That’s Paris
An Anthology of Life, Love and Sarcasm in the City of Light
Published by Bonhomme Press
Copyright © 2019 Bonhomme Press
Foreword Copyright © 2015, 2019 Stephen Clarke
Previously published by Velvet Morning Press in 2015.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Some works in this anthology are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Vicki Lesage and Ellen Meyer
To Paris, the always-inspiring City of Light
Editor’s Note
Several pieces in this anthology were originally written in French. You will find the French text following the English version of the story. Hope you enjoy this bilingual reading experience!
(ndlr : Plusieurs nouvelles de cette anthologie ont été écrites en français. Vous trouverez les textes originaux après les traductions en anglais. Nous espérons que vous apprécierez cette expérience de lecture bilingue !)
Table of Contents
Foreword, Stephen Clarke
Gizzards, Wine and Daily Bread
The French Table, a Test of Mettle, Audrey M. Chapuis
Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs, Vicki Lesage
La Vie de Vin, DryChick
This One Time in Paris, Sarah del Rio
View From a Bridge
Half Past Midnight, Didier Quémener
Minuit et demi (French Version), Didier Quémener
A Scoop of Henry, Cheryl McAlister
Love Unlocked, Adria J. Cimino
Cafés and Sidewalks
The Little Book of Funerals, Laura Schalk
An Attempt to Explain the Paris Fandom, Anna Weeks
The Glove, April Lily Heise
Paris is Good for Your Health
All the Wheat, Brooke Takhar
Les Urgences, David Whitehouse
Whine Country, April Weeks
What’s Love Got To Do With It?
Garden of Eden, Vicki Lesage
La Vie en Rose, Marie Vareille
La Vie en Rose (French Version), Marie Vareille
In the Red, Adria J. Cimino
Becoming Parisian
Chaperon et Liberté, Lucia Paul
10 Things I Learned When My Daughter Moved to Paris, E. M. Stone
(Mis)Adventures at Sacré-Cœur, Amy Lynne Hayes
The Best Thing About Living in Paris, Lisa Webb
Métro, Boulot, Dodo: Commute, Work, Sleep
Driving Me Crazy, Jennie Goutet
Oh Canada, Michael Attard
French Office Workers vs. Zombies, Vicki Lesage
La Dame de la Nuit, Leslie Floyd
Paris Legacy
Violette, Frédérique Veysset
Violette (French Version), Frédérique Veysset
Petit Rat, Adria J. Cimino
Le Chemin du Dragon, Didier Quémener
Le Chemin du Dragon (French Version), Didier Quémener
Noëlle, Cheryl McAlister
About the Authors
Acknowledgements
A Note from the Editor
Foreword
Stephen Clarke
Paris has, in its literary career, produced countless millions of words. I myself have added more than a million to the count. Admittedly some of those were the same words over and over again. Note the repetition of “over” in that sentence, for example (and again in this one). But plenty have been more typically Parisian–classics like “Métro”, “Eiffel” and “arrondissement”, as well as slightly more esoteric terms along the lines of “chambre de bonne” (small attic room), “carte de séjour” (residence permit) and the highly versatile “merde” (surely you know what that means?)
The French have, of course, been especially adept at using their own words about Paris. In the fifteenth century, the poet François Villon praised Parisian women for their “good tongues” (a bit of medieval double entendre there); 200 years later Molière was poking fun at the city’s snobs and hypocrites; Baudelaire did similar things in the 1800s (though under the depressing effect of absinthe); Balzac, Flaubert, Proust and Zola explored every salon and side-street in their novels; and by the end of the 1950s Raymond Queneau was satirizing all this French literary creativity in Zazie dans le Métro.
It’s tempting to ask how much room is left for all us foreigners. And being a long-time Parisian resident, and therefore disproportionately fond of rhetorical questions, I will ask it: How much room is left for all us foreigners?
Well, fortunately, the answer is: beaucoup.
The list of non-French writers who have come to Paris and left their mark on literature may seem intimidating. To name just a few English-speakers, there have been Samuel Beckett, James Joyce, Gertrude Stein, Henry Miller and Ernest Hemingway. And we newcomers are meant to follow big names like that?
But no one should be discouraged from writing their own Parisian material just because a few famous people got here first. And after all, not all of the above wrote about Paris itself. Some of them came here just to enjoy the artistic freedom that the city offered, as well as (in some cases) the cheap booze and legal prostitution. And, most importantly, all of them were writing in their own style, ignoring everyone who’d come before them and (in some cases) ignoring rules of grammar and even meaning, too. If Joyce can get away with passages like this one from Ulysses, we mere mortals can get away with anything: “His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb.” Those two sentences were first published in Paris, so there’s hope for everyone.
