Gisbourne’s (Basil Rathbone) castle (THE ADVENURES OF ROBIN HOOD directed by Michael Curtiz with a score by the great Erich Wolfgang von Korngold) and toss a deer onto a huge table in defiance of the ban on hunting I’ve savored wild game but mostly in my imagination because it was seldom found on New York menus in November and only as medallions of venison. And until recently it was a rarity in California.

Several years ago a New York Times food section featured hunting in the Sologne and listed several recipes for venison, wild boar, pheasant and partridge. My mouth watered, imagining washing down these seasonal specialties with Bourgognes but I didn’t know then what I know now so I called John Baxter, alerted him to my impending arrival and asked for bistro recommendations. In typical Baxterian fashion he murmured in his still noticeable Australian accent that: “we should be able to find a spot.”

That spot proved to be his fifth floor apartment on the rue de L’Odéon, one flight above the spot where Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier fed Hemingway, Joyce and Fitzgerald their signature roast chicken. A dozen diverse guests from different parts of the world were greeted with flutes of champagne and then treated to paté of venison, pheasant wings, civet de marcassin and a creamy, lemony, custard tart that would have made John’s baker father proud.

The Man in the Tweed Blazer

It was a crisp autumn day and I was seated at my usual post on the rue Bonaparte smoking terrace of Les Deux Magots (this was 1995 -13 years before the non-smoking laws went into effect.) A non-smoker myself I nevertheless was prepared to sacrifice a few moments of life for the opportunity of more sophisticated conversations.

As I ordered my customary crème and scanned LIBERATION, the left-wing daily born in 1968, a balding, fit man wearing a grey wool tweed blazer, grey flannel trousers and a white button down shirt entered and sat next to me. He resembled the 60-70 year old Jewish doctors in Miami who had routinely sprayed tennis balls all over the court, forcing me to wear out my twenty-something body while they barely broke a sweat in annihilating me.

As he opened his copy of the International Herald Tribune my eyes and mind were attracted to the front-page headline. I asked if I could see the paper when he had finished. He agreed in flawless but slightly accented English. He told me that he was from Israel. Since very few men of his age were originally from Israel he had to be from somewhere else and when I asked “Lifnay H’aretz “(Hebrew for where before Israel) he said: Argentina.
Y cuando saliste de Buenos Aires? (When did you leave Buenos Aires?)

If I asked you when you were married or when you first went to Paris you would supply me with a month, day and year but his answer was El mismo tiempo que Eichmann! (The same time as Eichmann.)

His answer could mean but one thing: When you shake my hand you will shake the hand of the hand that shook the hand of one of the Mossad who had kidnapped Eichmann and took him to Israel to stand trial in the glass booth.

Le Mariage

Guys of my stature should not wear swallowtail coats, vests and striped trousers–I looked like a cross between a champignon with curls and Tracy Lord’s father in THE PHILADELPHIA STORY but it was my daughter’s wedding and my son-in-law and I –no giant himself-were obligated.

Local elections had been held in France in March and the new mayor of Borne (pop 400) just outside Le Puy-en-Velay in the heart of la France profonde was performing her first civil marriage ceremony. A smiling color photograph of Nicolas Sarkozy looked down on the rite and moments later la République Française recognized Cedric and Patricia as one.

Now it was the church’s turn. Patricia grabbed my arm and after an army of photographers, including my son, captured the moment for posterity we began the slow walk into the church, down the aisle as I escorted her to a chair in front of the altar where Cedric awaited. There being far more churches than priests in France the itinerant curé was here specifically to perform a Catholic mass and wedding ceremony. Fortunately, although lengthy, his good humor, affability and obvious delight made the time fly.

More photographs were taken outside of the church amid mingling and gossip about family members, wardrobes and the general mishagoss that accompanies family gatherings. After being pelted with rice the bride and groom piled into an appropriately decorated SAAB convertible and drove off to the reception at a nearby chateau.

My son,and my ex-wife and I were piloted to the event by Jean, one of Cedric’s uncles, who had been a transport pilot in the Algerian War. A genial Alsatian he kept up a running commentary as he followed his GPS to our destination. An adjacent field served as a parking lot with the Lady of the chateau directing us to our berth like one of those guys at an airport waving batons.

The cocktail hour (actually two) was held in the terraced garden where tables groaned with a continually replenished assortment of hot and cold appetizers and buckets of ice holding bottles of champagne. Young, professional servers circulated making sure that our glasses and mouths were never empty.

My son, the professional photographer, who had flown in from California had agreed to shoot the bride and groom before the wedding but got caught up in the spirit and was shooting away until 3:30 in the morning. And he had great subjects-Jimmy the cigar-chomping movie location scout from Brooklyn, Cedric’s Scottish brother-in-law wearing an Australian “suit” (woolen mafia striped shorts with blazer), Marten, an old friend, who kept a promise to Patricia by hitch-hiking from Maastricht with his Hungarian girlfriend and of course the irrepressible Tante Yvette, dressed in red with a big red hat and the ubiquitous J.Player dangling from her lips.

Afterward 110 of us sat down to dinner in a giant stone barn where DJ’s spun CDs until midnight while we enjoyed a lovely meal and listened to several members of the family deliver prepared, occasionally dull, toasts to the newlyweds. Being outnumbered by ten to one I took it upon myself to stand up for the bride’s “family” and rattle off a few words including a crowd-pleasing homage to that force of nature known as Tante Yvette.

