Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir

by Katherine Watt

  J’ai besoin de passer par-dessus lui ou de passer sous lui. I need to get over him or get under him. Or I could find someone new to get under.

  So many decisions to be made. So many moving parts.

  So Many Fish in the Sea

  My friends from Cape Cod were in town and wanted to see some Gypsy Jazz. What luck! Opus 4 was playing at La Chope on a rare Thursday night. So I shot the friendly manager a quick message, can we reserve for three? She responded with a thumbs up emoticon. The world has certainly become a lot less formal!

  I invited Miki and Dick for an apéro chez moi and then we would Uber over to La Chope, so fortified by a bottle of bubbles and another bountiful cheese board, we headed to Saint Ouen, home of the famous brocantes. Our driver took an odd route and before long we were caught up in a massive jam on the streets of the city of fleas. Our driver nudged into the parade of traffic on rue des Rosiers, Saint Ouen’s main street, right behind the two mounted police officers. People crowded the sidewalks and at eight pm cafés were bursting and the shop doors were all wide open. What was going on?

  When we arrived at La Chope Opus 4 was in full swing. Watching them kind of makes me think of watching Romanian French Beach Boys. Or what the Beach Boys would look like today, elderly and wrinkled from too much sun, too much partying, too much booze and drugs. Perhaps the first one you notice is Serge, very blonde (must be bleached), very tan, a leather choker around his neck hints that he’s modern despite his advanced years, very smiley. He plays a mean guitar and is the lead singer. Pierre is very tall and thin as if it burns a lot of calories to play a steel acoustic guitar as fast and furious as he does. Piotr is from Gdansk. He’s small and compact and looks very serious and Eastern European. He seldom smiles and his violin skills are second to none. He sits. He stands. He sits. He stands. I suspect he is standing when his violin is the lead instrument but it seems like he’s always on. Once I shook his hand and said “incredible!” and he barely managed a smirk, as if to say, of course! What else is new?

  And then there is Frank. He’s the youngest of the four and plays the contrabass, an instrument taller than him. He has the appearance of a big solid man but in fact is quite short. He has an amazing beautiful rich voice and a gorgeously handsome face. Everything about him looks strong; strong hands, strong voice, strong expressions. And for some reason he seemed to never take his eyes off of me.

  I took a seat at the raised table for four with my back facing the group but able to watch every move in the massive mirror taking up the entire wall in front of me. Normally I find it disconcerting to watch myself in the mirror throughout a meal, but that night I watched the band. And the glimpses I saw of myself, well, I looked rather pretty! I watched Frank and smiled at him. I looked away and looked back to see his gaze still fixed on me. Between songs he said something to Serge and the group launched into a new song, a love song. Frank sang with great determination, watching me. I smiled and listened attentively. At the end of the song, he said, “that was for you.”

  Across the street a Chinese parade formed with a dragon dancer contorting at the lead. Beautiful women in traditional Chinese festive dress and makeup followed, musicians followed but could not be heard over the sounds of Opus 4. Crowds surged into the street and pushed against La Chope’s windows. Only then did I notice the paper lanterns and dragon strewn around the restaurant and across the mirror I had been looking into all night. Of course! Autumn Festival, a week long holiday for China and Chinese across the world.

  The group took a break and Frank passed by our table. “Where are you from?” he asked Dick. He didn’t speak to me. Nor I to him. I’m fairly certain he knows I live here because he’s watched me watch him before. Dick insisted on paying our tab and we left to wait for the 85 bus right outside La Chope. The group resumed playing.

  We must have been at ground zero for the nights festivities. The mounted horses passed by and the crowd waiting for the bus grew, many more people than seats on the bus. An empty bus arrived. I’ve been in Paris long enough to know not to wait politely in line and pushed my way on, taking a seat in the front. Miki and Dick had moved further into the bus and were stuck standing near the middle door. By the time we left the stop not another person could cram onto the bus. Slowly we crawled down rue des Rosiers. At each subsequent stop people tried to press in. I worried I’d not be able to push my way out when the bus got to the Marie in the 18ème.