These days, most writers seem to have got that brand of modernism out of their systems (though I admit I once wrote a story in nonsense language, using an invented alphabet that was impossible to print—I wonder why that never got published?), and have decided to focus on ideas. You might think that such a small, concentrated city—about ten times smaller than London in surface area—would eventually dry up as a source of ideas, but luckily, unlike the red tuna served up in all the sushi restaurants here, Parisian ideas seem to be an eternally sustainable resource.
This, I think, has nothing to do with the city’s reputation as an intellectual, philosophical capital. Too much intellectualizing can stifle ideas rather than encouraging them to flow. It seems to me that the best Parisian writing, in English anyway, is more down-to-earth than that—it’s a direct result of the head-on culture shock that most of us experience when we arrive here. It’s not just that the language is different, it’s that Paris does everything its own way, which is generally the exact opposite of the way we do everything back home.
This contrariness is not Paris’s fault, of course. Parisians can live how they like in their city, and it’s up to us to cope (or give up and run away, as some people do). It is the sheer confrontation that sparks so much writing.
The shock of the new pervades every aspect of life. I wrote an entire book, A Year in the Merde, sparked by two tiny details of my new Parisian existence: First, the people in the building next to mine seemed to think that it was OK to let their dogs use the pavement outside my front door as a public toilet, presumably on the grounds that they personally were in little danger of treading in it; and secondly, the first (and last) time I ordered tea in a Parisian café, the waiter brought me a pot of
warmish water, an empty cup and a tea bag still in its wrapper. There was no milk, and I had to make the tea myself, so basically I was paying a small fortune for their dishwashing.
I expanded these two traumas into a novel about an Englishman who moves to Paris, gets his shoes dirty and tries to open a café that will make decent tea. (I should stress to everyone who hasn’t read it that I did add in a couple more ideas to fill things out a little.)
Everyone who comes to live in Paris has their own merde/teabag experience, be it with partners, colleagues, neighbours, bureaucrats, service providers, drivers, language, food, drink, or public transport—in short, with everything and everybody.
Because Parisians are trapped inside their périphérique ring road, extraordinary experiences somehow become more concentrated, and more diverse. There are twenty arrondissements, but each of those is divided up into tiny quartiers with their own personality. In my book Paris Revealed I even tried to describe the distinct groups of people who take the different Métro lines at various points along their routes.
Ah yes, the Métro, where I seem to spend half my life. At rush hours, getting on and off trains can be a martial art, or at the very least a feat of international diplomacy. It’s not that Parisians are aggressive—they just have very little space in which to do their Parisian things, and they expect you to understand the system instantly.
For example, there is a Métro junction at Stalingrad station, on Line 7. On the southbound platform, two narrow staircases lead passengers down into the tunnels that take them to Lines 2 and 5. As soon as a train stops at this platform, the carriages nearest the stairs empty like a pressure cooker. Everyone dashes for those two openings, creating an instant logjam that is only released when the people at the front get up speed in the stairway, and rocket down. If you are an innocent tourist, trying to read your Métro map, wondering how to get to Line 2 or 5, or checking that your bag/phone/wallet/partner/kids are where you want them, you will be treated to an onslaught of Parisian elbows, insults and groans of frustration. You have blocked the urgent flow of Parisian life through its cruelly restricted arteries, albeit for only two or three seconds, and you’re being punished for it.
The same scenario happens at every Métro junction, at every pedestrian crossing, wherever Parisians interact. Each aspect of Parisian life has its rules—which café table to sit at if you’re only having a drink or if there are only two of you; what time on a Friday afternoon you can actually expect people to attend a meeting; where a taxi driver might agree to take you, or not; whom to call tu and vous; whom to kiss and how many times—the list is endless, and some of the rules are totally different to towns just an hour away.
People are forced to encounter Paris close-up and face-to-face, and the city has so many moods that almost no one will have exactly the same experience. This book contains more than 30 encounters, by almost as many writers, each one with their own story to tell.
The title of the book has a story behind it, too—“Ca, c’est Paris” is the name of a song made famous in the 1920s by Mistinguett, a hugely popular music-hall singer with an accent as Parisian as the Eiffel Tower, who sang that Paris “has perfected the art of giving herself.” The writers in this book have all, in their own way, accepted the city’s generous offer, and are now sharing their personal Paris with you, dear reader. I for one would like to say “merci beaucoup.”
Stephen Clarke, Paris.
Stephen’s latest book about Paris is Dirty Bertie: an English King Made in France, the true story of King Edward VII’s outrageous exploits in nineteenth-century Paris at the time when the boulevards, the can-can, Montmartre and Impressionism were all in their infancy. He saw it all happen and was even the first guest—French or otherwise—to climb the Eiffel Tower.
Gizzards, Wine and Daily Bread
The French Table, a Test of Mettle
Audrey M. Chapuis
The French table presents many challenges to the average American. The first is one of stamina. I will never forget my inaugural 12-hour meal in Paris. Well, to be exact, it was two meals, but one ran right into the other. Lunch began at noon, and the conversation carried us through dinner until midnight. At one point, I broke the spell and went for a quick walk—my poor glutes couldn’t take any more sitting in my wrought iron chair—but I was the only one.
