Philippe set me up with a bottle of water, a bottle of rosé on ice, another bucket of ice for my glass and my water, and eventually the tarte a lieu that it was just too hot to eat very much of. But I wrote. I wrote for four hours! I wrote through a sudden monsoon which left the air humid and hot.
At 5:30 ish I hopped into an Uber and headed to Saint Ouen to meet Elliott and friends at a hip new hotel near the brocantes. “It’s too hot to stay home so I snapped up their offer for an air conditioned room plus extras for 99 euro.” The extras included a pizza, a bottle of rosé, breakfast and a 2 pm late checkout the next day. Sounds awfully good! But I have la clim so I’ll just come for drinks and dinner thanks.
I taught the bartender to make a perfect Sidecar and joined Elliott out on the terrace. Soon Siobhan came. Elliott told us about two twenty something American girls who would be joining us; one a promising singer trying to make a career for herself in Paris. The other he said was a model. Then we heard about the various models and ballerinas who Elliott had dated in his young life and the impact they had upon his choices and habits later in life. Personally my expectations for the two were very low.
The girls, J’aime (!!) and Jenny turned out to be lovely. J’aime, the model told us she was an actress in LA and was hoping to expand her career in Europe. She had big beautiful brown eyes and a friendly open and interested attitude.
More bottles of wine arrived. Then prosecco. I was done. I said my adieus and grabbed an Uber home. I had the absolute best conversation with my Uber driver. He raved about my having accomplished the French language so completely and quickly and couldn’t believe how brave I was to move to Paris all by myself. I had to use the English word for “pas courageux; indulgent” Ha! Google tells me it’s indulgent! It’s interesting that people who I pay all rave about my mastery of French. My friends, not so much. Magalie nitpicks my genders and plurals, “les vacances”, she admonishes. “Vacances sont toujours plural” That’s good. I need someone who doesn’t let me get away with mistakes. As Daniele Chandelier said “will she be TOUGH!” Magalie is tough but loving. And she did say that I am so much better than before.
I pour myself out of my Uber with a “cinq étoile! Et une sixième étoile pour la clim!” Five stars! And a sixth star for the air conditioning!
He laughs. “Cinq étoile pour vous aussi!”
I take extra care crossing the street because I know I have had a lot to drink. I step up to my door and dig in my laptop bag. OH FUCK! Can I really have forgotten to put my keys in my bag? SHIT SHIT SHIT!
No keys.
I walk up to Cépage and sit at a table on the terrace and empty out everything in my bag; laptop, notebooks, kindle, wallet, iphone, headphones, assorted euros and used kleenexes. No keys.
I texted Stephanie. No response. The manager comes out and asks what I would like. I told him my problem.
“I could call the pompiers?” he suggests. Maybe they could break into my apartment for me.
I don’t think that’s a very good idea.
I check Le Terrass hotel on my phone. They have rooms.
I make my tipsy way down rue Caulaincourt to the hotel. Even though it’s 11 pm it’s blistering hot outside and the rain and hail has made mushy work of the fallen tiny flowers and pollen that have been snowing on Montmartre all week. By the time I arrive at Le Terrass I’m a sweaty mess.
“J’espère que vous avez une chambre ce soir! J’ai laissé mes clés dans mon appartement et j’habite seule!” I hope that you have a room tonight. I left my keys in my apartment and I live alone.
I’m in luck. They have two rooms. I can get one for a meager 200 euro. “You will sleep very well tonight, Madame, with la climitasion!”
I should have stayed at the MOB Hotel! I could have gotten a pizza and a bottle of rosé for half the price!
“J’ai la clim chez moi” I have air conditioning at home!
“C’est vrai? That’s very unusual!” He adds “the good news is, you are a Parisienne! You don’t have to pay the city tax!”
OK, I guess there’s a rainbow in every storm.
My room is fine. But I’m not in the mood to enjoy it. I peel off my clothes and lay naked on the bed. The air conditioner doesn’t seem to want to turn on but the room is cool enough. What’s up with that? My phone is nearly dead and I have no charger. A text comes from Stephanie. “I’m not in Montmartre but Stéphane can come let you in now if you want. He can be there in 10 or 15 minutes. Let me know if you’re not there so he can go back to sleep.”
