July 1976
SOLD!
Joseph Wechsberg
For a long time I’ve wanted to see the Hôtel Drouot, Paris’s famous public auction house, which some people call the Hôtel des Ventes, but like most foreigners I never got there. The Hôtel Drouot is a large, forbidding building, very popular with Parisians, poor and rich, who want to buy or sell something. The other important public auction house comparable to it that I know is Vienna’s Dorotheum, a veritable treasure-house, where people who know their way around can find many good things, often at reasonable prices. There are people who have taste and money, both in Vienna and Paris, who get everything for their houses at these institutions. Both auction houses are state-supervised, with strict quality controls and none of the funny business that sometimes occurs at private auctions.
The rue Drouot, off the Grands Boulevards, is hard to find; I suggest going by taxi. The best time to visit is Saturday afternoon, when there are no auctions and innumerable things are displayed for interested viewers. I went there on a Monday afternoon. I didn’t want to buy anything; I wanted to see what happens, and I had no idea what I was going to find. The auction rooms, on the ground floor and second floor, were crowded with what the pollsters call a cross section of people—clochards, elderly gentlemen in camel hair coats that had seen better days (both the coats and the gentlemen), frantic housewives rushing from one room to the next, righteous-looking citizens with cold cigarette ends in their mouths, and, I’m glad to report, even a few not-unattractive ladies who seemed to give me an encouraging smile. Well, let’s not jump to conclusions.
In one room shabby household goods were auctioned off for very little money. People bought cheap pictures without frames and cheap frames without pictures, used mattresses, children’s carriages (maybe connected somehow with the mattresses), and some lovely old straw traveling baskets. These last brought back memories of my mother and Fräulein Gertrud packing our things for summer vacation at the North Sea or Baltic Sea—never the Mediterranean.
A commissionaire in a dark-blue jacket who had nothing better to do didn’t mind giving me a few pointers. On Saturday afternoons between two and six, experts will take potential bidders around, tell them whether a piece is genuine or fake, and give them an estimate of its value. Those who find something that interests them come back the following week when the item is scheduled for auction. If they can’t make it, the commissionaire will do the bidding for them. They tell him their limit and also pay the charges, from 10 to 16 percent. After the sale one can pay in cash or by check. One takes one’s purchase home the same day or the following day. There is a transport office at the side entrance on the rue Chauchat, with vans and sturdy men standing about. They’ll deliver anyplace, at the purchaser’s expense. “Couldn’t be easier,” said the commissionaire. “Our Parisians love it. Some practically live here. All sales are announced on Friday in the Gazette de l’Hôtel Drouot. You American, hein? You can have it mailed there, ninety-five francs a year’s subscription.”
I happened to be lucky that afternoon. Room 14, on the right side of the ground floor, was crowded with an unusual group of people: wealthy-looking men with a gleam in their eye, obviously connoisseurs; tough career girls “acting for somebody else,” no doubt; and well-fed characters who were, I was almost sure, restaurateurs or chefs out of uniform. Everybody had a red-bound catalogue in his hand and checked off numbers. Looking over the heads of the people I saw row upon row of wine bottles on long tables and cases of wine on the floor. The auctioneer sat on a raised platform behind a table. In front of him two men were holding up wine bottles while he carried on his business, occasionally bringing down his hammer.
I bought a catalogue. Mes. Ader, Picard et Tajan, Commissaires-Priseurs Associés in Paris (with fancy addresses in New York City and Lausanne), had arranged a public sale of Grands Vins de Bordeaux, Bourgogne, et Champagne, “appartenant à divers amateurs” (belonging to various amateurs). I pushed through the crowd. There were many young people who noted all sales, making meticulous entries in their catalogues like system players in Monte Carlo. I talked to an elderly gentleman next to me who happened to be one of the “various amateurs.” He wasn’t here to buy, he said; he was selling his cellar and wanted to see what was going to happen.
“Doctor’s orders,” he said, feeling perhaps that an explanation was needed. “He claims I must stop drinking wine. I’m seventy-seven.”
“You don’t look it.”
