Apéritifs, or appetizers, are those tall, bright red or yellow drinks that are poured from two or three bottles by hurried waiters during the hour before lunch and the hour before dinner, when all Paris gathers at the cafés to poison themselves to a cheerful pre-eating glow. The apéritifs are all patented mixtures, contain a high percentage of alcohol and bitters, have a basic taste like a brass doorknob, and go by such names as Amourette, Anis Delloso, Amer Picon, Byrrh, Tomyysette and twenty others. Now apéritifs blossom in Paris as new cigarettes do in Toronto. It is simply a matter of the number of persons anxious to try anything new.
The first scandal came when police discovered that absinthe, which was abolished six years ago, was being sold in great quantities under the name of Anis Delloso. Instead of producing a beautiful green color that minor poets have celebrated to the driest corners of the world, the absinthe manufacturers were turning it out in quantity production as a pale yellow syrup. It had the familiar licorice taste, however, and turned milky when water was added—and it had the slow, culminating wallop that made the boulevardier want to get up and jump on his new straw hat in ecstasy after the third Delloso.
One loud, glad cry was uttered on the boulevards and in a few days word-of-mouth advertising made Anis Delloso the most popular beverage in the city. It continued until the police suppressed the manufacture of absinthe.
Anis Delloso is still being manufactured. It still has the licorice flavor—but the boulevardier waits in vain for the feeling that makes him want to shinny rapidly up the side of the Eiffel Tower. For it is not absinthe any more.
Now the big scandal is concerned with the Fourteenth of July. Bastille Day is the great French holiday. This year it started on Wednesday night, the thirteenth of July, and continued unabated all Wednesday night, all day Thursday, all night Thursday, all day Friday, all night Friday, all day Saturday, all night Saturday, all day Sunday, and all night Sunday. All big places of business, all department stores and banks were closed from Wednesday afternoon till noon on Monday. It would take about eight columns of closely set type to do justice in any way to that holiday.
Every two blocks there was a street ball where the people of that quarter danced. The street was decorated with colored lanterns and flags and music furnished by the municipality. That all sounds very tame and quiet, but it was not. Orders were given that neither buses nor taxicabs could go down a street where a ball was in progress. As a result there was no traffic.
The music for the ball in the street below our apartment consisted of an accordion, two drummers, a bagpiper and a cornettist. These four courageous and tireless men sat in a wagon box that was placed on four huge wine casks in the street and bowered with branches broken, I believe, from trees in the park. In this sylvan bower they sat, drank, ate, relayed one another on the instruments and played from 9 o’clock at night until 8 o’clock the next morning, while the crowd polkaed round and round!
This happened on four consecutive nights, while the inhabitants of the quarter had a little sleep in the daytime and the rest of the time jammed the street to dance. It was a wonderful thing to watch between twenty and thirty couples dancing hilariously in the street at eleven o’clock in the morning after having danced all night. These were not students or artists or such crazy people, mind you, but shop girls, butchers, bakers, laborers, tram conductors and laundresses, and bookmakers. It was a very great party—but it couldn’t have occurred on water.
Enter the “apéritif” scandal. The government spent some millions of francs on the party. It was all considered wisely spent money in the cause of encouraging patriotism. French flags were everywhere, fireworks went off at all times, there was a great military review at Longchamps at eight o’clock in the morning, attended by thousands of people who had danced all night, and went to sleep on the grass. An unbalanced young Communist took a shot at a prefect of police by mistake for M. Poincaré and the patriotic crowd mobbed him. Every one agreed that M. Poincaré’s life was undoubtedly saved by the Fourteenth of July because who could be expected to hit anyone they shot at after such a night as all Paris had just spent. It was a fine celebration.
The scandal consisted in the fact that above all the dancing places, over the heads of the musicians, where the government had placed the French flags and spent money for the music and decorations, were enormous banners advertising the different brands of apéritifs. Over the ball, flanked by the tricolor, would be a great sign “Drink Amourette.” At another place the people of the quartier would be dancing in an ecstasy of patriotism under the legend “Vive Anis Delloso—the Finest Apéritif in the World.”