Apart from such marathon feasts, your derrière better be ready to sit for a good three hours even for an ordinary weekend dinner.
The second test is one of table manners. I’ve learned not to be ashamed when the children at the table brandish their steak knives with more grace and agility than me. Or when my dinner companion asks why I switch my utensils from hand to hand to manage a piece of meat. Or when someone points out that, technically, it’s rude to cut salad. (Why am I the only one with salad dressing on my chin when shoveling a lettuce leaf the size of a quilt into my mouth?)
But the third, and most important, is the challenge of the food itself.
We simply haven’t been introduced to many of the foods that commonly feature on French menus. Of course, this is changing as the foodie culture gains popularity in the United States. These days, you can find restaurants dedicated to using all parts of the pig and hear tales of Manhattan investment bankers retiring at age 30 to become artisanal cheese makers in Vermont. But still, in many cases, French food has the power to shock Americans. Or, if not shock us, at least leave us and our taste buds shivering in trepidation.
The French get a huge kick out of this. They like putting your francophilia to the test. “Oh, you like our wine and our literature, but what do you think about our head cheese?”
The quest for full French acceptance consists of five levels:
Level One: Things Found in the Forest or Pond
Level Two: Mold
Level Three: Parts Cruelly Prepared
Level Four: Viscera
Level Five (The Ultimate Test): The Animal’s Periphery, a.k.a. Face and Feet
In general, French people love to discuss food. When they dine with an American, it’s a chance for them to reminisce about their favorite dishes while simultaneously freaking out their guest.
Host: “Have you tried frog legs? How about escargot?” (Level One)
Guest: “Sure! It’s easy to love anything bathed in garlic, butter and herbs.”
Host: “I’m glad to hear you’re not like most Americans. Here, try this nice Pont-L’Evêque.” (Level Two) You’re presented with the source of the stench that’s been knocking you over for the past three hours, the king of stinky cheese, which has been ripening at room temperature on the counter.
Guest: “Why thank you, that’s delicious.” They’re annoyed when you don’t protest.
Host: “And foie gras? We’ve heard some American cities have banned this delicacy!” (Level Three)
Guest: “Actually, I think the ban’s been lifted.” Now, they’re truly disappointed.
Host: “What about blood sausage? Andouillette? Tripe? Kidneys?” At this point, they’re trying anything to stump you, but when you’ve finally passed Level Four, you may be the proud recipient of a French nod-frown of “not bad.”
But, I’m ashamed to admit, I flunked Level Five.
For years, a friend originally from Lyon, which some French people consider to be the culinary capital of the country, had heard me repeatedly profess my love for various scary French foods and seen me flaunt my hearty appetite. So she decided to test my mettle once and for all.
One evening, she invited me for a simple, light dinner outside on one of those mild summer nights in Paris when twilight hits late and lasts long.
As the apéritif began, I should have recognized the bad omen lurking in the lawn. A black cat hovered over a patch in the grass, unmoving for what seemed like an hour. Finally, he pounced in a frenzied, brief attack. In the alien blue evening light, it was difficult to see what he had succeeded in capturing, so the guests strolled over, champagne flutes in hand, to discover the cat battin
g around the detached head of a gopher. Fascinated, we watched the grisly game.
At the same time, our hostess laid out the repast: fresh bread, a bottle of cellar-cooled red, and two large salads, one of museau, the other of pied de cochon, which in French sound beautiful, but when translated are immediately stripped of their appeal: snout salad and pig foot salad.
In concept, I didn’t object. Our hostess is an amazing cook, and I knew she was serving the best. Indeed, the other diners dug in and sang the salads’ delicious praises.
The first forkful of cartilage did me in. Usually I have no problem with texture. Chewy, slimy, gooey, mushy? No problem. But I had the distinct impression that I was affectionately nibbling on a cold pig’s ear. It was too much. Of course, I kept my proud mouth shut and hoped my uneaten salads were somewhat hidden in the shadows.
Did I imagine a mischievous crinkle at the corner of my friend’s mouth when she offered me seconds? Perhaps we both knew I had been vanquished, that I hadn’t passed Level Five.
The guests at the table elegantly chewed their thin pink squares of museau and pied. The cat was still busy with his savage playtime in the lawn. Only I seemed to be on the sidelines. I tore off a chunk of baguette, took a big swig of Burgundy and promised myself to do better the next time I’m presented with a gourmet foot on my plate.
Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs
Vicki Lesage
I didn’t mean to complain. I was grateful for the heaps of wedding presents I received before The Big Day even arrived. I’d be marrying Monsieur Perfect in one month’s time, and my American friends and family would descend on Paris en masse for the occasion. I wanted to wrap up as many odds and ends as possible before they overtook the city—and my normally très organized life—for one week.
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