Paris Journal 2012 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com
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The most picturesque, romantic place that we walked through on Saturday was the intersection of the rue de la Colombe and the rue des Ursins (formerly the rue Denfer) in the medieval-like part of the Île de la Cité. This site has a legend attached to it. An oval-framed, glass covered, printed account of the legend is on display there. Its English version says: 7 Centuries of History -- The name of the street and of the
building comes from a both tragic and poetic moment. A couple of doves used to nest in this
house currently at number 4 [rue de la Colombe]
where a craftsman lived. In 1223, the
building collapsed. The man was killed
and the bird’s nest was buried beneath the rubble. The female dove and her brood were trapped
under the stones. Only the male could
escape. For several weeks, the male
fed his mate and their brood. The
people living nearby were very touched by such devotion, and long after the
birds had been freed, the people decided to reunite at this place in order to
worship the doves. The cult’s
intensity grew to such importance as to cause the Archbishop of Paris to
forbid further worship, considered to be pagan. But that story remained. When new floors were built in the 16th
century, the house took the name of the dove.
In 1240 this place was already a tavern: “La Taverne Saint
Nicolas.” Under Louis XIV, this house
was still a tavern and one of Cartouche’s dens. Cartouche (meaning rifle cartridge) was a
very famous thief known for his ability to escape; when the police attempted to enter
the shop (through the roof), Cartouche escaped through an underground passage
(which partly still exists) adjoining the Seine’s banks. In 1925, a curious man set himself up
there. At that time, this little café
had no running water, no electricity, and only one gas lamp. In the 1950s, another great period for this
place: “Le Cabaret de la Colombe.” The old
Cartouche’s den became an artists’ den through the impetus given by the new
owner who fell in love with this magic place.
All are different stories but each time with a specific
atmosphere. It is to be presumed that
these walls (inanimated?) have their own soul and
their power of love . . . or to be loved by you! Even though I corrected some spelling, punctuation, and grammatical errors in the story above, the translation still has some interesting quirks, doesn’t it? I’m sorry now that I didn’t photograph the French version so I could undo some of those quirks. I can tell you that surely the rue Denfer had to have a change of name so that it would not be confused with the little street called passage d’Enfer, when the area that is now Montparnasse in the 14th arrondissement was annexed to Paris. Also, the avenue Denfert Rochereau in the 14th was formerly called the rue d’Enfer. (And there was a rue d’Enfer in the 6th that was later called the rue Bleue before becoming swallowed up in an extension of the boulevard Saint Michel, according to paris-pittoresque.com.) Rue Denfer, whose old street sign is still visible on the building described, was probably the rue d’Enfer, or “road from hell” as the passage d’Enfer means the “passage from hell.” The tavern, claiming to be the oldest bistrot in Paris, was a cabaret in the late 1950s and early 60s. More than 200 singers made their debuts there, according to the French Wikipedia. Today, the place is a restaurant/bar called La Reserve de Quasimodo. Ludwig Bemelmans, an Austrian-American illustrator and author of children’s books, bought the place in 1953. It is interesting to me that although Ludwig grew up in upper Austria, his first language was French, and his second was German. He painted murals on the walls of the bistrot, which he loved. He sold it to Michel Valette after two years. Click here to see some of Bemelman’s whimsical illustrations, many of which are Paris scenes. At some point, an archivist at the Louvre, Michel le Moèl, did some research on the history of the building. He found that the old La Colombe bistrot occupied the both floors of a two-story building constructed by 1297, at the time of Notre Dame’s construction. It was made into a three-story building in 1557 by Léon Lescot. Then an owner named Louis Combedias added yet two more floors to the structure in 1770. A cat skeleton discovered between the ceiling and floor of the first story (one level up from the street level) supposedly attests to the age of the structure: in the 13th century in the Île de France, a custom was to bury a black cat alive in the walls to keep evil spirits away. The building was “hit” by a Haussmann street realignment, but remained at least in part and was going to be taken by the city of Paris in 1921 so it could be demolished. But it was saved from demolition because of restoration work done by the cabaret owner, who had it listed in the archaeological registry. Later, it was protected even more by the “law Malraux” which protects buildings older than 100 years that are less than a 100 meters from the banks of the Seine. You might remember from yesterday’s entry that it was that novelist Malraux, the culture minister under DeGaulle, who saved the Vagenende brasserie from destruction. What would we do without historic preservationists? Now that’s a topic I could go on about, but it isn’t a subject of this journal. Gastronomy is a subject of this journal. Let’s talk about that. I had not ordered bouillabaisse even once this summer, so last night I corrected that oversight as we dined at La Bastide Odéon. The manager, headwaiter, and server were all very happy to see us when we arrived. Tom ordered the poulet fermier (roasted chicken with roasted potatoes), which he said was superior to the same dish at the brasserie of the fancy Hotel Lutetia. The Bastide’s bouillabaisse was perhaps the best fish soup I’ve ever had, but the fish soup at L’Abri Côtier is not to be missed, either. We shared a modest but yummy and not-too-sweet plum clafouti for dessert, and that was that – a fine dinner indeed, and not so overwhelming as those great quenelles of the night before. We enjoyed a conversation with our server, who is from the French Alps and is now in Paris for college studies. His plan is to move to London and find work there after completing his studies. So we did speak English with him last night, figuring that he needed the practice. A table of five or so very educated French people sat near us; we could understand everything they said. This once again confirms our suspicion that our occasional listening comprehension problems may not be entirely our fault. Of course, in Florida we hear English spoken at all different levels, ranging from trash to perfection. There’s no reason why the same wouldn’t be true of French spoken in Paris. Earlier in the day, we’d enjoyed a long stroll through the Luxembourg Gardens. We relaxed for a while in the green metal chairs lined up next to the Medici fountain. We walked by the new Angelina Tea Room at the Musée du Luxembourg. We’d stopped in there for tea on the first day it was open, the 19th, and I don’t think they were quite ready for business then. But now, it appears to be a going operation. And so it goes. |
Monday, September 24, 2012
On
our way home on Saturday, we walked down the rue de l’Hôtel
Colbert, which you can see here was formerly called the rue des Rats. Rats are rats, French and English
alike. There is no longer any street
by that name in Paris.
The
counter at the branch of Angelina’s Tea Room that recently opened in a
temporary building adjacent to the Musée du
Luxembourg. |