Bob Glaser, my Chicago born, Paris resident, Cuban cigar connection had came through and I happily distributed my box of Hoyos de Monterey that had just arrived from Buenos Aires. True to her promise, Tante Yvette and I savored them on the terrace.

At midnight the big doors of the barn opened and horns blaring, in walked a mariachi band to amp up the proceedings until two AM. Remember, this was France and although they wore the correct outfits and some of them even played fairly well their singing left much to be desired but at that hour and that level of champagne and red wine consumption everyone shared in the singing of Guantanamera.

Just before the remaining attendees assembled for a final coupe de champagne I held my adorable daughter, gazed into her eyes and sang I Left My Heart in San Francisco-Daddy is very happy.

The Lithuanian

After months of gray skies, rain and gloom the sun made a glorious entrance and Paris sang-beautiful women showing off their legs in spring dresses, courtly elderly gentlemen flirting with them and everyone walking with a spring in their step and a smile on their face. A perfect day for lunch at one of my favorite people-watching locales, the Bar de la Croix Rouge in the 6th.

She was tall, blonde, blue-grey eyed. No doubt an habitué as I had seen her on several occasions over the years but we had never spoken. She was waiting for a table on the terrace and she was next. As we waited we exchanged smiles and fragments of chit-chat. Her spot opened up and mine didn’t so after a few minutes I offered to join her and buy her un verrre. She politely declined. Nothing ventured-nothing gained.

I soon took my seat one row behind and over her left shoulder. She would occasionally turn her head and glance at me with an indecipherable gaze.

I ordered a Brouilly and a tartine provençal-tomatoes and a soft cheese spread over toasted pain de Poilane. We finished our meal at almost the same moment and she turned and said: Café? And without waiting for an answer promptly sat before me.

The owner having watched this dance from the beginning took our order, shook his head and said: Enfin! She was a Leo (Lionesse?) Born in Paris to a French mother and a Lithuanian father, a mother of two; one by the first husband and one by number two, who seems to be out of town frequently.

I’ve learned that when in France do as the French do and marriage isn’t always the same contract that it is in America. She took my card and promised to call sometime.

That call may never come but who cares. It was a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

Normandy-Oh Say Can You See…

I remember singing the national anthem, loudly, proudly, passionately feeling the lyrics, my adolescent tenor soaring over the voices of the other 6,000 students in the Brooklyn Technical High School assembly.

Then there was Vietnam and most grotesquely and dishearteningly the faux patriotism in the aftermath of 9//11. The wearing of American flag pins by venal politicians who had connived or bought their way out of Vietnam but shamefully sent our children to Iraq –ill-equipped and poorly trained-to die or be mutilated and then compounded the felony by criminally neglecting them when they came home. The VA hospitals are a disgrace.

Irving Berlin’s GOD BLESS AMERICA, his homage to the country that welcomed and inspired him and millions of other immigrants, including my son Rudy, is now obligatory at 7th inning stretches of Major League baseball games. Don’t even dare to not stand with the faithful.

Rudy had solemnly strode onto Omaha Beach towards the Channel while I waited on the site of the flags of participating nations. He found a spot where he could gaze, reflect and collect sand in a Ziploc bag to share with his son. We didn’t discuss the invasion, Normandy, the American cemetery, filled with Carerran marble crosses and Jewish stars and the formerly blood-soaked beaches that defy words.

But I know that he was remembering 6 June 1944 and the 3,000 American boys who had fallen in the surf, on the beach or scaling the cliffs and Robert Capa who had inspired him with his shots of the landing as he too tumbled out of a landing craft and into the nightmare around him.

Then the silence and reflection were pierced by the taped opening bars of The Star-Spangled Banner, accompanying the raising of the American flag. Rudy turned and gazed in silent respect and I once again felt the emotion of that 16 year-old high school student.

Chasin’ The Blues Away

I woke up with the blues. The London Art Dealer had left town after five delightful days and I had to meet an Australian client for lunch-but the show must go on.

Madame Melbourne had been a long-time reader of Paris-expat.com and THE PARIS INSIDER newsletter and was in Paris for nine moths while her husband was on assignment for a major international accounting firm-the one that secretly tabulates the winners of the Academy Awards. This was an opportunity to meet and personally deliver THE PARIS THROUGH EXPATRIATE EYES PARIS SURVIVAL KIT.

We met in front of Les Deux Magots. She was pretty, pert, petite and blonde with an adorable smile. I welcomed her with the traditional two-cheek bisou and we went looking for a bistro du coin, stopping at Le Chai de L’Abbaye on the rue de Bourbon-le-Chateau. A Charolais steak tartare for madame and aubergines lasagna for me accompanied by a demi of Chenas. The remaining gouttes absorbed by a Bleu d’auvergne.

Over coffee we discovered a shared interest in Paris under the Nazi occupation and I suggested that we go the Village Voice to pick up one of Robert Paxton’s renowned works on the subject and Cara Black’s Murder in the Marais. We were greeted by bookseller Michael Neal who regaled us with two of his favorite dark and funny Hitler jokes. They were out of both titles but Blind Faith about Vichy France’s Eichmann, Louis Darquier de Pellepoix and Cara’s Murder in the Bastille were worthy substitutes.

