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?

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?)

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?

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.