Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  “No!” she spits out. “I am boycotting London. It’s been completely taken over by Arabs. They hunch in the doorways, sneering at you from under their headscarves. Spitting at you! But in the day…”

  “Maybe you should write a book” I offer up, eager to get the subject off Arabs, her catch all for any one of Muslim faith.

  “Oh I should… Sam North wrote a book about those days. You know, the old woman who owns those big mansions and would let out the rooms to young boys. Sam North wrote a book about the house on Chapel Street turned into a boarding house. He changed the names of course. Mrs….. still knew it was her and sued that author!”

  “How did it turn out?”

  “Oh, she died. The real Mrs Gorse took young boys and turned them gay.”

  “You can’t turn someone gay!”

  “Of course you can!”

  Again I change the subject to avoid another long lecture about something ridiculous. It’s not my habit to let people get away with such outrageous statements. I have learned with her there is absolutely no way I will convince her of the foolishness of her beliefs. Our hours of arguing about her outrage for all Muslims has left me frustrated and exhausted of any hope to make her a nicer person.

  La Séduction

  Elaine Sciolino wrote a book about it. “La Séduction”. Page one begins with a quote from Voltaire:

  It is not enough to conquer, one must also know how to seduce.

  I raise my hand high and say “I suck at it”.

  Ms Sciolino says a grand seducteur might refer to “someone who never fails to persuade others to his point of view.”

  Well, I’m great at that!

  A colleague in my past corporate life once told me I was manipulative. When I asked what he meant by that he said “you get people to do things and make them think it was their idea all along.” I told him I preferred to think of it as influence. Maybe, thinking like a French woman, it’s a matter of seduction.

  Sciolino goes further to say that seduction is bound tightly with the notion of plaisir, “the art of creating and relishing pleasure of all kinds… they give themselves permission to fulfill a need for pleasure and leisure…”

  Consider Philippe. What is it about him that has appealed to me? For a full year I barely noticed him. He was the guy who welcomed me, albeit warmly, each time I showed up for a Wednesday night jazz dinner. I noticed that he buzzed about, humming and singing to the music. It seemed to me that he would rather be performing himself.

  For the first year or two all of my interest was on that sexy drummer. I’m not even sure when the needle on my infatuation compass swung to Philippe.

  Once, during my long stay in Paris before moving here, he said something to me, all in French, about knowing that I had been watching Daniele at the Hotel du Jardin. (My pea brain substituting “stalking” for “watching”) I was startled and confused.

  “You were there?”

  “No.”

  By then I had my own dedicated table, we were tutoying and on a first name basis.

  He continues to buzz around, always with a song not far from his lips and lots of friendly words. Maybe Magalie is right. Maybe I’m just part of his revenue stream, albeit a friendly revenue stream. But I need to know. And if I can influence Philippe to see me that way, to seduce him into a bit of plaisir, I want to. I need to up my game.

  What would Ninon do?

  First stop, La Pharmacie. I picked up a hairbrush (no more finger combing for this girl), some mascara and a bit of eyeliner.

  “Comment dit-on eyeliner?”

  “Eyeliner”

  Now down to Le Café Qui Parle to reread La Séduction and have some lunch. Oh la la it’s cold! -3 degrees and ice on the sidewalks, although the sun is shining. While I wait at the crosswalk, a guy on a motorbike looks directly at me and holds the stare. I look right back, do an exaggerated little shiver and smile broadly. The light changes and he moves on. Une petite séduction. Fake it til you make it.

  A bowl of celery soup with a floating island of foie gras and a glass of wine in the shadow of the studio Toulouse-Lautrec shared with Suzanne Valadon. Take a deep dive into le plaisir.

  Who are these people?