We went our separate ways with a commitment to participate in our Paris au Flaneur program when her husband returned. Having spent two enjoyable hours talking about Paris in charming company my blues had nearly faded.

Returning to my apartment I neared the Pont St.-Louis connecting the Ile de la Cité and the Ile St. Louis and was approached by a balding, pony-tailed guy from Queens and his English bride of twenty-eight years who were looking for the Bastille. “ Just follow me!”

By the time we arrived at the Café des Phares we knew each other’s bios intimately–no great feat for two New Yorkers of approximate age-our childhood experiences are practically cultural stereotypes for Jews and Sicilians. I was invited for a drink-pastis for me, and for them the hot chocolate they had been dreaming about all day.

Richard was a retired immigration official who had interrogated thousands of illegal immigrants in his career and shared the secret of interrogation–don’t listen to a word they say-just watch their body language. I put him on the spot and made him share his observations of me-fortunately mostly flattering.

I sent them to the Bistrot d’Henri for dinner and we agreed to stay in touch. My smile is back, the blues are gone and once again I’m reminded of the simple human pleasures Paris offers every day.

How I Became Nearly French

When your daughter marries into a French family so do you. You are now entering a world where Americans should fear to tread-even those who think they have acculturated. A world of etiquette far removed from the slap on the back ease of America.

We were on a trial run to the site of the wedding, Le Puy-en-Velay, over one of those interminable weekend prolongés that occur three times in May. This would be the fiançailles and we would be meeting the formidable Tante Yvette and other more bourgeois members of the family. My daughter had gone to great pains to brief me on my behavior hoping to cleanse me of any residue of Brooklyn-she hovered over me like a hawk over the entire weekend.

Patricia and Cedric met me at the Gare de Lyon at 11:30 AM and we boarded the noon TGV to Lyon where we arrived at the Gare Parroche at 2PM. It was gorgeous, sunny day and we were happy to leave a gray Paris behind.

We had time for a quick bite on the terrace and glass of wine at a café near the station before Cedric and I walked a few blocks to the garage where he stores his car for these trips to the country. I felt like I had walked into a Jean Gabin crime film as we ducked into an alley leading to a courtyard with three garages surrounded by apartments.

It took 1 ½ hours to arrive at Le Puy and then ten minutes to the two story Tuscan style peach colored house with light green shutters in the hamlet of La Chazotte. We were greeted by Tante Yvette, Cedric’s 78 year-old aunt and family matriarch, J.Player cigarette dangling from her lips, slightly stooped but with a playful yet imperious manner.

The house had been closed for the winter and Tante Yvette had arrived yesterday to begin the annual ritual of dust removal, window opening and general cleaning.

After unloading our luggage and washing up we all convened in the garden for apéros, scotch for me and Cedric, port for Patricia and scotch with a splash of orange juice for Tante Yvette. A second round and we were ready for dinner. Tante Yvette had prepared a poulet fermier bathed in port, hand-cut frites poelés, a green salad and an assortment of local cheeses. This lovely ritual was repeated daily.

The fiançailles (engagement) is a tradition in France and twenty relatives gathered to applaud the soon-to-be-marrieds. Tante Yvette had arisen at 5:30 AM for a cigarette and coffee while she prepared two gigots d’agneau to be served cold with mayonnaise, lentilles verts (a Le Puy specialty), potato salad tossed with olive oil and mustard followed by the cheese tray,tartes aux fruits and of course bottles of Bourgogne.

I got on splendidly with Tante Yvette who seemed like one of those women in a 40s comedy- salty tongue, ever ready for a good laugh or a drink. What in pre-politically correct times would have been described as a “great broad”-think Eve Arden. One morning after completing my daily 5K hike to the Chateau Rochlambert I picked wildflowers and presented them: “Quelques fleurs pour une fleur” and was greeted with a sidelong glance (“Don’t try to snow me kid”) of exquisite comic timing that would have made Jack Benny proud.

Monday came and we finished off the restes of the lamb luncheon, drained the remaining bottle of Bourgogne and prepared to take off for Lyon and Paris.

After following me around and making sure my bed was made to her satisfaction and the bathroom properly cleaned, Patricia breathed a sigh of relief and rated my performance a B+. The wedding is still on.

Details to follow…

Sunday in Paris

A typical Sunday in Paris for me begins with a café au lait au lit accompanied by a baguette tradition bathed in buerre normande containing crystallized salt and perhaps Keith Jarrett or Chet Baker playing through my lap top.

After a check of overnight emails I walk a few blocks to my neighborhood market on the Blvd. Richard-Lenoir. On this brisk March morning it was avocados, cherry tomatoes, crunchy grapes for dinner at my daughter’s apartment, spicy calabrese sausage from my Bayonnais Italian traiteur, and a final stop at my fromageur for yogurt, milk and a chunk of muenster with cumin-just enough to last until Thursday’s market.

 

Barely recovered from the worst case of jet lag in memory I unloaded my groceries, crossed the river and made for Les Deux Magots for another tradition, a feathery omelet mixte (ham & gruyere.) I stopped for the Sunday Figaro-yesterday’s news and the Magazine filled with hard news features, Madame Figaro-style, food, entertainment, and the TV Guide,

It was unusually quiet and I didn’t encounter a single café acquaintance so I finished my crème and walked around the corner to Le Flore where I joined three friends and had an omelet every bit as good as the one I imagined at Les Deux Magots.