No one seemed to notice the signs to any great extent during the evenings, but once the dancing was over a big inquiry was ordered to investigate why the government spent over a million francs to give the apéritif manufacturers about a million dollars worth of publicity. Several Paris newspapers have come out against there ever being such a July fourteenth again. There is a fearful scandal on and the inquiry about the apéritif signs still continues.
Did Poincaré Laugh in Verdun Cemetery?
The Toronto Daily Star
August 12, 1922
PARIS.—Did Premier Poincaré really laugh in the cemetery at Verdun when the United States government decorated the martyred city?
Whether M. Poincaré laughed or not, the pictures taken of him at the time caused the French Communist party to launch a bitter attack on the premier, brought forth a white-hot denial from M. Poincaré, caused a debate in the Chamber of Deputies, threw France into an uproar and also resulted in the country being flooded with postcards.
The picture published with this article was issued by the French Communist party in the form of a postcard, and first made its appearance at one of the Sunday Communist meetings held in the country outside of Paris. It shows M. Poincaré and United States Ambassador Herrick walking in the cemetery at Verdun and shows both M. Poincaré and the ambassador apparently laughing heartily. The Communists, who had always accused M. Poincaré of a great share in the responsibility for the war, issued the card with a flamboyant inscription, calling it “The Man Who Laughs” and saying that “Poincaré, like other murderers, returns to the scene of his crimes.”
In a short time the Communist headquarters had sold over 100,000 of the postcards. The matter came to a head in the Chamber of Deputies when a young Communist deputy smiled at some remark of M. Poincaré’s in regard to Communist propaganda in the French colonies in Northern Africa.
“You smile?” said M. Poincaré.
“Yes, I smile,” said Vaillant-Coutourier, the young deputy who was one of the great war heroes of France, “but I do not laugh in the cemetery of Verdun!”
M. Poincaré went white with rage, and denounced the postcard as a fake and demanded that the entire matter be cleared up with an interpellation. That is, that the Communists accuse him publicly from the floor, and that he answer.
“I never laughed in the cemetery at Verdun,” M. Poincaré said, denying the charge absolutely and categorically. “The explanation of the matter is that the sun got into my eyes and twisted my face so that it looked as though I were laughing.”
M. Poincaré has stuck to this explanation through thick and thin.
An interesting Toronto angle to the story appears here in the fact that the Star on July 22, in their picture page, published, long before there was any controversy or before the Communists had issued their postcard, a picture of Ambassador Herrick and M. Poincaré, taken at the same ceremony as the picture that has caused the great trouble. The Star’s picture shows Ambassador Herrick obviously laughing but whether M. Poincaré is smiling must be left to the judgment of the reader.
According to the French papers, Ambassador Herrick gave two explanations of the affair. The papers first quote him as saying that of course he did not laugh, and after being shown the picture as saying, “Perhaps something I said to M. Poincaré made him laugh.”
There are two divergent explanations already
. M. Poincaré says he did not laugh. Ambassador Herrick says perhaps something he said to M. Poincaré made him laugh.
Now comes a third explanation. A movie photographer who was present on the occasion says that he was hurrying to get in front of Poincaré and Herrick and was running along with his tripod when he slipped and fell sprawling and both the French premier and the ambassador laughed heartily at his ridiculous plight.
Whatever the explanation, the incident, the debate in the Chamber of Deputies, and the postal card have raised a furor in France. Over 200,000 of the postcards have been sold and they are selling at present at the rate of 15,000 a day. Communists charge that those sent through the mail are being destroyed, but those familiar with the French policy of complete freedom of speech in politics doubt this. At any rate they have made their appearance in England.
“What if M. Poincaré did laugh at the cemetery?” many people will ask. “Anyone might have laughed accidentally. What is all the furor about anyway?”