Poor Stéphane seems to pick up a lot of Stephanie’s loose ends. And mine too now it seems.
I reply, “I’m at the Terrass for the night. Brian comes tomorrow at noon. Can you please let him know he’ll need to let me in?”
I turn on CNN. There’s an upside! It’s dismal and I turn it off and pull Bruno into bed with me. “You get to sleep with me naked tonight, Bruno!” I have no toothbrush, no hairbrush, no pajamas… I’m a mess.
I spent a restless night, resorting to Bruno at 2 am, 3:30 am, 4 am… Every time I noticed myself adding things to the story I tried to sleep again.
At 8 am I get another text from Stephanie, just before my phone is about to die. “Brian will be there at 12:30 or I can come earlier if you like.” I hate to be an inconvenience but… yes please! We agree to meet at my apartment at 11.
I hike up the hill to Cépage at 10. I arrive a sweaty mess again. Laurent brings me coffee, juice and a croissant. At 11 I go sit at the bus stop in front of my apartment.
Stephanie arrives fresh and adorable in a little mini skirt and tank top. “Did you walk up the thousand steps?” I ask.
“Yes! and usually I get to the top panting but today I feel great!” She looks great.
She lets us into the lobby, into the second door, beyond which I could not get. I take the elevator. She takes the stairs. I’m in my apartment!
Off she goes for a weekend away to Reims. She and Stéphane are staying at a nice hotel with a pool and having dinner at Domaine Les Crayères. I hope Stéphane is getting something nice for all of this covering Stephanie’s ass. She says he’s like a brother. I hope it’s an incestious brother relationship!
I brush my teeth and wash my face and brush my hair and change my clothes. Not enough time for a shower. I pull myself together enough to go out before Brian arrives for this week’s cleaning.
I repacked my computer bag with my fully charged laptop, iphone and KEYS, which will forever henceforth live in the pocket of this bag. I take out my trash and head down to Les Loups for lunch and writing.
Sitting on the terrace, right next to the door is Caroleen. I seem to run into her or F everywhere these days! I ignore her and walk into the restaurant. After a bit she comes in and chats with the barman. I don’t give her the time of day. Such is life in a small village.
La Fiesta
I take back every snarky thing I ever said about Elliott. Oui, he talks a lot. And, oui, he could give others just the smallest opportunity to speak. But this weekend he went miles and miles above and beyond.
Friday night (THE Friday night before the big lock out) during the hail storm while drinking on the terrace, I mentioned the thing I miss the most in Paris is good Mexican food. That afternoon at GCA Philippe was discussing some new menu items with the chef and I overheard them talking about a Mexican salad.
“Mexican!” I blurted out. “That is what I miss the most in Paris!”
Of course, Philippe was not interested in my advice. He never wants my advice!
But Elliott took my remark and ran with it.
“Anytime you want, just say the word and I’ll make you a great Mexican meal. The only problem is my kitchen is too small and our apartment is too filled with books (evidently he has 5,000 books and is in the process of beginning to give them away) to host anyone right now. But I’d be happy to do so at anyone el
se’s house.”
“Chez moi!” I said. By this time I had had a bottle of wine with lunch and was on my second Sidecar at the MOB Hotel.
“How many people can you seat around your table?”
My table is a coffee table that leverages up to be a makeshift dining table. I’ve never seated anyone AT it before but I do a mental configuring. “Six?”
Charlotte warned me about the feasts that Elliott cooks in other people’s kitchens! But the die is cast and all I have to do is provide the space, the kitchen, tableware and the music. Siobhan will bring the ice. Elliott will bring everything to prepare the feast and to make pitchers of margaritas. The girls will bring their loveliness. Sounds good. The only downside is that I was hoping to catch a little bit of the Tour de France arriving in Paris, but I probably never would have gone anyway. It’s one of those you can’t get there from here things and hopefully the last big event that creates havoc on the streets of Paris for awhile.
