Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  And the girls and the boyfriend arrived. Boyfriend was introduced and la bise performed by all. We scooted around to make room and Elliott happily ran into the kitchen to bring the little margaritas, then the deconstructed tamales followed by the mango tacos, with and without shrimp. Where was the flash of rage? It was gone and Elliott was again the perfect chef/host. The girls and boyfriend were oblivious to the trouble and irritation their tardiness had caused. I was fine. I was eating those perfect chips with their perfect accompaniments.

  Elliott said the next course would require about fifteen minutes of cooking. We all enjoyed the rest of the white Burgundy and talked with only two quick pauses to fan the air when the smoke alarms blared. A magnum of old vine Morey-Saint-Denis was opened and Elliott tasted it. He went back to finish whatever it was he was doing to prepare this course while the wine breathed. J’aime poured herself a glass.

  “NO!” admonished Siobhan. “It’s breathing! You have to wait for Elliott to pour!” J’aime quickly gulped it down so she wouldn’t be caught by Elliott. Siobhan looked disgusted.

  Elliott brought out a foil wrapped pile of hot corn tortillas and a platter of sliced roasted steak. “The ones on the left are rare, the ones in the middle medium and the ones on the right are well done.”

  I took two corn tortillas and a couple of pieces of the rare. I added some of the green tomatillo salsa and sipped my glass of red. Tres contente.

  Poke a fork in me, I’m done. But no. Elliott brings out course number five, a big bowl filled with foil wrapped burritos! The big flour tortillas have been pre-wrapped and are full of spanish rice, beans, beef, jalapenos, who knows what else and are about nine inches long and as big around as a baseball bat. There are two labeled “earth goddess” that are for the vegetarian girl. I peeled off the foil from one end of mine and cut off a small bit. “I’m going to save the rest for later!” I said.

  “Not a problem” says Elliott “I’ve got more here for you to keep and for everyone to take home.” He holds up a plastic bag with several more of the beasts.

  At some point I stand up and start to clear away some of the dishes. “No! Sit down” blurt Joan, Siobhan and Joao in unison. They jump up and clear and start to wash and dry glasses and dishes. The pretty girls sit at the table continuing to look pretty. In the meantime, Elliott is making a very big deal about opening a very special and old bottle of tequila - different from the one that was a million years old and very hard to find - for us to sip while we digest. The dishwashers are back in their seats and someone produces a cell phone with a game app. Elliott goes first. He swipes up and then holds the phone to his forehead, facing us, while a series of words or phrases appear. We give him clues so he can guess the words. When he gets one right (or gives up) he tilts the phone quickly downward and a new word appears. We all shout clues madly at him and he gets maybe three right. Next up is Joao, then Siobhan, then me…. and we go around the table two or three times, refilling our tequila glasses all the while. It is interesting how harder or easier the game seems to be depending on one’s country of origin, age or for that matter attractiveness! The French boy was a disaster. Joao, growing up in Brazil but spending many years in London and Paris and being very well educated did much better, but still struggled with some cultural references. Elliott, Joan and I did well. And the pretty girls were a disaster.

  Joao disappeared for a few minutes and returned from the night market downstairs with a bottle of whisky and we all started to work on that. The pretty girls decided they had to head off to another party. And eventually Elliott and Joan headed home.

  Joao and I put away all the leftovers and finished the last of the washing up while Siobhan turned the massive table back to a coffee table. We had finished off the whisky so we opened the only bottle of alcohol left in the house, a bottle of inexpensive prosecco in the fridge and talked. Siobhan ranted about the pretty girls and the boyfriend.

  “Who comes to a dinner party, first of all an hour and a half late, and EMPTY HANDED?! It’s simply not done. I can’t believe that Elliott let them get away with that. And for him to jump up and wait on them like that, preparing all of the courses that they had missed while we waited. And the boyfriend… he may look good but he was so rude! I went into the bathroom after him and the seat was up and there was piss all over the place!” She tutted and huffed some more and then promptly fell asleep on the couch.

  Joao and I talked.

