Paris Journal 2009 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com
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An angry sky threatened us
yesterday afternoon as we scurried about to buy newspapers, a few groceries,
and Nespresso capsules. We decided to settle back in at the
apartment in hope that the bad weather would blow over. With phone calls on Skype and
via e-mail, I monitored my dad’s situation.
He had gall bladder surgery yesterday, and all went well. He had a private room at Lee Memorial Health Park, with a
beautiful view and great care. He also
has publicly funded health care, called the VA and Medicare. Every American should have access to the
same kind of care he has. By the dinnertime in Paris, he
was out of surgery but still in recovery.
We decided to eat close to home, at the quaint restaurant, Au Bon
Saint Pourçain, right on the corner just a quarter block away from our
apartment. We went inside because it was
chilly, although two tables were occupied out on the sidewalk. The problem with inside is the lighting –
it is way too bright. You feel like
you’re eating in your grandmother’s kitchen with every light possible burning
brightly. Fabienne came to take our
order. She started to recite the menu
in a sort of English. When I realized
what she was doing, I stopped her and told her we read French well, gesturing
toward the blackboard. She seemed a
little relieved. I think all of us
Americans who were there last night spoke French. I ordered the chicken, and Tom
had the daily special – a steak. We
each were given a very big serving of pommes
dauphinoise (scalloped potatoes) which were soothing and good. Real comfort food. Tom’s steak was predictably
chewy – very French – and the white meat third of my chicken was dry. But the leg meat was just right. I was a bit distracted and not caring
that much about food, because I wanted to hear the news about my dad. A couple of nice,
French-speaking American women were seated near us, and they must have
arrived very early for dinner, because they were ready to leave just as we
were starting. We helped them maneuver
out of the tricky corner in which they, and we, were sitting. They were grateful. Across the room from us was an
American couple with a 10-month old baby.
I don’t think these were tourists, judging by the gear they had with
them. I think they are living and
working in Paris. The baby was
incredibly well-behaved for that age.
Even so, every time the baby made a noise, the parents encouraged her
to be quiet. The actress who lives in our
building has a baby only about two months older, and it is far, far louder
than this little charmer was. Are baby boys louder than baby girls? A woman entered the restaurant
and was seated at the table by us, where the American women had been. It was Madame Lajti, whom we know! She lives across the street from the
restaurant. She’s a bubbly little
bespectacled character with a big smile and a cute haircut. We had quite a conversation (all in French,
even though she does know a little English) until her food arrived. She speaks rapidly, but we understood
her. We wished her a bon appétit. She ordered the boeuf aux olives, as she always does, she said. It looked tasty and tender – something like
the braised beef at Le Caveau du Palais.
That’s what we should order next time we go to the Bon Saint Pourçain. Rain started pouring
outside. The man still sitting out
there moved inside. I think he was a
French-speaking American, too. It
rained hard, but not for long. The baby made a little noise
and the parents were embarrassed. We
spoke up, assuring them that the baby is very good, and asking about her age. The food came out of the
kitchen with remarkable speed – not just for us, but for Madame Lajti,
too. This was good news last night,
because I wanted to go back to the apartment as soon as we could to check in
on my dad’s status. But most nights, I’d be a
little suspicious of food that came out that quickly. I think the restaurant is struggling. Their web site, which was online earlier
this summer, has now disappeared.
Fabienne’s father, François, went home early – passing through the
dining room and waving goodbye to everyone as we ate. Another rainshower happened
outside. We asked for our check as soon
as we finished our main courses – our only courses. I explained to Madame Lajti that my dad was
having gall bladder surgery, and that we wanted to go home and wait for a
phone call about it. She understood
completely. Normally, one would never
leave right away after a main course, but when family calls, that is always
understandable in France. We went home between
rainshowers, and alas, there was no message from my sister. I signed onto Skype again and called my
mom’s cell phone. I reached her. They were both back in his hospital room,
and he was demanding to be fed ice cubes, one at a time. All was well. Thank you, Medicare. |
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Number
84, rue de Grenelle, home of La Société Nationale d'Horticulture de France.
An
attractive Haussmannian apartment building in the 6th.
Interesting
rooflines on the rue de Bac.
The
former home of Chateaubriand,
on the rue de Bac. A writer,
politician, and diplomat, Chateaubriand founded Romanticism in French
literature. |