  People come to Paris for a hundred different reasons. Like New York, London, San Francisco, it seems like nobody was born in Paris. People leave Paris for a hundred different reasons. Some come to study, my own daughter and niece among them. Perhaps the dream doesn’t live up to the expectations. They are poor. Living accommodations are dreary. The language barrier is more difficult than they expected. The French are rude. The city is dirty. The crusty baguettes have worn holes in the roofs of their mouths. When their year is over they return home where the stories of living in Paris are far sexier than the reality was.

  Some come to pursue their art. With its rich history of art, literature and music, the City beckons would be artesans of all kinds. But can the City deliver on its siren call? When asked where do today’s Hemingways hang out and put pen to paper, John Baxter, expat cum writer cum tour guide pooh poohs the notion entirely. The City, he claims, is entirely too expensive for the starving artist today.

  I would argue that today’s writers are the bloggers who habituate the coffee shops primarily in the ninth, tenth and eleventh arrondissements, taking advantage of the free wifi, a warm dry place to sit, and maybe a bit of camaraderie, all for the price of a coffee. They clog up the tables for hours; the scourge of café owners. A trend for enterprising landlords is to charge a day rate, or even, like the Peloton Café, to ban laptops altogether. (I wonder what they would do about me with my notebook and pen?)

  For the better backed among us, those with working spouses, or retirement nest eggs sufficient to support the Paris lifestyle, life may be a bit easier. We can pick and choose our working venue, careful not to overstay our welcome by eating or drinking on the cheap.

  Some come to work. Yesterday at a special Elliott curated Sunday Bacchanalian Roast, I surveyed the five other women at my end of the table; a Brit, an Irish lass, a Spaniard and two Americans. They have been in Paris between three and twelve years. All came to work. All had done a good job of adapting to their new city. While each seemed more than content to stay, none were opposed to the idea of following their job to a new location.

  “What about love?” I asked. “Have you met anyone here that would make you stay forever?”

  No. While each had dated a French man, none lasted very long and each of those relationships had cross cultural issues that got in the way. In fact, each of these attractive, successful and intelligent women in their thirties was currently single. And looking.

  Quatre vingt dix neuf per cent

  Ninety nine percent! That was the consensus of the ladies at Floyd’s Bar Sunday afternoon. At first they unanimously said 100%, but then they qualified the virtual totality with a possible one percent margin of “no”. What do these 99% of French men do? Cheat on their wives!

  I have to look around any room I’m in and wonder; Do you cheat on your wife? Do you? How about you? Or are you perhaps that amazing one in one hundred who doesn’t? And if you don’t, if this is such a totally accepted thing; why don’t you?

  “Keep in mind”, one of the women said, “their wives cheat as well.”

  Bien sûr, mathematically it stands to reason, if all these men have something on the side either the women must all have something going on the side, single women must be dating a lot of married men, or some smaller percentage of married women are really really busy with multiple lovers!

  For my part I sit there trying to wrap my head around this possibility.

  “You have to understand,” the Spanish girl says “It’s different here. A lover on the side doesn’t take anything away from the marriage. It doesn’t minimize how much they love their spouse. It’s just sex.”

  “Hmmmm” I really ha
ve no words.

  Maybe that’s why, if Caroleen is right, French women are so distrustful; why they listen to and delete their boyfriend’s messages.

  How would I feel, knowing that my guy had a lover on the side? That once or twice a week, he crept away for a cinq à sept? If I didn’t know for sure, would I be forever wondering? Watching? Worrying? Why even get married to begin with?

  Sitting on the terrace of Le Clou and enjoying a very French cheeseburger and frites, some sun and wine, I watch the beau Thierry working. Is he the one in one hundred?

  Le Cours de Cuisine

  I started following the Hotel du Jardin on social media after I enjoyed an amazing dinner that was hosted by their two Michelin star chef, Julien Rocheteau, and guest chef Stephane Jego, from L’Ami Jean. That was how I learned about Saturday’s Cours de Cuisine. “Spend the day in a Michelin Star kitchen!” was the advertisement. Limited to six people.

