“How is the American girl” he asked.
“Bien” I responded.
I am home.
La Canicule Continues
I always heard that Paris was empty in August but I didn’t know how true that was until I experienced it myself. Some say it’s the best time to visit, you’ll have Paris all to yourself (and the hundreds of thousands of other tourists; not exactly my favorite thing when visiting a foreign location).
I haven’t been down by the river other than that bus ride after dark, so I can’t say if it’s as deserted as everyone says it is. I do know that rue Caulaincourt is deserted. Tout est ferme! The butcher has gone on vacation until the end of August. The wine seller until the middle of September! The fromagerie closed. The Vietnamese restaurant, closed. The Florist closed. The real estate offices, all five of them, closed! The boulangerie is closed for good! A sign is posted on the window that there will be a new enterprise coming. I certainly hope it’s a boulangerie! Only two things remain open; Le Cépage and the Produce vendor. Thank goodness I won’t starve.
And the heat goes on…
Saturday I had booked at Le Clou. It was becoming a Saturday night habit. A good one I would say. In the late afternoon I got a text from Elliott. “It’s too hot to cook. We are looking for somewhere heavily air conditioned for dinner. What are you doing?” Assuming that he and Joan were not talking about my bedroom, I responded that I had reservations at Le Clou, where my favorite waiter had promised that if it was hot enough he would wear his speedo to work. It was certainly hot enough. I told Elliott that I was not sure that Le Clou was up to his standard, that I ate on the terrace, and the food was good but nothing special. If they wanted they were certainly welcome to join me.
A short time later he came back with, “We’d love to! Shall we call them and use your name to tell them it will be three?”
I told him I’d tell Thierry. (And oh by the way, he asked, could we make it a little earlier?)
So Thierry said, of course, and we were booked for 7:30.
And this is where I take back everything I take back taking back every snarky thing I ever said about Elliott!
I knew this was a mistake! I told Elliott, “Set your expectations very low! This is not an Elliott caliber restaurant!” To which he responded, “On days like this, food is primarily fuel.”
I got there a bit early to make sure to get a reasonable table on the small terrace. We were pretty much sardineed into a corner but the space for four would certainly work for three. It was pretty empty. I ordered an Aperol Spritz and had a hard time getting it. The waiter with the promised speedo was not working. The three who were there were the waiter who had been onboard for about three weeks, the one who started last week and the Pirate. No Thierry.
A short time later Elliott arrived with his omnipresent rolling market tote at hand. He took in the surroundings, obviously not impressed, planted la bise on me and sat down. We exchanged pleasantries and he waved madly to get the attention of any of the waiters. The new fellow was waiting on a table adjacent to us, speaking German to the patrons. Elliott’s ears perked up and he joined in the conversation, in German. It seems the young Cuban (I knew this by the huge tattoos covering his right forearm) had left Cuba to go to Germany, via Munich.
Elliott asked what whiskies they had. “Low expectations, Elliott. Don’t expect much from their bar!” They settled on something and a short time later the Pirate brought out a glass of whisky and a large glass of ice water.
Elliott told me about a picnic he was planning for the next day. Would I be interested in going? Maybe. He will add me to the Facebook invitation.
“Our picnics are not what you might expect.” he explained. “No blankets on the grass. I have acquired a folding table and folding chairs to accommodate these events. Tomorrow’s will be at Park Martin Luther King.”
“Did you just say that with a French accent?” I asked.
Ignoring my comment he went on. “It’s originally intended for just eight people, but I think this might get a bit larger.”
“Please don’t feel you have to include me.” I demurred.
“Nonsense! You are always welcome!”
Joan showed up a bit later but I could not get out of my seat, tucked away into the corner as I was, enough to greet her with a proper bise. She bent to me. Finally, way too late for Elliott’s taste, we were able to order a bottle of wine. “White of course.. we simply cannot tolerate a red in this heat!” He asks the waiter who has been there for two weeks what the year of one of the five white wines on the menu is.
“2017” he responds after checking. I internally groan. “No, that’s good,” says Elliott. Restaurants like this often try to pass off old whites.” Two minutes later the waiter returns to apologize. They are out of that wine. I groan again.
“No problem” says Elliott. That is not uncommon. He orders a Chablis that is evidently of a suitable year.
The wine comes along with a big bottle of cool water.
We talk about the picnic and who is likely to be there.
“How do we get to order?!” demands Elliott, frustrated at trying to get the busy staff’s attention.
Thierry walks in with his wife! I’ve never seen his wife in person. She looks a bit dour and Thierry doesn’t look particularly happy. She disappears into the restaurant and he tends to a few things. He sees me and brightens up with a big wave! “Ça va?!” I tell him I have been to St. Malo and liked it very much. Elliott asks who he is and I tell him that Thierry is the owner, who I have become friends with over the past two years.
The German couple’s meals are delivered. He’s got a steak and both Joan and Elliott wrench their necks to get a good look.
“No! It is not grilled.” Elliott expounds on restaurants that say “grille” on the menu but then served meat that has been cooked on a flat surface, not allowing the meats’ natural juices to run off and….” blah blah blah
“And you can tell by looking at the guy’s steak?”