“That’s because I’ve been drinking wine all my life. Mostly white ones that are said to be full of acid. Acid! Ha! Don’t you ever believe a doctor!”
“I’m trying not to,” I said, and I meant it and nodded.
“Don’t nod, for goodness sake,” he said, and gave me a push in the ribs. “If the auctioneer had seen you, he might have thought you were bidding. Down goes the hammer, and you’re stuck.” He looked at the rows of chairs that were all occupied. “I see no British,” he said. “Where are they? They always used to attend these wine auctions.”
“Maybe they don’t have as much money now,” I said.
“Are you kidding? Maybe they don’t have money at home, but here in Paris and in Lausanne they have plenty of money. Now, don’t move your head; be careful.”
I kept standing like a soldier on guard duty. One of the assistants held up a bottle of Grande Chartreuse Jaune, “D’avant 1910.”
“Nine hundred francs,” somebody behind me said. “I hope he doesn’t drop the bottle.” One dollar was about five francs then; thus the bottle was $180.
“They never drop things here,” said my neighbor. Some truly great wines would come up in small lots for sale: eight bottles of Château Cheval-Blanc ’34 (estimated price 1,300 francs for the lot); five bottles of Château Lafite-Rothschild ’45 (1,500 francs, $300, which means $60 a bottle, truly a super-bargain); seventeen bottles of Château Mouton-Rothschild ’07, just my age, for a mere 1,200 francs. The most expensive item in the catalogue was lot No. 533, nine bottles of Château Mouton-Rothschild ’28, a super-year, starting price 3,000 francs. A steal!
While I watched fascinated, trying not to move my head, some spectacular bargains were auctioned off. Twelve bottles of Vosne-Romanée ’46 that went for from 300 to 820 francs. Thirteen bottles of Château Latour ’39, from 300 to 550. One lucky buyer got a bottle for less than $9. Imagine!
But: There seemed to be a but. I noticed that the people sitting in front, on the chairs, hardly moved their heads, spoke in whispers when they made a bid, made mysterious signs. I asked my amateur friend.
“Insiders,” he said. “Some of them bidding for hotels and restaurants or rich individuals. Everybody here knows everybody, and they know how high to go. This is real science, mon cher, nothing for dilettantes.” He gave me a hard stare, leaving no doubt whom he considered a dilettante.
“I still wonder about the British,” he said. “They always used to buy things that they could not afford. Certainly they cannot afford these wines. Where are they? See that fellow over there with the bulging neck? A German!” He gave me an unhappy look.
Just then a lady friend appeared in the door and waved to me. She had promised to meet me at the Hôtel Drouot. I waved back and prepared to leave.
“Do you like Champagne?” my neighbor asked abruptly.
“I’m not supposed to drink Champagne. Doctor’s orders.”
“Then why did you raise your hand? You almost acquired lot No. 53. Look at your catalogue: seventeen magnums of Pommery and Greno Brut ’43. 500 francs.”
“Mon Dieu!” I said, really terrified. What would I be doing with seventeen magnums of Pommery?
“Quiet, both of you!” said a connoisseur behind us.
I said good-bye to my amateur friend, trying not to move my head, and slipped out. My lady was waiting. I wanted to get away from all magnums of Champagne as fast as possible. I’d had it.
Outside, a taxi drove up. The woman next to the driver got out, paying no fare and not s
aying thanks, and quickly walked into the auction house. We got in.
“There you are,” said the driver, an elderly man, turning on the meter. “My wife’s got a job from seven in the morning to one in the afternoon. Then she comes home, makes something to eat quickly, and we rush out and I bring her here. She’ll spend the whole afternoon at that damn place, looking for a diamond she’s been talking about. Not for herself, for a friend. She knows everybody at the Drouot, and her friends ask her to buy things for them. Ah, you can find bargains if you are smart and lucky. Last year my wife bought a pearl necklace for our daughter for 480 francs plus sixteen percent, with a certificate of authenticity. At the Drouot you are always sure of quality. Later a jeweler told us the necklace was worth at least 2,000 francs.” He turned around to see our astonished faces. “Not bad, what?”