  Most everyone got off somewhere around Clignancourt and it was an easy exit at our stop. There I hugged Miki and Dick goodnight and they headed off to the metro while I boarded an all but empty 80 bus for home. Once again on tranquil rue Caulaincourt I got off the bus and bid bon soir to the guy standing outside the mini market downstairs.

  Elliot once told me that I had to be careful, that I was exactly what the north African and Muslim men liked; zaftig and blonde. I’ve bemoaned that that doesn’t seem to be what Philippe likes. But maybe I’m what Romanian French contrabass players like!

  “And for always getting what she wants in the long run, commend me to a nasty woman.” Edith Wharton, House of Mirth

  Joia Is Where You Find It

  Last night we went to Joia par Helene Darroze, the hottest new restaurant to open in Paris. I’d been watching their Instagram page since before the launch and was terribly excited to try it out. Everything posted looked wonderful; food, desserts, cocktails, environment. Elliot had secured reservations, a month out, for six and asked if I would like to go. Absolutely! I told him that Charlotte and I had been talking about going, thus Charlotte and T became numbers four and five. I wondered who would be number six.

  As time grew near I began to speculate that going to Joia with Elliot might not be the best thing. Since he trashed Le Clou I had seen him criticize a handful of other places I liked quite a lot. Elliot is the self avowed, and to be fair, undisputed expert in that group of all things wine, spirits and food. I have to admit, his favorites leave me scratching my head. Judging by the number of times we have been, Maison Dong must be at the top of his list. It’s pretty much Chinese food. Chinese with spices otherwise unknown in Paris, he will argue. Perhaps my dozens of trips to actual China, paired with a lifetime of not bad Chinese food in San Francisco, left me a bit jaundiced when it comes to Chinese food.

  I think after hanging with Elliot for more than six months now, I would call him the anti snob food snob. Or something like that. If everyone else likes it, he will pick it apart. If it’s tiny and unknown he’s likely to rave about it. Once we went to a Sicilian restaurant. Elliot raved about everything from the charcuterie starters to the shared pizzetta rounds to what I thought were horrendously thick pasta spirals, completely inedible. We sat on a sidewalk while hordes of tourists walked by looking at our plates, the table next to us shoved up next to ours and a bush poking me in my side throughout the entire meal. The next day Elliot posted a glowing review on his social media page.

  So much to Elliot’s chagrin I passed on the apéro at 6:15 “just 100 meters away” and met Elliot, his wife, Charlotte and T and happily Magella the number six, at Joia at precisely 7:30. They were already seated in a small room just off the main dining room, I think. I think because there is a rather majestic stairway that heads upwards there must be another level. Our little room turned out to be actually a tiny courtyard covered by a massive patio umbrella, complete with heater. Trellises lined the walls and a round table filled the space. Elliot was already absorbed with the carte du vins. Les bises were distributed and a white wine was ordered. Evidently Elliot would be making all of our drinking decisions for the evening. A nice light white was poured for all of us and Elliot asked for a second bottle right away. The youngish waiter placed it in a wine cooler. Elliot snatched it out. When the waiter returned he tried to put it back. Elliot nearly slapped his hand.

  Time to place our orders. The menu had five categories; small bites, as in a bowl of olives, les amuse-bouches, as in amusing y
our mouths, entrées, as in starters, and plats as in main dishes. Of course all followed by desserts meaning desserts. Based on prices it was clear that the small bites were things that regular restaurants may put on the table while you decide what to eat and drink. I was not clear the difference between the amuse-bouches and the entrées and some of us ordered from one list while others ordered the other. I had no problem deciding on the moules, from the entrée list. Charlotte ordered fried chicken from the amuses list. In the end they seemed pretty equal. Joan also had moules, Elliott and T had garlic soup and Magella had boudin noir, a blood pudding seemingly favored by Brits and Irish. Beuck (Yuck). My moules were extraordinary.