My tank was close to empty so I took the shortest route home –Saint-Germain to rue de Seine , right on rue de Buci until it becomes St André des Arts, crossing at Saint- Michel then joining the bustle of tourists and shish kabob joints on rue de la Huchette until I emerged with Notre Dame on my left.

I passed young Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare & Co. bookstore and just before I prepared to cross over to Quasimodo’s workplace a voice rang out from a sidewalk café-Terrance! Terrance! It was Louise from Sydney, a fellow survivor of the flight from hell that was delayed overnight at New York’s JFK International Airport. She and her partner Bob invited me for a café and promised to look me up and take one of my Paris Cultural Tours on their next visit.

I eventually found my apartment without running into anyone else, par hazard, collapsed on my bed, finished the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle (Saturday edition of the International Herald Tribune) and caught a few winks before bundling up 4-12 packs of MISSION Brand corn tortillas for my daughter and my son-in-law to be. One pack was used to sop up the juices from a tasty pork loin bathed in a red wine sauce. Who knew she could cook?

Ah, just another Sunday in Paris.

Tu me rappelez pas? (You don’t remember me?)

My Paris baptism took place in Israel or rather aboard an El Al flight from Tel Aviv to Orly in July of 1974. After having spent two weeks touring and visiting family (my mother’s family left Casablanca between 1959 and 1961 after France relinquished her protectorate and life became unbearable for Morroco’s. 250,000 Jews) and being forced to speak French- they spoke no English and I no Hebrew I felt ready to tackle Paris.

As I settled into my aisle seat uplifted by the emotional experience of Israel and anticipating my Hemingwayesque Parisian adventure

I was lured into conversation by Danielle and Patrick, pied-noir Juifs from La Ciotat, along the Riviera, just slightly east of Marseilles. By the time we landed we were friends and sped off in a taxi to the Gare de Lyon where after an aperitif, Patrick boarded a train to Marseilles, Danielle popped a jeton into the telephone and called my hosts, sparing me the anxiety of testing my French over the telephone and took off to spend the evening with a girlfriend.

When she checked in later that evening we arranged to spend my first day in Paris wandering the Left Bank, dining on the terrace of a café and of course, reclining in each other’s arms along the sun-drenched banks of the Seine.

An invitation to her home followed. Patrick met me at the Gare St. Charles in Marseilles, a bustling seaport that recalled Pagnol’s cinematic trilogy; FANNY, MARIUS & CESAR mixed with modern immigrants from the Mahgreb. We stopped at a beachside restaurant for grilled sardines, soup de pecheur and a chilled rosé before arriving at their home.

My first full day was highlighted by a descent from the hills above the Mediterranean to the rocky beach below the famous calinques that most people view from tourist boats that leave from the port of Cassis. That evening I savored my first bouillabaisse from the second floor dining room of a small hotel. This being July the colorful fishing boats were visible in the early evening light that had so inspired Impressionist painters.

I have returned to Cassis often to sit on the terrace of Chez Gilbert for ratatouille, loup grille au fenouil and a bottle of Domaine de Paternel, a local white wine.

Fast-forward to November of 2006. It is 5:30 PM, darkness almost arrived and as I walk towards Les Deux Magots to meet a friend from San Francisco prior to listening to Russell Banks speak at Village Voice Books I hear bonjour from a man in a black leather coat nervously puffing on a cigarette. I say bonjour in his direction and turn my head forward but before I’ve taken a complete step I hear: ” Tu me rapplez pas.” (You don’t remember me?)

Astonishingly it was Patrick, 32 years later, he had picked me out with nothing more than a fleeting glance of my profile in the darkness of an early November evening-only in Paris!

Too Much of a Good Thing

June 24, 1997 was a special day–I turned 50, my son Rudy had just graduated from UCLA, I was living with a lovely woman and 50 of my closest friends gathered at her home on a hill overlooking the San Francisco Bay to celebrate.

And to add élan to the festivities my very good friend Robert Stricker had brought 250 oysters from Tomales Bay. Clad in a blue kimono and a yellow headband he used the stump of a felled tree as a shucking block. Each guest was greeted with a plate of three oysters and a glass of Muscadet from the adjacent ice-filled bucket–Three hours later only the shells and empty bottles remained.

Nearly a year later in March of 1998 United offered round-trip service to Paris for only $300 and Robert and I (my romance was over) jumped at the opportunity. One evening as we strolled through the Saint-Germain we were drawn to a sign in the window of the restaurant L’Arbuci-“huitres à volontié -146 frs (about $20 ” (Oysters-all you can eat.) Here was a serious challenge.

There was a half-hour wait and so we were sent across the street to the Chai de L’Abbaye that was three deep at the bar with fashionistas in town for Fashion Week. We made friends with a group from Leeds and sang Roy Orbison songs-I focused my attention on the ravishing, demure and married, Angela.

Off in the corner was a sight only to be seen in Paris. The owner of a small but very original antique shop just two doors down was having dinner with his dog seated next to him and wearing a napkin. The dog was extraordinarily well- behaved and only ate when his owner fed him with a fork. We asked if we could photograph them, received permission and sent a glass of Bordeaux to the table-for the man.