I said it was certainly not bad.
“This afternoon,” he said, “my wife will meet a group of women who spend every afternoon at the Drouot when they have sales, standing around, just watching, mostly not buying. Sort of Monte Carlo, if you know what I mean.”
I said I knew what he meant. Wasn’t he afraid, though, that she might once lose her head and his earnings?
“You don’t know her. She never loses anything. Only thing I don’t like is that we always have to eat in a hurry. Gives me indigestion. She feels she must go back quickly to Drouot. Sometimes I think she feels that Drouot is her home. But she does get good things. We even have an old upright Pleyel piano at home, though no one plays it.”
I said I knew other people who have pianos in their houses that are not being played.
The driver nodded sagely. “Standing,” he said, “that’s what the Americans call it, I think. You’ve got to have it. Well, as long as she knows her limit. That’s the important thing. When you get out I’ll give you my card. If you ever need anything special, call me, and my wife will try to get it for you at the Drouot. As long as you know your limit.”
October 1974
BIBLIOTHÉQUE DU GOURMET
Joseph Wechsberg
Monsieur Edgar Soète, a cheerful man of indefinable age, is the proprietor of the Librairie Salet, at 5, quai Voltaire, on the Left Bank. In his large, bright store that looks like a living room M. Soète keeps thousands of books on gastronomy. An early one is the famous volume by Platina de Cremona published in 1474 under the title De honesta voluptate. The author’s real name was Bartolommeo de’ Sacchi (1421–1481), but because he was librarian at the Vatican he didn’t want to endanger his job. The French version that M. Soète showed me is a great rarity, translated by Didier Christal, prior of Saint-Maurice near Montpellier. “Only two copies have been sold at auction in London in our century,” it says in the catalogue, which quotes a price of thirty-two thousand francs. M. Soète implied that values and currencies have changed and he wouldn’t sell the book for the quoted price now.
Occasionally he puts out a catalogue. He is not worried about suppliers and/or customers. “I find the books everywhere,” he said, “and I sell them everywhere.” There are similar bookstores in other cities, certainly in New York City, but being located on the Quai Voltaire, with a view of the Louvre, where one can admire the Mona Lisa and other, highly select masterpieces, M. Soète is in a somewhat privileged position with his “Bibliothèque du Gourmet.” He owns some treasures that he will show you only if you are a connoisseur and collector, with plenty of money, seriously interested in buying treasures.
And treasures there are. One of the latest catalogues offers Antonio Adami’s Il Novitiato del Maestro di Casa (1636) along with the cookbook of Apicius, translated from the original Latin, and the second edition of Banquet des Savants by Athenaeus, “which belongs in every gastronomic library.” A history of Italian wines, De Naturali de Vinis Italiae Historia by Andrea Baccius, in a beautiful seventeenth-century binding, is only seventy-five hundred francs. Lorenz Fries’s Von Allerley Speysen, published in Mulhouse in 1559, is eleven thousand francs. And so on.
M. Soète is not only a theoretical connoisseur and a respected expert who conducts his own auctions at Drouot, he also likes to eat well. Like many experts, he speaks about the subject with obvious reluctance. He confessed that he does not like la nouvelle cuisine française, though he sells books by Michel Guérard and the Troisgros brothers. He frequents bistros on the Left Bank, which he didn’t bother to name, but he admitted that he likes Allard, which is easy to understand. He doesn’t cook himself but knows a lot about cooking. That, too, is easy to understand. His catalogue has the “Bibliothèque d’un Gourmand” on the cover; instead of books there are sausages, hams, cheeses, bottles of wine, and other good things. The back page shows the cover of Le Cannaméliste Français by Joseph Gilliers, “or a new instruction for those who wish to learn the office.” The second edition is “of one of the most important culinary essays of the eighteenth century. The author was chef d’office of King Stanislas and his book contains a great number of recipes….” Only fifty-two hundred francs, but M. Soète said the catalogue had been printed some time ago and the prices were outdated.