  The problem came with the plats. The menu had six items, four of which had to be ordered for two or four people and the remaining two which could be ordered for one. The roasted chicken spoke to me; foie gras tucked between the chicken and the skin and a whole roasted garlic presented on the plate. But the poitrine de porc - pork belly - evidently spoke louder. Maybe that was a mistake. I expected legumes to be vegetables, not a big bowl of white beans. My pork belly was just ok, the white beans… beurk!. Someone had the fish which had to be ordered for two but could easily have been prepared for one. Joan had the pumpkin ravioli, which ultimately looked like the big winner of the night. Elliot and Magella shared the chicken, which was good, but after all, it was chicken. Fifty euros for half a chicken? And the sides had to be ordered separately. Those who ordered roasted potatoes complained they were dry. Elliot ordered polenta and whined loudly that somebody put something sweet in his polenta. He argued with the waiter about the bottle of red that was brought out, complaining it was not what was advertised on the menu; something about coming from the cellar of the daughter and not the mother. Clearly the daughter’s grapes were not grown far enough up the hillside.

  Nobody ordered desserts and I was disappointed not to see the macha crepes piled high into a gâteau, although I really only wanted to see it and maybe take a bite. When the check came, Elliot divided it equally and announced that we allowed exactly sixty seven euro fifty. He was not willing to give the young waiter one penny of tip. He produced his American Express Card only to be told, “Je suis désolé!” I have watched Elliot pull out his trusty platinum card time after time only to be told no. The 5% charge that American Express requires is just not to be tolerated by French restaurants.

  “Strike three!”

  Are we really only up to three? “Really Elliot,” I say, “This happens every time.”

  “I guarantee Helene Darroze’s Michelin starred restaurants take American Express!” he harrumphed.

  I handed the waiter seventy euro, no change required.

  “Do you want to share my Uber?” I asked Magella.

  “Let me order it!” she protested.

  “No problem,” I said, “It’s on its way.”

  Quick bises to everyone and we were out the door, the Uber already waiting in front.

  When will I learn my lesson? I lay in bed later thinking about the evening. I loved my moules. The wine was excellent, although I’m sure I could have ordered something equally good on my own. I made the mistake of ordering the pork belly. Live and learn. Would I go back? Yes, for lunch. With Elliot? No! My phone binged indicating a text.

  Elliott: “How about Friday night, Maison Dang?”

  Me: “Sorry no. I have a lunch date at an Argentine French place in the 18th and I’m trying to limit myself to one meal out each day.”

  Elliott: “I understand. But we’ll miss you.”

  It could be said that I am learning.

  La Fête des Vendanges

  Every year on the second weekend of October Montmartre celebrates wine. Specifically the tiny vineyard that grows on the hillside about three blocks from chez moi. It’s said that Montmartre used to be home to many vineyards as well as other agricultural enterprises. But this tiny block of grape vines is all that remains. The wine it produces is not very good but it fetches a good price because its 15,000 bottles a year are the only bottles of wine grown and made in the City of Paris.

  Saturday found my neighborhood a complete zoo. Rue Caulaincourt was one big traffic jam from ten am until … well, I don’t know when because it was still a traffic jam when I went to bed! I spent the early afternoon working at GCA. Philippe and his team were on the run as virtually every table on the terrace and the tables that remained after moving many of the indoor tables outdoors to accommodate the sun seekers were full as well. I almost felt guilty taking my table for so long while I wrote. But not that guilty. I ate moules for the third day in a row, then I drank wine while I worked, occasionally peeking at the oblivious Philippe to see if he was peeking at me. He was not. In fact, he was outside sitting with a group of people chatting. One of the things Magalie asked me was does he ever sit with you. No, He sits with his pals. He’s sitting with this family. He doesn’t sit with me.