“Yes, of course. Joan looked and it’s definitely not grilled! It makes me so mad when restaurants say on the menu ‘grillé” and they have no grill! At one restaurant we went to they brought me out a steak that was clearly not grilled. I told the waiter, ‘take this away! I cannot eat it!’ The waiter was confounded and didn’t know what to do. He insisted it was grilled. I told him that was preposterous and stood up with my plate to head into the kitchen! It scared him so badly he didn’t know what to do!”
By now Elliott has taken on the look of rage I have seen only three times before; when the taxi wasn’t where he thought it should be at Charlotte’s dinner party, again with an Uber driver when Elliott ordered it with a starting destination three blocks from the restaurant we were dining (so it would be “easier to find us”) and for a brief moment at the Mexican Fiesta when he realized the pretty girls would be late. It passed quickly but I found myself thinking, “OMG, please don’t storm into Thierry’s kitchen!”
We finally manage to order after Elliott has flailed his arms and complained loudly that we would like to place our order. Joan orders a fried shrimp starter with a special fruit salad entrée, Elliott orders a hamburger, bien cuit, with the sauces on the side and some grilled onions and the feta starter. I order the feta starter and the dorade with frites. I love the dorade with frites. It’s the first thing I ever ordered at Le Clou and has never disappointed.
“I would never order fish in Paris.” admonished Elliott. I didn’t ask why.
“So!” I say, taking the focus off the ineptitudes of the restaurant staff and the shortcomings of the food and wine list. “I want to ask you about the Somerset Maugham book.” (Elliott had told me, as a writer I really must read The Razor’s Edge.)
“In the very first chapter” I began, “the narrator says a writer should never attempt to write about someone from other than his own country.
Do you agree?”
“Well, you have to realize that Maugham is an unreliable narrator!”
Huh? Elliott, can you just answer the question?
At that point Elliott lectured me about the nature of the “unreliable narrator” and all of the instances when the literary device has been used to further the progress of the tale. He went on to outline the countless times that Maugham violated his own principle by writing characters that were not French. And I knew that the “conversation” would be precisely what Elliott wanted to be and the merit of Maugham’s principle would never be discussed. I also knew that the book discussion sessions that I had proposed to Elliott would not be pleasant at all. I can’t fathom how Charlotte got through the entire works of Shakespeare over a year or two of Monday nights in their small 17th arrondissement apartment!
The starters arrived. Elliott took a bite and declared, “it’s actually not bad.” Then he proceeded to polish off all but one of Joan’s fried shrimps, so they must not have been too terrible.
We talked about tomorrow’s picnic. Elliott told me how his picnics were far and above the normal picnic and that he intended to organize Le Diner en Noir soon. That started a rant about Le Diner en Blanc.
“I was involved in the first of them. When there were only fifty or so people on the Ile-Saint-Louis. And then it turned into that insane thing with thousands of people. It’s ridiculous!”
We have finished our starters and our water carafe is empty. Elliott is gesticulating wildly at any staff who will pay attention, “How do we get these plates removed?!”
I calmly asked for another carafe d’eau and another bottle of wine.
Our mains arrive, Elliott’s burger indeed has the sauces on the side but no onions. He plucks a frite from the bowl and declares that they would be ok if they were actually crispy. Mine seem crispy enough. He cuts his burger in half and grumbles about the bun. “Hamburgers in Paris never have the right bun, always a brioche, which makes it impossible to pick up.”
“I always eat mine with a knife and fork.”
“Yes, as do all Parisians”. He picks up half of his burger and takes a bite. It must not be terrible because he doesn’t complain.
Somehow the topic of reservations came up. I mentioned that it was evidently a big problem for Paris restaurants and that many people make reservations but failed to keep them. “Even L’Ami Jean said that after they reconfirm reservations by phone people don’t show up. And that’s a very hard reservation to get.”
“Oh yeah, it’s that restaurant in the seventh that all the Americans like.” I’m pretty sure that he knows it’s one of my favorites.
We talked about popular restaurants in Paris; expensive restaurants. I stumbled trying to recall the name of a place; “It was started by an American couple who originally had people come to their home.”
“Verjus,” he said. “Braden and Laura are friends of mine. When they acquired their serving ware they got some stuff they didn’t end up using. It’s in my cave for when I start my own restaurant. I’ve never eaten there though. I don’t like their wine list.”
I should add that Joan’s contribution to the conversation is a few mumbled words, impossible to understand. After the Mexican feast, when she had done such an amazing job of cleaning up, I was prepared to forgive her for all of her failure to contribute to any of our conversations. But my forgiveness was unraveled.
It was hot. Elliott complained that the heat was exacerbated by the glass barriers that divided the close in terrace from the sidewalk terrace. He complained about the inadequacies of the servers. He complained about the food. He complained.
“You should be embarrassed!” he declared. “As a regular customer, bringing friends, they should be far more attentive!”
I just mumbled something about it being an off night.