  So I signed up and showed up at 9 am on Saturday morning. Soon the Chef came out to greet me. It seems that the other students had cancelled at the last minute.

  “Well, surely you want to cancel the class.” I said, part sad, part relieved.

  “Non! C’est bon.” The class would continue. Me, Chef Julien and the translator, Aimee, who they had thoughtfully provided for me. Aimee was actually thrilled because she would participate with Chef Julien and me.

  We sat in the bar area and enjoyed coffee while Chef invited me to ask him any questions. I put on my interviewer hat, trying my best to ask my questions en francais.

  “You are only 34 years old and you have already earned two Michelin stars: what is next for you?”

  His shrug and quick tilt of his head to the right said “a third star, stupid!”

  The Oxford English dictionary has some 233,132 words. Le Grand Robert de la langue française has only 100,000 words (with 350,000 definitions). A great percentage of the French language is with shrugs, pouts, snarls, puffs of air from the side of their mouths, murmurs, eye rolls, growls, punctuated with oh la las and bah ouais and merdes and putains.

  “On y va” and into the kitchen we went. Chef gave me a white apron and showed me where to wash my hands. First up, we would be making his signature starter, a langoustine concoction with not less than fifteen ingredients and thirty seven steps. First step, peel the raw langoustines. Chef gave that task to the stupid American, after showing me how to do them first. It seemed simple enough.

  On my very first langoustine I punctured my finger and spurted blood. The class would have to be cancelled! It’s not possible to have human blood in the kitchen, especially not a Michelin star kitchen. Pas de probleme. Chef produced rubber gloves and proceeded to put one on my offending hand. My wet hands made the task all the harder, an errant finger jutting out to the side, the spurting finger rapidly filling with blood. “It’s going to be a long day,” Chef murmured in French. that I understood.

  I finally got six of the little devils (at twelve euro each, Chef told me) properly peeled and into water to be gently parboiled. Then Chef showed me how to roll them individually into a sheet of seaweed, making little langoustine cigars. The cigars were sliced into thick nickel size rounds which I arranged carefully into three ring molds. Into the ring mold went a jellied liquid that I watched Chef prepare. These were put aside to set while we made squid ink lace which eventually was broken into little triangles to poke into the unringed rounds. Out of a drawer came a tin of caviar and sheets of edible silver. Dabs of crème fraiche, little mounds of caviar, the triangles of squid ink lace and our entree was ready to serve.

  Aimee, Chef and I took our pretty little entrées into the private dining room and he popped a bottle of champagne. While my mind calculated the cost of these little starters I sipped champagne and prodded the Chef with more questions. I learned about his family, his wife and his hobbies. Aimee happily translated and enjoyed the champagne and langoustines. It was all very sympathique.

  Back into the kitchen to start on the main course; homemade ravioli stuffed with a rich cheesy mixture served on top of an elegant sauce and accompanied by three perfect scallops. This all atop a plate dusted with squid ink dust, made from the rest of the crushed lace. We spread flour and eggs on a marble table top and proceeded to make the pasta while simultaneously mixing the cheesy stuffing mixture. Rolled, rerolled and rolled again, the pasta was cut into strips and the stuffing placed in dabs at exactly the right spots, sliced and folded to be molded just so. Chef and Aimee’s raviolis were perfect. Mine much less so and were tactfully named Ravioli Katrine.

  Chef took a shortcut and seared the scallops while we watched, quickly plating the main courses and pulling a white truffle out of the magic drawer and shaving it over the plates.. We grabbed our plates and headed back into the dining room where Chef opened a bottle of crisp white wine for us to enjoy with our meal and added a basket of fresh mini baguettes. The meal of course was delicious. I suspect that by this time Chef was getting a little tired of his new best friends and was eager for the day to be finished. Aimee took a smoking break.

  The dessert course; soufflés! We beat eggs, we folded in flour, we prepared the little individual soufflé pans. Around us scurried other kitchen staff who washed our dishes, wipe up our spills and cleaned up our messes. We waited for our perfect little risen souffles to come out of the oven.