M. Soète also publishes cookbooks and gastronomic books “when I have time for it” and tries to keep all cookbooks, new and old, in stock. That must be a formidable task.
“This is not something you learn in a day,” he said. “It takes a great deal of time and also a great deal of love. Sometimes a collector comes here with a specific idea and wants a specific book, but one cannot have everything. So I try to sell him something similar that will please him. One must know the literature and one must understand the customer’s psychology. No use offering him a first edition of Brillat-Savarin’s Physiologie du Goût if he hasn’t got that far yet. Incidentally, have you ever seen the first edition?”
I shook my head. M. Soète got up and walked toward the rear, opened a locked bookcase, and showed me the precious volume. It had the author’s inscription to a lady of whom he must have been fond. I asked M. Soète how much the book was worth. He smiled and said it wasn’t for sale. Perhaps he meant it wasn’t for sale to me, though if an important collector came, or somebody from an important museum, he might reconsider.
“I could find you an early copy of the Escoffier book,” he said. “An excellent book.” I acknowledged it was excellent but not in the same league as the first edition of the Brillat-Savarin.
“Certainly not,” M. Soète said emphatically.
A customer came in and wanted a book about la nouvelle cuisine française. Without blinking M. Soète got up and showed her two books, and she bought both of them. Business is business. If you have something rare and valuable in mind, you just might find it at 5, quai Voltaire.
January 1979
FEEDING A CITY
A NIGHT AT LES HALLES
Alaire Johnston
Situated a mere stone’s throw from the Louvre, spilling out in the center of the city like some giant horn of plenty, are Les Halles centrales, Paris’s earthy, noisy central market. Through Les Halles passes the daily food supply of most of France in a phantasmagoria of waste and confusion. They have been called outmoded and burlesque, and have even been charged with looting the French pocketbook, but they still throb with a colorful life all their own.
It was in 1110 that good King Louis the Fat authorized some peasant women to set up fish stalls outside his palace walls. The fishmongers flourished, other vendors bought space from the crown, and from the twelfth-century fish stalls the world’s largest marketplace came into being.
Today Les Halles sprawl over more than twenty-one acres of choice Parisian real estate, and concessionaires—some of whose families have been in the market for many generations—handle every comestible known to the food-conscious French. A few of the main avenues have been widened and much of the market has been moved under glass-roofed pavilions, but the carnival air and the web of picturesque little streets still recall medieval times.
You can’t buy swans on the rue Cygne—and no stags roam the rue du Grand
Cerf—but butter and dairy-product stalls line the rue au Lard and every conceivable variety of champignon is sold on Mushroom Alley. And in the narrow, Hugoesque rue de la Grande-Truanderie, there are grimacing and whispering women with arrogantly swinging hips.
The time to see Les Halles is at night, for the market wakes while the rest of Paris sleeps. As late as midnight there is little stirring except black-caped “flics” on patrol or revelers restaurant-bound. Then, about one o’clock, great trucks from every corner of France begin inching their way through the narrow streets.
Visitors to Les Halles find no shortage of amusements with which to pass the time while the market is being set up. In fact, there is so much to do in the neighborhood that fun-loving Parisians have been coming there in the early hours of the morning for well over a century. In 1850 the crush was such that the authorities closed down a number of all-night establishments. However, some of the old restaurants survived and are still flourishing today, among them Au Pied de Cochon, Le Grand Comptoir, Pharamond, and Le Père Tranquille.
Which one to try first is largely a matter of taste. If you’re a tripe enthusiast, there’s Pharamond. The specialty of the house at L’Alsace aux Halles is choucroute garnie. For snails, there’s the famous L’Escargot-Montorgueil. Just let your appetite be your guide.
One way to begin a night at Les Halles is with dancing at The Smoking Dog (Le Chien qui Fume), the oldest of Les Halles’ bistros. In 1740 it was a village tavern where the poor of the quarter gathered to have a bowl of soup and to sing the chansons of Paris. The Smoking Dog has been a popular and colorful nightspot ever since.
Remembrance of Things Paris Page 7