To understand all that you must realize the French attitude toward the dead. It is safe to say that no living man in France today commands as much respect as any dead man does.
Marshal Foch, Anatole France, Henri Barbusse, M. Poincaré or the Pope could never, any one of them, receive the united respect of all the people they would meet if they drove two blocks down the Champs-Elysées. There are too many people with too many divergent political, religious and ethical views in France for any one person to be a complete national hero. But everyone in a motor bus, regardless of religion or politics, takes off their hats when the bus passes a hearse, even if it is a draggled black hearse with only one mourner walking behind. Even the caps of the motormen and chauffeurs come off when they pass a funeral.
It is that great spirit of respect for the dead, coupled with the significance of Verdun, that has given the question of whether M. Poincaré laughed or not the national prominence that it holds.
Rug Vendors in Paris
The Toronto Daily Star
August 12, 1922
PARIS.—No one can sit for twenty consecutive minutes in front of any Parisian café without becoming aware, aurally or nasally, of the fur rug vendor. Wearing a dirty red fez, a bundle of skins slung over his shoulder, a red morocco billfold in his hand, his brown face shining, the rug seller is as firm a feature of Paris life as the big green buses that snort and roar past, the little, old, red one-lung taxis that grind and beetle through the traffic or the sleek cat that suns herself in every concierge’s window.
The rug seller comes by, smiles at each table, and spreads out one of his handsome fur rugs. If you assume such an expression as might fasten itself on the face of the Hon. Mr. Raney on the occasion of his receiving a delegation of the Young Men’s Pari-Mutuel Association with a request for him to contribute some fitting sum toward cushions for the seats at the Woodbine [racetrack] and at the same time inform the rug vendor, with a dirty look, that you hate all rugs and have just come out of jail after having served twenty years for killing rug sellers on the slopes of Montparnasse, he may pass on to the next table.
Twenty to one, however, would be a good bet against his doing so. It is much more likely that he will fix you with a sad, brown stare and remark, “Monsieur jests about my beautiful rugs.”
Now, if you, at this point, arise and kick the rug vendor with your strongest foot, at the same time hitting him heavily over the head with a café table and cry out in a loud clear voice: “Death to robbers and rug vendors!” there is a small chance that he will perceive that you are not in the market for rugs and move on to the next table. It is much more likely, however, that he will slip to his knees, grasp your foot in one hand, bow his head to the blow of the table and say, in a patient voice: “Monsieur kicks and hits me. It is on account of my beautiful rugs.”
There is nothing for you to do after that but help him to his feet and ask: “How much?”
The rug vendor unslings something that looks like a royal Bengal tiger from his shoulder and spreads it out lovingly: “For you, Monsieur, two hundred francs.”
You examine the royal Bengal tiger closely and perceive it is a beautifully patched and dyed goat skin.
“It is a goat,” you say.
“Ah, no, Monsieur,” says the rug vendor sadly. “It is a veritable tiger.”
“It is a goat!” you grunt fiercely.
“Ah yes, Monsieur,” the rug vendor puts his hand on his heart, “it is a veritable tiger. I swear by Allah.”
“It is a goat,” you repeat. “Stop this lying.”
“Ah yes, Monsieur,” the rug vendor bows his head. “It is a veritable goat.”
“How much do you charge for this mean, ill-dyed, foul-smelling goat?”
“A gift to you, Monsieur, for one hundred francs.”
“Forty francs. The last price,” you say grimly.
The rug vendor puts the rug over his back and walks sadly away. “You jest, Monsieur, you jest about the beautiful skins. We cannot trade together.”
You go back to your newspaper but in a moment there is a familiar aroma. You raise your eyes and there is the rug vendor. He is holding out the royal Bengal tiger. “A sacrifice. For Monsieur, because of his gentility, this beautiful tiger for fifty francs.”
You pretend that the rug vendor is nonexistent. He goes off again but comes back. “Forty-five francs,” he says brightly. “For Monsieur alone of all the world. Forty-five francs and Monsieur owns the very beautiful tiger.”