Thus my first dinner party was born.
Saturday I finally got home from leaving my apartment that I had finally just gotten back to after the lock out debacle and wanted nothing more than a short nap. Bing. A text. From Siobhan; “I found ice. Can I bring it to you now?” Maybe I’ll ignore the text for a bit. Bing. A PM on another app. Bing. A voice message. Clearly I need to respond.
“Sorry,” I type into my phone. “I was napping. Yes, of course, come anytime.”
“On my way”
Two minutes later, “The door doesn’t seem to be working.” I had given her the wrong digicode.
“I’ll be right down.” I carefully grab the keys and head down to let her in.
She’s standing outside with a huge bag of ice talking to a friend. I guess I’m going to have more company than I thought! But the friend was just coincidentally passing by. She introduces us, we do la bise and she heads off to wherever she was going when she ran into Siobhan in front of chez moi.
Siobhan unloads several bags of ice into my fortunately empty freezer.
“Would you like a glass of wine? Or prosecco if you prefer?”
“Which would you prefer? Which would you rather have an open bottle of in your fridge?” She opens the fridge. “Wow, a nice big fridge! Can I make a suggestion? Put everything into this drawer here and leave Elliott lots of open space.”
“I guess the wine.” I say.
I take out a bottle and open it, pouring each of us a glass. I put the bottle on the table. She pulls her feet up under her on the sofa and makes herself at home. I wistfully say goodbye to my nap.
The afternoon morphs into a long discussion of Siobhan’s misguided love life. After a couple of hours she tells me she’s going to dinner with Elliott and Joan, would I like to come? And she has to go home and take a shower and put some makeup on.
“No thank you,” I say. Elliott on Friday and Elliott on Sunday is already over my allotment of Elliott. “I’ve got a reservation at Le Clou.”
We had agreed to start the Fiesta at 3:30 so I had a leisurely morning to do the very few things I needed to do. I took inventory of my table and glassware. I could manage six easily but the guest list has swelled to seven. We would have to use some mismatched dishes and glassware. I could take the odd place settings for myself. Not a problem.
I put away my personal things, made sure that there was nothing embarrassing in my bedroom or bathroom. Everything was stuck in drawers and closets. The apartment looked good. Elliott texted me with questions and comments throughout the morning and early afternoon.
“Do you have gas or electric stove top?”
“Gas”
“Do you have spoons and bowls for 9? Ariella and beau are coming.”
Uh oh.
“We may have to do buffet style. My table looks like it expands though!” I send him a picture of hinges on the edge of the coffee table top. “I’ve never done it though. Siobhan can help me figure it out.”
A few minutes later, “Ariella and beau aren’t coming. Seven will be perfect. Do you have gas or electric stove top?”
“Still gas.”
“Oh sorry! I was cooking and missed that. Yay! Perfect.”
“I’m headed to the market. Is there anything you need?”
“Nope! All is good.”
I make a quick trip to the market for napkins, toilet paper and some plastic cups.
J’aime texts to say, “I’m so excited about the fiesta! I should be there between 4 and 4:30.”
A few minutes later from Jenny, “I am working. I should be there around 4:30. Very excited! Oh, by the way, my boyfriend is coming.”
At this point I am finished worrying. “Great! See you soon!”
Siobhan arrives and is a whirlwind of activity. “OK girl wonder”, I intreat “Help me figure out how to raise and extend this table.
Siobhan is nothing if not capable. The table is raised and opened. It’s huge! We can easily seat 8, as long as two people sit on the sofa. We’re only short one chair. Somebody gets a stool, which is really one of my little night tables which has doubled in the past as a Christmas tree stand. Looks great! Just a little crowded with that big table in the small room but it works.
“I’m not sure that the intercom phone works or what button to push to let people in.” I confess.
Siobhan lifts the phone at the precise moment Elliott has buzzed. She pushes a button and he’s on his way in. I step out into the hallway to greet him at the elevator when he comes up the stairs.
“You didn’t take the elevator?”