We finished our wine, crossed the street and were ushered to a table by a charming Sicilian hostess. A bottle of Sancerre was ordered and the first platter of thirty assorted oysters (fines de Claires, Portugaises and belons arrived. Having been trained at non-kosher New York weddings and Bar Mitzvahs, where we lorded over the shrimp platter and let the amateurs fill up on potato salad, cole slaw, peppers and the like, we ignored the bread, waved off a salad and slurped the magnificent mollusks. Another round of thirty was quickly ordered.

When these were consumed we asked for another bottle of Sancerre and dug into the 61st to 90th oyster. One more platter was summoned bringing us to grand total of 120-60 each. Feeling smugly confident that we were approaching a record for a seating I motioned to our waiter who intuited that we were about to order another round and gently shaking his head told us that the record for two persons was 300.

Discretion being the better part of valor we drained our wine glasses and went out into the night a little less self-important than when we entered.

Guantanamera

My daughter was fingering fashions in a boutique near Les Halles. In addition to being naturally beautiful she is petite with dark brown hair and eyes and is often taken for Italian, Greek or Jewish rather than the Mexican she is.

A natural talker/networker she was soon schmoozing with the two sisters who owned the shop when they inquired:” Etes-vous Juive? Patricia said no, but my father is and he’s in town-You should meet my father!

I am not in the habit of blind dating-don’t believe in it, however, I trust my daughter’s taste and intuition so I called Nelly and arranged to meet at Les Deux Magots on a Saturday night after store closing time. It was late November and the weather was miserable-constant heavy rain and cold.

I found a spot inside on the Saint.-Germain terrace ordered a calva to ward off the chill and waited. Nelly was easy to spot-fur coat, L’Oréal 33 blonde hair and a multi-colored silk scarf. I rose to welcome them and order drinks. We quickly discovered a connection. They, like my mother were Sephardic Jews born in Casablanca. After an animated conversation I suggested dinner but since their sister was preparing a blanquette de veau they declined and invited me to join them.

If you’ve ever been caught in the rain in Paris you know that it is easier to find a taxi in New York so we dropped down into the Saint-Germain des Près Metro and eventually transferred to the line that would take us to an apartment in the 16th. We entered the car to the sounds of three olive-complexioned, dark haired young men playing Guantanamera. I couldn’t resist and began to sing the lyric in Spanish and soon we had the whole car singing. When they finished I approached the leader and whispered conspiratorially: “Mexicano? He answered: “No, Yugoslavie.”

If you’re a regular on the Paris Metro you know that musical turf is staked out. For example, at the bottom of a staircase at Chatelet where you approach the purple # 4 line heading towards Porte d’Orleans there is a Peruvian band that always seems to play Hava Nagila just as I pass by-radar?

So I was quite surprised when two weeks later while riding a different line I should enter a car and see the same three musicians playing. Upon recognizing me they immediately began to play Guantanamera.

La Comtesse Polonaise

It was a cold December day and I was running late for a long deferred luncheon.

I’d been in Paris for over 2 months and my very first invitation had been to a Paris Bloggers party.

Traditionally an invitation in Paris doesn’t require a gift-wine, flowers, chocolate-just be an engaging and entertaining guest. In America it’s a contest to see who can bring the best wine.

The party was held at the apartment of an American and I wasn’t sure whether French or American rules applied. I should have asked.

Everyone but I brought wine. Mortified, I ran to the corner Nicolas and it was closed. I hoped that my offer to treat my host to lunch would restore my good name.

For two months I had found one lame excuse after another and now I finally sped up the rue de Pont Louis Philippe to keep my promise at a Marais restaurant. But not so fast that I failed to notice a tall, beautiful black-haired woman step out from the big wooden doors of an apartment entrance (I later learned that she was stashing her inter-urban transport-a bicycle.) I smiled and continued on my way but as I turned for a peek she was still smiling.

Already late and knowing that she had just opened the store and would not be going anywhere soon I kept my appointment for what turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable lunch.

I returned to the store, introduced myself and arranged to take the Polish Comtesse to lunch the day before I returned to America and the day after she returned form visiting her son in Shanghai.

Over an excellent steak tartare, pommes poelés, fromage and demi of Cotes de Bourg at Le Rostand, we got acquainted. Born in Warsaw, a Paris resident for 25 years, in previous lives she had been both a biochemist and a fashion model A leisurely stroll in the Luxembourg Gardens, au revoir bisous at Metro Odéon and a promise to call when I returned in April.

Apparently no good deed goes unpunished.

The Rude and the Nice

Three old and dear friends from San Francisco and two new friends who had been clients just the day before joined me for dinner at one of my favorite 6eme haunts, le P’tit Fernande. As we walked in Laurent announced that le six had arrived and Olivier ushered us to our table up against the back wall of the narrow bistro. Moments later complimentary Kirs appeared.

Overhearing our English, hard not to, Jacques and his party of four immediately behind us welcomed us in English. One of the women was taking the American tour that all French people take: San Francisco, Los Angeles, Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon-I’m almost ready to bet that more French have visited the Grand Canyon than Americans.