  Finally Siobhan awoke from her brief beauty sleep and she and Joao headed out into the night. It was just past midnight. I looked around my apartment. It was cleaner than when the guests arrived!

  I would call that a successful dinner party! I didn’t have to shop, cook or clean up.

  Petites Vacances

  The entire country of France is suffering from la canicule. Warnings were being issued by people who issue such warnings to stay out of the heat, stay hydrated, stay cool. People with jobs outside were cautioned not to go to work.

  I looked at the weather forecasts and there was one small area of the country where the forecasts were more moderate; Bretagne! So St. Malo it was! I booked a small vacation taking me out of the City. I had waited too long to stay for the five nights I had originally intended so decided I would leave on Wednesday and return on Friday night. That way, if I regretted my decision, I wouldn’t be stuck there too long.

  Tuesday Philippe asked, “So you go to St. Malo tomorrow?”

  “Oui”

  “Pour une semaine?”

  “Non! Seulement trois jours.”

  “C’est parfait! Trois jours.”

  I’m not sure why he endorsed the three day option but it made me feel like I was doing the right thing.

  The train ride was great. After getting out of the Paris the countryside got greener and prettier the farther away we got. The last thirty minutes of the ride was stunning with every possible shade of green. The trees were lush and the ground covered with thick masses of berry brambles. The train followed the path of a small river and the forested areas broke every mile or so for huge pastures with cows. Tiny farms looked exactly like what I would expect French country farms to look like, an old tractor, some geese wandering freely, chickens cooped, goats and sheep. I was revelling in the magic of my mini break.

  We arrived at St Malo station. It didn’t look like much, but train stations rarely do. I was in voiture 1. I grabbed my rolling suitcase and deboarded. It was a long train. Voiture 1 was the closest at Gare Montparnasse, but the farthest in St. Malo; about 40 voitures far! On the barren (and long) voie running alongside the train it was hot. But the station was small and the taxi queue was right out front, sans taxis. I was number three in line.

  The longer we waited, the hotter it got. Customer number two had a cat in a pet carrier who grumbled and howled and meowed unhappily. Finally a taxi came and customer number one was off. After a hot and howling ten minutes Monsieur le chat finally was off on his way. My turn came after another seven or so minutes.

  “Le Grand Hotel des Thermes” I told the driver.

  The taxi skirted the old walled city and headed east. We quickly arrived at the stately old hotel. What a Grand Old Dame she was indeed. Sitting on the oceanfront, the massive building was perhaps the most impressive in St. Malo, short of the old fort, which shamefully I never visited because I didn’t leave the premisses for the next forty eight hours.

  A bellman insisted on taking my one little rolling bag and heading toward my room. I protested. “Just tell me the number and I will find it.”

  “No, Madame, I will take you.”

  And I never would have found it. Up one elevator, across the Bar La Passarelle, where I got my first impressive glimpse of the sea, down a long corridor, turning into another, then into another, then up (or was it down?) another elevator to a small corridor that housed my room. I hadn’t paid the extra hundred euro a night that was required for a seafront r
oom and in retrospect I was grateful. I had a nice balcony facing a garden of the also impressive home next door. It was lovely and quiet and although I could hear the waves in the background, the more imposing sound was birds; pigeons cooing and seagulls crying. And it was blessedly cool.

  I sat on my balcony for awhile and gathered my thoughts. Then I went in search of sustenance and the Bar with that amazing view. I snagged a window seat in the room near the grand piano and a chubby young barman came over to welcome me and ask what I would like.

  “Puis-je avoir une Sidecar?”

  “Desole, Madame, non,” he said as he shoved the menu closer to me.

  “D’accord, je veux un Manhattan.”

  Bad idea. At least the Manhattan came with a bowl of peanuts and another of olives. The piano man arrived and started to play lounge music. I gazed out the window at the sea. The tide was a long long way out. The bellman had told me “the sea is very low. It will rise at twenty two hundred hours.” Below the bar I could see Le Terrass restaurant. It looked promising. The other two options were the Le Cap Horn, “restaurant gastronomique vue mer,” and La Verrière, the big formal dining room I could see through plate glass windows en route to my room. The former looked like something I would like for the next evening, the latter like a cruise ship dining room, something I would like maybe never.