“No! But the stuff is in there.” I had forgotten that Elliot doesn’t do elevators after getting stuck incident.
He opens the just arrived elevator and pulls out a large carrier bag and a trolley. “Joan will be along shortly. She went to help a friend move a heavy table.” He peruses my kitchen. “This is very nice!” he exclaims. He opens the fridge, “I love you, Katherine! You have provided me with an empty fridge!”
“You can thank Siobhan for that!” I said. “She suggested I make space for you.”
He unloads his groceries and soon the counter is covered with groceries, bottles and other things I haven’t even identified yet. But it looks very promising!
He tests the burners and pokes through the drawers for pots, pans and cooking utensils that he needs. He puts on an apron and sets to work. He’s got big freezer bags full of sauces, marinating meat, carnitas, and other goodies waiting to be integrated into the fiesta. He’s got thermoses and bottles of wine and bottles of tequila.
Soon Joan arrives with another carrier bag. Out comes a massive cocktail shaker. For the margaritas.
While he’s cooking Elliott takes pauses long enough to tell us what to expect from the meal. “As with wine, I always lead with the lightest foods and move towards the richer, more complex courses. So while most Mexican meals start with chips and salsas, you won’t find them on my table until the third course. I don’t want you filling up on them and not being able to really appreciate the two earlier courses.”
We nod in understanding but I’m frankly eyeing the bag of freshly fried tortilla chips.
It’s 3:30 and we are still missing some of our guests. “I know Joao will be a little late, he’s always late!” laments Elliott, “But where are those girls!”
“Oh, they texted me, they will be here around 4 or 4:30”
Oops. Elliott’s face flashes from irritation to rage. “There is NO excuse! We said 3:30 and I slaved to make sure that things are ready at a prescribed time!”
“My fault” I sheepishly confess. “They told me that yesterday. I should have told you.”
“That’s still inexcusable! We talked about this on Friday. This is simply not ok!”
Joao arrives stylishly late and when 4:30 comes Elliott decides that we will begin with the margaritas without them. The shaker is shaken
and the glasses we have been using for champagne (thank you Siobhan) are used for the fresh margaritas that Elliott has mixed. We toast and appreciate them while Elliott tells us about the one hundred and thirty year old tequila that he got on his last trip to Mexico. It’s evidently only available from a specific part of Mexico just outside of ... (or at Bevmo for $69 a bottle I find later. Note to self: get a bottle on my next trip to San Francisco as a thank you gift.)
Next up; small glasses serve as bowls and appear on our plates with soup. “This is a deconstructed tamale” Elliott tells us. “See what you think.”
It’s actually delicious! And yes, it tastes like a very good tamale.
“Wow!” I exclaim! “Elliott, Paris needs this restaurant!”
He grins.
“Seriously! I know that opening a restaurant is not something you ever want to do, but Paris really does need this restaurant. This is Michelin quality stuff! I especially like the way the spicy heat doesn’t hit until you’ve already been eating it for awhile.”
Elliott beams! “This is the result of repeated iterations of attempting to get this exactly right. I’m glad you enjoy it.”
Elliott starts to open a bottle of white wine but changes his mind and puts it back in the fridge, selecting another instead. “I think that this is the white we should start with.” He fills our glasses and then serves up the next course; shrimp mango tacos. He’s even prepared a separate smaller bowl of it for the vegetarian girl, who still hasn’t arrived. The tacos are small and delicious.
Again, I say “the perfect next course in this restaurant that Paris needs!” These things are Michelin size and quality. The wine of course is perfectly matched.
The next course is where the Michelin comparison ends and things just get good and real. And really good. Out come the freshly fried chips, a huge bowl of fresh guacamole, bowls of red, green and white salsas, sour cream, grated cheeses, beans with meat, beans without meat (for the vegetarian girl). And the second white wine, a stellar white Burgundy. OMG! This is what I’ve been missing. The chips are perfect. The salsas and guacamole are fresh and amazing, even better than anything I have found at home. I didn’t even try the beans. My satisfaction quota reached its limit.
Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Page 17