Jacques counseled me on the menu-an excellent ongelot de veau and suggested the Croze Hertmitages at only 24.5 euros the bottle. We were all in a celebratory mood when an angry, loud voice that would have been at home in Nazi Germany roared: “Go back to America if you want to be loud.”

Not accustomed to such behavior in Paris we were momentarily stunned-fortunately for Monsieur Rude the smallest of our group would have had to climb over the table and her husband to give him the smack in the face he deserved and we shrugged it off. Jacques leaned over and touched my arm saying: “We will never forget Normandy.” We acknowledged our debt to Lafayette, Louis XVI, Beaumarchais and Admiral de Grasse and continued cementing Franco-American relations.

An exchange of cards ensued, the rude party left and we bid our new amis bonsoir while sharing scrumptious desserts. I turned my head to watch the "rudies" leave and a young Frenchwoman, sitting at and adjacent table, looked right at me and said: You are SO loud!” We got the joke but her face contorted in anguish and she rushed to my side to apologize profusely. I assured her that being from Brooklyn I understood good comic timing and not to worry.

Vive la France!

As a footnote I received a lovely email the very next day from Jacques hoping that our evening hadn’t been spoiled by those stupid people that didn’t know that laughter was man’s best medicine.

His brother Benoit who was at his side at dinner has Down’s Syndrome and is employed by the Papillons Blancs de Paris www.apei75.org an organization that provides work for the mentally handicapped producing classic French products.

They have a boutique at 8 rue Saint Martin – 7500 near la Tour St Jacques, l'Hôtel de Ville and BHV.

Please make a point of stopping in when in Paris
www.vitrine-des-cat.co

My Déjeuner with Bernard

A cold December day in Paris and Juan Sanchez had invited the aptly named Bernard Boisson of A. Edmund Audry to present his extraordinary cognacs at La Dernière Goutte’s ritualistic Saturday afternoon dégustation.

Silver-maned, courtly of manner, clad in a tweed blazer and accompanied by Mme. Boisson he was the personification of the mature French gentleman. As a first course he had brought along pineau de Charente, the red variety and the rarely exported white. I usually have this sherry-like aperitif with almonds.

If you are accustomed to the 6 1/2 year-old VSOPs mass-marketed in America by Rémy Martin, Hennessey and Martell then mentally clear your palate for the flight of cognacs truly were for the gods. In a 2005 article for TIME Magazine Alice Fiering described them as “like Fabergé eggs, complex and to covet.”

As M. Boisson poured and described his cognacs like a grandfather gently praising his grandchildren we discovered a common passion for the Hollywood films of the thirties and forties-Wilder, Lubitsch, Hawks and of course the timeless Warner Bros. films, especially CASABLANCA. I suspect that his English skills were informed By Humphrey Bogart.

I purchased a pineau and we agreed to stay in email communication. And so on a late October day in 2007 we met at Maceo, the elegant restaurant near the Palais Royale owned by Mark Williamson, proprietor of Willi’s Wine Bar.

We were warmly greeted by the maitre d’ fitting as Audry is the only cognac sold at Maceo. Our coats were taken and as we were ushered to a table, Guillaume Le Hem, the sommelier suggested a coupe de champagne-Jacquesson Cuvee 731.

It was just right for my mini-slabs of foie gras so buttery that the mere approach of my warm tongue was enough to melt them into my mouth. As a main course we had perdreau (the first game of the season that will soon be followed by wild boar and venison. Guillaume suggested a 2005 Trapet Marsanay from Burgundy. Since a little wine remained we ordered an assortment of cheeses to finish it off properly, followed by café.

All of this was just a prelude as Bernard leaned towards me and said” Perhaps a little cognac.” This little cognac poured into a wine glass and not the oversized snifters that are so common in every movie turned out to be Memorial an assemblage of 60% thirty-year old stock and 40% forty-year old stock. I won’t resort to wine speak, just trust me that it was breathtaking.

Over the course of this convivial and civilized lunch we discussed politics-French and American, the history of Maison A. Edmund Audry, Paris Through Expatriate Eyes, family and of course, cinema-French and American.

We were helped into our coats, handed our scarves and for Bernard a tweed cap and exited left along the rue des Petits-Champs until avenue de L’Opéra where we parted-Bernard back to his office and I off to a meeting at the Westminster, a fashionable 15 minutes late.

M. Boisson will be pouring at La Dernière Goutte on Sat December 29 and Sunday December 30. Please give him my warmest regards when you meet.

La Dernière Goutte
6 rue de Bourbon Le Chateau
Paris 75006
01-4329-1162

The Blonde on the Metro

It was the Sunday of a long weekend (All Saint’s Day) and Paris was empty except for tourists, those without an ancestral country home and those with American business habits.

I saw her coming towards me-petite, blonde page-boy haircut, age-appropriate, wrapped in a camel colored wool poncho and Frank Nitti-striped (think Bruce Gordon in the TV series “The Untouchables”) wool pants. We were both changing trains and arrived at the staircase leading down to the #10 line towards Boulogne just steps apart. As she passed me on the staircase I caught her subtle smile as if she were sharing a joke with herself.