  “Non, désolée,” I responded when I walked onto the deck of Le Terrass for dinner and was asked if I had a reservation.

  “Pas de problème.” The server walked me to the prime table with a corner view. Lucky me. He handed me a menu and left me to enjoy the view. The view was incredible! To the left was the old city of St. Malo. To the right a jutting bar of land that created a perfect little bay where the perhaps three kilometer beach stretched. As the bellman had said, the tide was low and the beach was huge. At 8 pm, it was light and every type of beachgoer was enjoying the perfect weather. There were surfers, sailors, swimmers, waders, frisbee throwers, sand diggers, metal detector surveyors, runners, walkers, sunbathers, land sail racers... anything you could do on a beach was being done.

  I ordered a bottle of wine and a starter of foie gras followed by a fish main dish. It was glorious. I felt guilty that I hadn’t bothered to book any of the restaurants that Elliott had recommended. But the food was perfect. The view was perfect. And I was happy. Why should I feel guilty! I sat and ate and drank and read my current Bruno the Chief of Police novel until the sunset at just before 10 pm.

  Then I signed the bill to my room and staggered my way back to the room, making perhaps only three wrong turns on that first trip. The bellman was right. I wondered if I could call on him again for further trips back to my room.

  I woke up late after spending my first night of vacation with Bruno into the wee hours. I lounged in bed. I felt guilty about not getting up and going; going to the old wall city, going to explore this neighborhood that was so very different than Paris, with its stone roofs and quiet streets. I made a cup of hotel room coffee and sat on my balcony enjoying the birdsong and the garden next door. A huge hammock hung from two trees in the yard. I fantasized owning that house, lying in the hammock all afternoon with Bruno, doing nothing I didn’t want to do.

  Finally my stomach grumbled enough to force me to go out somewhere so I took a shower, washed my hair, dressed and headed out. I finally found the Bar with the amazing view and peeked out at the beach. Filled with people reveling in the perfect weather! Down below I saw Le Terrass beckoning. So I strolled down and asked for a table.

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Non, désolée” I said, eyeing that corner table.

  “Hmmmm…” all of the tables had little reserved signs. Uh oh. They seated me at a table very close to the front desk. OK, I still could see the ocean. It was still shady. There was a lovely breeze. They handed me a menu.

  What came over the next three hours was one of the most lovely of gastronomic and sensual experiences of my life. Moules frites. Beautiful, fat, juicy and so plentiful I couldn’t eat them all. Crispy fries. Fresh local rolls with the most amazing local butter I’ve ever eaten in my life. I didn’t need the rolls, I had the frites, but I needed some kind of vehicle for that incredible butter. I knifed big slabs of butter onto tiny bits of roll and popped them into my mouth. For an hour I plucked the little moules out of their shells and popped them into my mouth. “Un autre verre?” I asked. Another glass of wine.

  “Dessert?”

  “Bien sûr!” Even though I couldn’t finish my moules I had seen the kouign amaan on the menu. It’s a Breton specialty, a crusty pastry with butter and sugar folded in again and again and again until the result is a delicacy so rich and sweet and buttery that it defies description. It came in a big puddle of caramel cream and topped with a globe of rich vanilla ice cream. It would have been perfect for sharing. And I somehow managed to eat the whole thing by myself!

  I signed my bill to my room and looked down to the old walled city at the end of the boardwalk. I definitely needed to do some walking to work off this lunch. So I walked one hundred or so steps to the lounge chairs on the deck and chose one in the shade overlooking the beach. I flipped off my sandals and settled in for a nice read.