“I have bought a thousand like it for forty francs,” you answer, turning back to the newspaper.
“It is yours, Monsieur. You have bought it for forty francs. The beautiful tiger.”
The beautiful tiger is laid across the back of your chair and at once commences his lifelong job of getting hair on your clothing. You give the rug vendor two twenty-franc notes and he bows low. He goes off a little way but you see him eyeing you. He comes back.
“Perhaps Monsieur would care for one of these lovely morocco pocket-books,” he says, smiling happily.
There is only one thing to do. Leave the café.
Several hundred rug vendors are employed by a syndicate that makes the rugs and pocketbooks and pays the salesmen five francs a day and everything they get over the minimum price. Rugs are usually priced at 200 francs to start, with a minimum price about 45 francs. Most of the salesmen are Arabs.
Many of the rugs are well made and very fine-looking and are good bargains at from 45 to 55 francs. Tourists buy them at from 75 to 150 francs and are invariably very satisfied with them—unless the goat develops atavistic tendencies in the hot weather. For that there is no remedy.
Old Order Changeth in Alsace-Lorraine
The Toronto Daily Star
August 26, 1922
STRASBOURG, FRANCE.—You have to watch your step in Alsace on the language question. When William E. Nash of the Chicago Daily News asked a chauffeur in Strasbourg if he spoke French and the chauffeur answered with a flawless Parisian accent, “But yes, Monsieur! And do you?” we all had the laugh on him.
“Don’t you know that Alsace and Lorraine are French provinces?” we asked Nash and a good many other things of that sort. “What did you expect him to speak? Japanese?”
It was Nash’s turn to laugh when I asked a cabby in French how to get to the Place Kléber.
“Say, how do you expect me to know French?” he answered in Rhenish German. “What do you think I am? A professor?”
It is a strange fact that the chauffeurs of the taxis all speak French and the drivers of the horse-drawn cabs speak and understand nothing but German. It is the new against the old regime.
Strasbourg is a lovely old town with streets of houses that look so much like old German prints that you keep looking up at the chimneys for stork’s nests. Little rivers cut through it and there are picturesque quays where men sit fishing and women bend their backs to their laundering. It seems a very fine division of labor from the male standpoint but I think the women ar
e revenged because I have never seen any of the men catch any fish and imagine it is the soapsuds that keep them from biting.
The great single spire of the cathedral is visible from nearly any part of the town and the cathedral itself is very fine. It is built of reddish stone and seems to get larger the longer you look at it. The best place to observe it from is the terrace of the café that faces it where you can lean back in a chair and sight it over the top of a tall beer. Strasbourg has the tallest and narrowest beers in the world.
I asked the waitress at the café why the beers were so tall and narrow and she said they had always been that way. Then I asked a keen-faced young priest at the next table about it and he smiled into his own beer and said perhaps it was the influence of the tall spire of the cathedral.
To the left of the cathedral is the Kammerzell, built in 1472 according to the tablet, that looks like the inn in a Grimm fairy tale. It is six stories high and has a restaurant on every floor. We ate on the first floor in a low wood-paneled room that seemed to reek of flagons of ale, poniards stuck in the table and quarreling Brandenburgers and women with the sort of headdresses that go way out to a point like a long slanted-back dunce’s cap and have a veil draping down.
There was a roast chicken with tender green beans and a lettuce salad that came on after a fresh broiled brook trout from the Vosges and was followed by a fine sort of a cake and coffee. There was also a clear, dry Rhine wine in long, narrow bottles, much narrower than the beer glasses, and as tall as Indian clubs and obviously under the influence of the spire of the Strasbourg cathedral. Afterward there was a liqueur named quetch, a thimbleful made by distilling the big blue plums that grow in the orchards up in the hills. It tasted as plums look, but never taste.
We never bothered to find out what the restaurants on the six other floors were like.
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