Finally Elliott started to gesticulate wildly for the check. The two week old server acknowledged us and then continued to bring menus to new diners and plates to others. Finally after fifteen minutes he came and Elliott asked for the machine while Joan got out her calculator and figured out the per person charge. When the machine came out Elliott proffered his American Express. Sorry.
“Strike three!” ejaculated Elliott.
He used another card. I used mine. He said “Our taxi is coming, dear. You really must talk to the owner. This is simply unacceptable.”
I was quietly seething. I waited for them to get into their Chauffeur Privé (and probably abuse another driver) and I went out to order my own Uber.
When I got home my blood continued to boil. Would I have been disappointed had I been by myself tonight? Maybe. It certainly was an off night at Le Clou. But after two years of wonderful nights, I was prepared to forgive one off night in August when it was so very hot. What I was not prepared to forgive was Elliott’s horrendous treatment of the staff. And his rudeness about reacting to what he knew was one of my favorite local spots.
Did he need to prove something?
In the end I decided that people are allowed to like what they like. They don’t need to apologize for their preferences. What they aren’t allowed to do is abuse the restaurant staff. Doing that only makes one look petty and insecure.
In the morning I texted Elliott.
“I’m sorry, I forgot that I have a rendezvous for an apéro at five today. I’m going to have to miss the picnic. Have fun!”
I decided that it’s time for me to take a break from Elliott.
Beverly and Dave Visit
What does it feel like to be completely adored?
Let me begin by saying that I completely adore Beverly as well. I first met her when she was my Contract Recruiter, responsible for hiring dozens and dozens of highly technical and usually bizarre Engineers, as well as anyone else the company needed to bring on board. We instantly bonded. Our backgrounds were very similar; divorced single moms with grown kids in assorted stages of making it on their own. We both had difficult exes and a long history of interesting relationships.
That may be where the what we had in common ended. Beverly was tall and beautiful, model thin with a wardrobe that didn’t end. She got her hair professionally done every three weeks and weekly manicures and pedicures. She loved a good massage and facial and went to twice weekly Zumba classes. She had a beau, Dave. Dave was recently divorced with a difficult ex and two boys just graduating from University. He had a great career as a high level something or other with one of the Big Four accounting firms and traveled the world extensively. He was gone most of the week and returned on Friday, staying at Beverly’s apartment.
Dave adores Beverly. Heck I adore Beverly. Our CEO adores Beverly. The job candidates adored Beverly. She was the perfect person to have on my team. Beverly deserves to be adored. She’s just plain nice. When I was working, she was my favorite travel partner, so I made her the Director of Global Staffing so I could create excuses for her to travel with me.
And travel we did. We went to Singapore, Australia, Malaysia, India, China, Texas and Anaheim! Everywhere we went Beverly was upbeat and happy and in love with the people and the place. And they loved her back.
I mostly got to take advantage of my perks from years of frequent flyer status and when I couldn’t share them with her I promised her she was on her way to accumulating the same. She gamely went to the back of the plane and made friends with the flight attendants, enjoyed the free wine they would slip to her and slept in a middle coach seat. More than once a flight attendant would come up to me and say “So you are moving to Paris!”
“How do you know?”
“Your friend was telling me all about it.”
We’d reconnect at the gate of our destination and I would take her with me through the lanes that had no lines that were afforded to the very frequent global travelers. Then we collected our bags and headed to our hotels where I was special only in that I was the Execut
ive and she was special because she was Beverly.
Here is a perfect example of the love that Beverly garnered. We were in Hyderabad, India; from my perspective, a nightmare of a place. The new highway that was just opened and clean and empty on my last visit was now crowded with trucks, incessantly honking, littered with refuge on the roadsides, clusters of signs advertised shopping centers, cellular services and housing projects. We stopped at one point to wait as a water buffalo crossed the highway.
“It’s so beautiful!” effused Beverly.
I looked sideways at her surprised. “What rose colored glasses are you looking though?”
She just kept smiling and watching out the window.
We arrived at the Lemon Tree Hotel, in the middle of the high tech district. It smelled thankfully very lemony. And it was clean and spacious. We were assigned to rooms on the “Lady’s only” floor. Interesting.
“Let’s dump our bags and meet in the bar!” Bev suggested when she saw the poster advertising this week’s special cocktail. Beverly loves a good bar and a tipple, which makes it even easier to enjoy her presence and to like traveling with her!
So we did just that, dumped our bags and met in the “Slounge”. Slounge became our ever after catch phrase for hotel bar. Indian cocktails are made with ice made with Indian water. Not touching that! Indian wine is dreadful; the red absolutely undrinkable, the white maybe barely bearable. Indian beer might be drinkable but I don’t drink beer so that left me with the white. Or nothing. To be honest, I kind of preferred nothing.
But every night of our three nights there we met in the Slounge. We laughed. We talked about the day; about the interactions with the stubborn and argumentative Indian HR Manager, with the rest of the eager but slightly inept staff, about the luncheon they hosted, about the shopping trip foisted on us, about the tour of Golconda Fort in 117 degrees.
Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Page 19