  Just as I ordered my unusually expensive Uber to head back to crazy Montmartre a pretty girl walked by and looked at me oddly. Aimee! We exchanged la bise and she told me that she was outside with her sister, her niece and her niece’s boyfriend. The group that Philippe was sitting with! I looked out and Veronique waved back. I went outside to wait for my Uber and chatted briefly with Veronique. Her daughter is the bartender at GCA! This world just gets smaller and smaller. She says “Yes, I’ve seen my picture on your Instagram!” My Uber arrived and I quickly said goodbye to everyone, agreeing with Aimee that we would meet for an apéro soon. I hopped into my Uber while Philippe called out “Au revoir, Katrine!” Just a tiny bit of recognition to keep me hanging on. Darn.

  The evenings plans for La Fête were moving all over the place. First we were to meet at Chez Stephanie for champagne and to meet her latest foster pup before heading up to SacréCoeur for the party. All of this meant lots of stairs and lots of hills. I fretted about keeping up with everyone. Plus, I hate dogs. Then I got a text from Stephanie that Magalie wanted to meet at Place du Tertre, precisely at the corner of Rue de Mont Cenis and Rue Norvins. After we would meet at Le Bistrot Du Maquis, just six or seven blessed doors from chez moi!

  I thought briefly about begging off of the party and telling them I’d meet them at the Bistrot. That’s what I always do. That’s what I did for the last apéro chez Stephanie. Don’t be so lazy, I told myself. Go outside! Outside is where things happen.

  So I showered and groomed and primped and got myself ready to head outside. It was unbelievably hot at 5:30 and all the world was working their way up the hill. I wore a form fitting tank top with cut out shoulders and back, meant only to be worn with my little black jacket with gold zippers and snaps. After about two blocks and the first uphill portion of the trip the jacket came off and I didn’t care that my bra straps were showing. So were everyone else’s.

  It’s a good thing all the small streets of Montmartre were blocked off for pedestrians only because the cobbled pavements were jammed with people working their way up towards the party. Fortunately, when I reached the vineyard a crowd had gathered around a performer playing his guitar, singing and telling ribald stories about the Lapin Agile, the famous cabaret on the corner. I sat on a retaining wall and caught my breath. People crowded around the cyclone fencing of the celebrated vineyard, taking pictures. The always present Bride and Groom were on the sidewalk with their professional photographer, adding to the mayhem.

  Two more uphill blocks to go. Seriously uphill. By the time I got to rue Norvins I had worked up a good sweat. I turned left and fought the crushing crowds, watching my footing on the cobbles. A couple of portrait artists made brief attempts at proposing a sitting. I glared at them. You’ve got to be kidding. Do I look like a tourist? Ha! The crowd at the appointed meeting spot was insane. I found an empty table in a café and planted myself there, just fifteen minutes before the designated time. A pretty handsome and not unfriendly waiter dropped by and I asked for a glass of red wine. Sma
ll price for a seat where no seats were to be found.

  Six o’clock came and went with no Magalie and no Stephanie. By 6:20 I turned on the roaming on my phone and texted Stephanie. “I should be there by seven she said. I’m coming with friends.” Evidently she went through with the champagne after all. I texted Magalie. “We are already inside the party. At a table near where the Republique de Montmartre sign is.

  What is with these French people? Is it that difficult to make a plan and follow it?

  I looked over at the entrance to the venue. The guards who were checking bags before letting people in had temporarily closed the entrance. Too many people inside. People were squeezing up around the sides to get to the front of the line. The French are very bad at standing in line. Evidently the only place they stand in line is at the boulangerie and that is due to some extremely rigorous policing on the part of the boulangerie ladies. I watched two large women with skin tight clothing and copious tattoos squeeze in at the front. The were followed by an Asian family. This was not going to happen.

  I texted Magalie: “I’m sorry, big crowds kind of give me the heebie jeebies. How about if I meet you at the restaurant?” Magalie responded, “Where we are is not crowdy but if you prefer to meet at the restaurant it is 8:00. Up to you.” Perfect. I finished my wine, paid the hefty 15 euro bill and headed back down the hill, carefully watching the cobbles and dodging drunks or dodging the cobbles and watching drunks.