  Back into the dining room where he sunk a dab of chantilly into our picture perfect masterpieces and poured in a bit of grand marnier. Too salty! Well, I guess that even a Michelin starred chef makes a mistake now and then. Or maybe it was the distraction and fatigue of putting up with this annoying American. I have to say that Chef remained charming and gracious throughout the entire day. He autographed my apron and set me off with la bise, I’m sure, glad to see the back of me!

  I will never prepare any of the things we made that day. Well, maybe I will attempt a soufflé. But I absolutely gained an appreciation for why a Michelin starred meal costs what it does. The magic drawer with expensive ingredients; the crazy number of steps each course required; not only does Chef need to engineer, create and serve innovative dishes, he needs to work with vendors to procure the freshest and best product, buy artistic dishes for presenting his masterpieces in the exact right light, hire a staff both inside and outside of the kitchen, pair with the right wines, procure the right wines… Five days a week from morning to night. He stands on his feet all day. He deals with unappreciative clients, difficult vendors, unruly staff. And then after the day is over, he comes back the next day to do it all again.

  Shortly after I took my class the Michelin people came out with the next years stars. Chef Julien was downgraded to one star. I felt somehow responsible. He left the Table du Jardin and started a new restaurant, La Scène Thélème. He quickly earned his first star. What’s next? I imagine that Chef would shrug and give a quick tilt to his head.

  Le Divorce

  Finally! You can only hang around with bat shit crazy so long before you realize that makes you the crazy one!

  I actually walked out on Caroleen last night. Well, I told her I was leaving and she said “Yes, I think I should leave. We should both leave.” But she didn’t. I suspect she stayed behind to pick up my change.

  I don’t even know how to tell the crazy story. You could not make this stuff up.

  “Am I in your book?”

  “Yes Caroleen! You are too fucking crazy to not be in my book!”

  It started with an invite for an apéro. What is wrong with me? I hadn’t seen her in several days. My memory is evidently short.

  Her favorite table was occupied and I got there first so I got to choose. I took the comfy bench seat. She was stuck with the chair against the aisle.

  Maybe that’s why she started out on the defensive. Maybe it was because I’d had several fun busy days without her. She hates that I have so many friends already.

  The attitude manifested
itself immediately. It was happy hour. I ordered a margarita; she ordered an aperol spritz. An older lady came over from a couple of tables away. “Are you Americans?”

  “Yes!” Caroleen responded, then she quickly qualified that she had lived in Paris for a long time and had a French husband.

  Madame was German but moved to Paris with her French artist husband and lives in the 18ème in an artist atelier on rue Ordener. Quickly Caroleen piped up about her German mother and her roots allemande. (Caroleen detests her mother and disowned her some years ago.)

  Madame said something about loving New York. Caroleen lived in New York! She knows it well!

  Madame suggested that we should speak to each other in French. Caroleen looked at me and shuddered. Madam left.

  “You’re looking rather pretty” Caroleen said. I had put on lipstick. “I always go out with a bit of something; lip gloss (chapstick?), eyeliner (yes, about that eyeliner – you really have to be careful about that after fifty… Meow)

  “That reminds me, something I’m putting in my book” (You have a book now? Is it like the website you’ve been almost finished with for two years? Meow MEOW)

  “I go to a store, for example Mac, and say, “I’m not familiar with your line. How would I use your products if for example you had an evening soiree? And voilà, you are made up for the evening!”

  Great! So you are advising visitors to Paris to pull a fast one to get a free makeup job. Do you advise them to pop into Galeries Lafayette for a ball grown and carefully tuck the tags in so they can return it after a ballet at Palais Garnier?

  I shared with her my thoughts about nobody being born in Paris. That everyone seems to come from somewhere else.

  “Nonsense! There are hospitals here! People are born every day!”