We arrived on the platform and she took out her glasses and walked at a deliberate pace to the end of the platform while reading her book. I trailed at a safe distance like a detective in a film noir, close enough to capture her scent but not close enough to be excessively obvious. The train pulled into the station and she pirouetted and walked in my direction. It stopped in front of her at the coupling of two cars. She could go right into the car ahead or mine on the left where I entered at mid-car.

She chose mine, never looking in my direction, took out her book and read. Two stops later she arose, turned towards me with an enchanting smile and whispered: “Au revoir, monsieur.” I smiled in appreciation and said: “Au revoir, madame.”

Always Listen to Your Grandmother

My Parisian dreams were fueled by my paternal grandparents who upon returning from their first trip to Paris in 1973 said to me: “ Paris– most civilized place on Earth. If I were you I’d move tomorrow.” And I was the preferred grandchild–they weren’t trying to be rid of me. With those words in mind and a desire to find out what had so inspired the modernists of the 20’s I made my first trip in 1974.

I prepped by rereading The Sun Also Rises, embracing A Moveable Feast and discovering two gems: Elliot Paul’s The Last Time I Saw Paris, a wistful freezing in time of the pre-World War II Paris that he feared would be lost forever after the arrival of the Germans, and John Glassco’s Memoirs of Montparnasse, a reminiscence of les années folles he started in 1928 and finished in the winter of 1932-3 while waiting for life-saving surgery. It has all of the youthful exuberance of the eighteen-year old boy he was in 1928.

That initial voyage started in what I later discovered to be typically generous French fashion. At a party at the home of a San Francisco based cancer researcher I met a doctor from Paris’ Institut Pasteur who insisted that I stay at his home with his family when I arrived in Paris. Accustomed to hearing those casual cocktail party offers from people with no intention of honoring the commitment I sent a nite-letter (pre internet, pre cheap international calls) asking for recommendations for a modest Left Bank hotel and was told that I must stay with them–no was not an option.

So, instead of that one star hotel with bathroom and shower down the hall–remember this was 1974 and plumbing and toilet paper which Billy Wilder described as being unlike French money which disintegrated in your hands and rather like sandpaper, had not improved to American standards, I spent my first vacation in Paris’ chic 16th arrondissement, in a large, airy apartment with two- story windows that once housed Balzac.

If you had been imagining my grandparents as the classic New York Yiddish accented types from central casting, guess again. Although born in New York of Eastern European, immigrant parents my grandfather was an officer in the China-Burma-India theater of operations during the second World War while my grandmother was working and raising two young boys-a liberated woman before the term was coined. Their apartment was filled with books and opera. My grandfather, a peer of Robert Merrill, would have sung professionally were it not for the Depression and the war.

A typical Sunday afternoon for them in the seventies would feature a trip over the George Washington Bridge to the Upper West Side of Manhattan for lunch at Zabar’s, shopping for used books and a Woody Allen movie. Our after dinner conversations usually focused on history, movies or politics.

Even before she knew that I would be going to France she was looking out for me. In the spirit of “you should meet my grandson” she got the phone number of the lovely Scottish tour guide who met their group in Caen and showed them Paris. When I called one year later, of course Dorothy remembered her and after dinner at her apartment she and her sister took me to the Moulin Rouge for a show and champagne.

I performed all of the first visit to Paris rituals: climbed the Eiffel Tower, walked the Champs-Elysées, sipped Pernod at Les Deux Magots, took a gander at Notre Dame and met my first French lover, who turned out to be British, as I along with many others said bonjour to La Jaconde at her special spot in the Louvre.

And of course upon my return to San Francisco I could be seen meandering with my trench coat draped over my shoulders, the unfilled sleeves dangling and my colleagues in the garment business working hard at controlling the instinct to laugh out loud.

The Woman in the Orange Dress

A close friend from San Francisco had finally realized a dream-he was living in Paris in his own apartment.

To celebrate we swung around the corner to the rue Daguerre, site of Agnes Varda’s documentary, DAGUERROTYPES, and headed for a local bistro noted for its wine bar. I can’t remember the meal but I remember the wine, a Morgon from Jean Foillard whose winery I had visited the previous week while en route to lunch at Le Coq d’Or in Julienas at the northern border of Beaujolais country.

After dinner we thanked the owner and I made a point of lauding the Morgon. I explained that I had been buying it in Berkeley from Kermit Lynch for years and was disappointed not to meet Foillard when I was at his winery. “That is because he is here.” M. Foulard pivoted on his bar stool and extended his hand in greeting.

What we needed now was a calvados to punctuate the evening. Our destination: La Closerie des Lilas at the eastern end of Blvd. Montparnasse. The terrace facing Marechal Ney’s derriere where Hemingway penned many of his short stories has morphed into an overpriced, somewhat touristy dining area but the Bar Américain is intimate, lively and fun.

Wedged into a corner facing the bar and the entrance to the terrace a piano player was playing selections from the American songbook. We were stationed on bar stools when he finished his set and approached looking for libation. A discussion of saloon songs ensued and I can’t remember if I told him that I sing but after his first number he invited me to sing.

I can be a musician’s worst nightmare if he plays “by the book” and lacks an ear to sense a singer’s phrasing and key. Arrangements are in my head-usually sung by Tony Bennett and journeymen piano players often play too quickly, however, within a few notes we were on the same page. As a New Yorker living in San Francisco, “I Left My Heart… was an obvious choice.