  That’s about how my St. Malo vacation went; eat, drink, relax, read. I google street-viewed the streets of the old town. It was lovely! I google street-viewed the restaurant that was recommended by my friend. It was lovely! I sat on my little shady private balcony overlooking the lovely garden of the house next door and read my novel. Feeling guilty, I promised myself that I would get up early tomorrow and walk down to the old town. I didn’t have to check out until noon. And my train wasn’t until 4:30. I could even check out earlier and leave my bag at the desk, walk down to the old town and have lunch at the lovely little restaurant in the old town.

  But the next morning found me lounging on my little private balcony, sipping the coffee I made in my room, reading, spying on the neighbors in their charming little garden, and feeling a little sheepish. I definitely sold St. Malo short! I simply did not give it enough time. I would come back again and spend an entire week. I would stay in the charming hotel in the middle of the walled city, the one across the street from the charming restaurant that I never went to. Not this cruise ship of a hotel with old people wandering around in their hotel bathrobes and hotel slippers!

  I checked out at noon, left my bag with the front desk and made my way back out to the Terrass restaurant. I ate the most wonderful meal of cod, risotto and cèpes with a beurre blanc on the side that was so good I took the tiniest bites I could to savor every single morsel. I lathered the amazing bretagne butter onto tiny bits of roll, making each bit an excuse for a glob of the delicious butter. I sipped a nice cold bottle of rose; a whole bottle all by myself. And for dessert, a trio of crepes with apricot preserves and chantilly. I didn’t read. I didn’t write. I just ate and drank and tasted every single bite and every single sip. It was decadent.

  I dragged the lunch out until the last possible moment and then collected my bag and took a taxi to the train station.

  I could live in St. Malo, I decided at that moment. Not in the cruise ship hotel of course. But on one of these little streets in the neighborhood. It was so lovely, so cool, so fresh, and so quiet. This is something definitely to investigate on my next visit… soon!

  I arrived at Gare Montparnasse to a blistering hot Paris and trudged through the station, looking for the way out. Stepping out into the Paris evening, 9:30 was still light and people were lounging about on every planter box and stairway. I made my way to the bus stop where the 95 bus starts and ends its journey, climbing into an empty bus just as the doors closed and it headed toward Montmartre. This might not have been the very best of ideas as the bus was like a sauna. Crossing Paris from corner to corner we passed every amazing thing that is Paris. As the sun set and the lights started to come on the cafés along Boulevard Saint-Germain were
stuffed with rosé drinkers; Café de Flore, Les Deux Magots, Café Bonaparte… not a Hemingway or Fitzgerald in sight but still pulling in tourists and locals alike. We breached the Seine and crossed Pont du Carrousel into the street passing into the grounds of the Louvre; to the left the entrance to the grand Tuileries, to the right, the Pyramid of the Louvre - now lit brightly as night descended. Continuing on through the Carrousel courtyard diners enjoyed their meals in elegance at Café Marly. We continued on past Palais-Royal and the popular Café Nemours and headed up Avenue de l’Opera. The steps of the Opera Garnier, what I contend to be the most beautiful building on earth, were crowded with people. At the top, couples were dancing the tango. Such a glorious Paris night!

  Continuing on past Gare Saint Lazare and into the Clichy neighborhood, Paris taking a turn into a grittier ambiance. I was dripping with perspiration, not so clever as the woman across the aisle from me who had thought to carry a folding fan. I wondered where I could find one. Past the Lebanese diners, the falafel take outs, the KFC, across Boulevard de Clichy, the Moulin Rouge just a block down the street, I got off at Caulaincourt Clichy. Here the little tourist shop and café were closed and nobody sat at the bus stop. The sign was not lit but I had noticed at the previous stop the 80 bus was just about 5 minutes behind. This far up the hill there was a slight breeze and it was glorious to be off the bus. I sat on the bench and enjoyed not being hot; being back in Paris. The bus came, taking me the next two stops uphill. I stepped off at Square Caulaincourt. This far up the hill the breeze was stronger and the street was quiet. A few people lounged on the terrace of Le Cépage. I walked the half block to my door. The guy in the mini market downstairs was outside, sitting on the ice cream cooler, enjoying a smoke and I said “Bon soir” as I always do when I arrive home at night.