I no sooner finished the verse when Lee Remick appeared from the terrace-not the real Lee Remick but a petite blonde with shoulder-length hair with dashes of grey dressed in a knee-length orange silk dress-let’s just call her lovely, and asked if I minded if she hummed along. The answer should be obvious. She hummed and I sang.

Encouraged I segued into my favorite Latin love song, “Sabor a Mi.” My eyes never left Lee and when I finished I patted the pianist on the shoulder walked up to her, placed my right hand on her left hip, my left arm around her, pulled her towards me and planted a kiss on her lips. “That was a wonderful kiss”, I purred and she offered that “I could do it again” and did. I barely had time to congratulate myself and fantasize about the rest of the evening when out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed my friend rising from the bar stool to pay the check and leave when a tall, towheaded young man of nineteen or twenty inserted himself between us, looked at her and then me and said: “Elle est belle ma mère, non?

I, of course agreed and he escorted her back their table where dad was waiting.

17 April, 2007

April in Paris and unlike the usual rainy and cold reality it was like the song-unseasonably spectacular. The sidewalk tables at Les Deux Magots were nearly filled and I settled in to the last remaining one.

I ordered my summer quaff, a slightly chilled Brouilly and drank in my surroundings. Paris being Paris, I was soon engaged in conversation, in French, with my neighbors: a dark-haired French woman, her friend from Lima, Peru and a grey-haired older woman, a few years beyond une certaine age.

Our conversation embraced cinema, the classics in French and American (Wilder, Lubitsch, Hawks and Capra.) and during moments of seniority when I could name the principal actors in a film but not the title, madame was quick to supply it. When we turned to music, in French and Spanish (bolero love songs) we couldn’t resist the impulse to sing.

I’ve been a history buff from the age of eight when I began to devour, four per week, the Random House Landmark series of US and World History titles. So whenever I meet someone who had lived in Europe during the Second World War I can’t resist hearing their stories unless they are too painful to recall.

I’ll never forget crossing the Pont Marie from the Ile Saint-Louis to the Marais when a gust of wind knocked a piece of a baguette from an elderly man’s hand. He instinctively dropped to the street to retrieve it and as he caught my eyes on the way up he answered the question he thought was in my mind:” J’ai eté ici pendant l’occupation.” I was here during the Occupation.

Back at Les Deux Magots our discussion of the occupation brought up the name of Elie Wiesel who struggled with whether or not to tell his story of not being one of over 400,000 Transylvanian and Hungarian Jews murdered in the waning days of the European war. It was the great French writer François Mauriac, a Catholic, who befriended him and convinced him to publish NIGHT, the first salvo in what became a lifelong commitment to remembering the Holocaust.

I was charmed by this woman’s intelligence, wit and vivacity as she alternated tugs on her wine and puffs on her cigarette. When she volunteered that she was eighty-eight I reacted with exaggerated incredulity: “C’est pas vrai!.” Out came the carte d’identité and the first thing I noticed was her nom de famille-MAURIAC; the second was her birthdate-17 avril 1919– not only was she 88 she was eighty-eight today.

For about three seconds I performed a cost/benefit analysis of the spending of 46 euros and then signaled to our waiter for a bottle of champagne. As we raised our flutes in salute her surprise and joy were worth every centime.

A Rainy Night in Paris

I should have known better. It had rained almost every day that week and I left my apartment without an umbrella–a rain guarantor.

After a light dinner of pita, falafel, hummous, tehina, caviar provençale, grilled poivrons and cucumbers in fromage blanc at Café Marianne in the Marais I finished off a final glass of rosé, and started walking back to my apartment in the Bastille. By the time I reached the corner of the rue de Rivoli and the rue Vielle de Temple the heavens had opened with a vengeance. I scurried under the cover of awnings until I was driven inside the Bucheron to have a Cotes du rhone and wait out the intensifying storm.

As I approached the bar a vested, bearded character (Stephen) said hello and before I could order my wine two of his pals walked in. A tall Spaniard, whom I later learned is a master of Guignol puppetry, immediately began speaking to me in Italian and ordered a round of wine for his friends and after a 3 second pause, one for me. I can’t claim fluency in Italian but I was deep into the second glass before I had to resort to Spanish or French. Jorge did most of the talking while his buddy from Buenos Aires observed and sipped his wine. The bartender obviously knew these guys and continually supplied us with nibbles-anchovies in olive oil and rosette sausage from Lyon.

I never did pay for drink that night as Jorge taught us a game where each of us would hold between one and three coins in a fist and the person who twice came closest to guessing the combined total in our hands was exempt from paying. Two bottles later we had become Paris pals.

Stephen turned out to be a painter and sketch artist. He took out a binder and showed me photos of his large-scale work and watercolor sketches of café characters that he did for 20 euros. He then took out a pad, pencil and a collapsible palette of watercolors and proceeded to draw me. I was reminded of an occasion 37 years earlier in San Francisco when I was listening to music with friends on Union Street and a young man showed me a line drawing of me in animated conversation and said: “5 dollars.” Having just arrived from New York and full of bravado I offered 3 dollars to which he said no and no amount of persuasion or money would pry that drawing from him. I can still see that image as clearly as if it were in front of my eyes. So when Stephen showed me, me, I didn’t hesitate to fork over the 20 euros.