Letter From Paris
Paris Kiosque - December 1999 / January 2000 - Volume 6, Number 12
Copyright (c) 1999 Harriet Welty-Rochefort - Used with permission.
There's something about writing the last Letter From Paris of the century
that kind of chills the bones - somehow one thinks that whatever is written
should be momentous, earth-shaking, something future generations can look at
and exclaim over as a precious document of an American's view of Life in
Paris at the end of the twentieth century.
Forget it.
This is just my normal "letter" and will only differ in that I'll say what a
genuine pleasure it is to be able to sit in my Paris apartment, coffee in
hand, list of things to do that never get done tacked to the wall in front
of me, and "chat" with all you readers out there.
As far as the millennium is concerned, well, yes there is a little
excitement in the air (quand m=EAme!) as the big day approaches. I have
driven past the Eiffel Tower hundreds of times this past year watching the
triple digits descend to two and soon to the countdown. And, hands clutched
to the wheel and head swiveling to the tower, wondering where will I be on
the night of December 31, 1999. I thought of flying off to some exotic
place with sun and sand with my dearly beloved and then I thought again and
decided on something closer to home : the Champs Elysées with a couple of
bottles of champagne. Why not? After all, it's only a few metro stops away
and there's no way it couldn't be fun!
Millennium or not, I love the pre-Christmas, pre-New Year buildup when all
of a sudden decorations pop up and store windows glisten with gold. It's
true that there's no snow in Paris (generally) and not many Santa Clauses
either but that's made up for by the festive air that reigns, from the huge
department stores like the Galeries Lafayette to the smallest of wine bars.
Speaking of wine, the other day I interviewed one of France's foremost
sommeliers who taught me all kinds of things I didn't know, not just about
wine but about human psychology. He told me that for a sommelier the most
important thing is to size up the client the minute he walks in the door.
Is he going to be easy and relaxed or on the contrary, difficult and hard to
please? He told me you can see this by the way people are dressed and by
the expression on their faces. I asked him what he would say about me and
he told me that he wouldn't be looking at me (!) because (excuse me,
feminists) it's generally the man who's paying and the one choosing the wine
so he'd be looking at my husband! His favorite clients, he told me, are
Belgians, because since they don't come from a wine culture, they're very
receptive and open-minded about choosing wine. The worst are the French,
all of whom think they know more than the sommelier. And the Americans, I
asked? The Americans who go to this particular restaurant, he said, are
worldly-wise and well-travelled and as the millennium approaches, they're
ready to party and think nothing of spending God knows how much on a bottle
of Petrus. My eyes widen as I try to imagine this high rolling life. I
slink back home from our rendez-vous and pop open a bottle of what is
decidedly very pedestrian wine. Good enough for me!
In other get-around-town activities, I attended a press breakfast given for
46-year-old José Bové, a sheep farmer and the head of a radical farm group
called the Confederation Paysanne. Bové, who's been very much in the news
ever since he and his friends dismantled (to put it politely) a McDonald's
which was under construction in the south of France this summer, showed up
on time at the breakfast, alone, ie, without the ever-present press attaché.
This was the first thing that impressed me about him. The second was his
obvious sincerity. Bové, who lived with his parents in the States as a
young boy, emphasizes that he is not anti-American but rather anti-huge
companies dictating what consumers are going to eat (that includes
genetically modified food and beef with hormones). Some people call him
France's Cesar Chavez (or is that just me?). By the time you read this he
may have pulled off a "coup" or two at the Seattle meeting of the World
Trade Organization. It's surely not the last time you'll hear his name in
this David and Goliath struggle.
Globalization and McDos or not, I had the proof that the French are still
French the other night when my husband invited me to dinner in a typical
French restaurant in the north of Paris. It is a restaurant devoted to the
pig in all its forms. On the table, your pig might come in the shape of an
andouillette or petit salé or other cochonaille. And on the walls and
shelves of the restaurants you see pigs in every shape and size. A pig is
suspended from the ceiling, pigs ride on motorcycles, pigs adorn posters.
As we sat at our table with its red checkered tablecloths getting into our
Beaujolais Nouveau, which by the way was pas mal du tout this year, I
admired not just the pigs but the whole ambiance (and developed the theory
that since there is something sympa about a pig, it's normal that people who
like pig food are sympa as well). The owner, a big fellow in a jeans shirt
and a huge mustache, worked the bar and the room, greeting customers who
appeared to be regulars. Hearty laughter swelled up from a table way in the
back. At the bar a rather good looking white-haired older gentleman
promenaded back and forth, a glass of wine in his hand, making offhand
comments to a friend of his and to the owner. I found myself trying to
"place" him for there was something different about him and the way he stood
at the bar. The door opened and the women he was waiting for came in and
then I got it. It was a group of Italians and the way he was standing at
the bar had struck me because it was so Italian! People in France tend to
sit down right away whereas in Italy standing up at the bar is something
that comes naturally. Et voila! One mystery solved.
Yet another around the town activity this month was a press conference I
attended with Pierre Rosenberg, the Director of the Louvre, well-known both
for his erudition and charm and his signature red scarf. The news: the
Mona Lisa is finally going to have her very own 2000 square foot lighted
room with a special security system. "Japanese funding has been given, an
architect has been chosen, and the only thing remaining to do is set the
opening day", announced Rosenberg who said the project would take two to
three years. He also said that no plans had been made to restore the
painting of the Mona Lisa because "if you're ill you go to the Doctor; if
you're not, you wait. She's not ill!" Rosenberg also said that the unique
entrance to the museum is a problem which they are working on solving and
suggested (here's a tip for tourists) that visitors try to go to the museum
outside of rush hour - for example, in the evening. I can vouch for that.
One of my fondest memories is a late in the day visit an architect friend
and I took through the Louvre. We almost had the place to ourselves and
were able to really study the paintings up close. One of those magical
moments that you can only get in Paris.
And since Paris is a city of paradox, I fear I have to mention something
much less elevated than museums. The dog poop problem continues - and don't
think only foreigners notice it. 94 percent of Parisians polled said they
found dog excrement the most offensive aspect of public litter. My wish for
the 21st century is that someone will come up for a remedy to that and to
graffiti, two of the things that disgrace the world's most beautiful city.
In fact, I'll even drink to that hopeful thought as I stand on the Champs
Elysées with my bottle of champagne on December 31, 1999.
Harriet Welty-Rochefort, a bona fide Midwesterner from
Iowa, visited Paris for the first time while in
college. She became so completely enamored of
France that she stayed - and has been there ever since.
Married to a Frenchman and the mother of two
Franco-American boys, Harriet Welty-Rochefort writes
on business, lifestyle and travel for major U.S.
publications. Her book -
French Toast
- is a lighthearted look at
French manners and mores.
Writes Leslie Caron: French Toast includes the most delightful barbs at France's
subtle but deep-rooted codes of behaviour...I read the book on the EuroStar between
Paris and London and wished the train had not reached its top speed of 300 kph!
Reviewed in the Los Angeles Times on January 2, 1998, French Toast
is published in the U.S. by St. Martin's Press.
If you've had some funny, startling, satisfying, or dismaying
food experiences in France you'd like to share,
you may contact Harriet directly at
hwelty@club-internet.fr.
Editor's Note:
Dear Readers, while our writers are always
delighted to hear and to receive comments, both about their columns in the The Paris Kiosque,
as well as your experiences in Paris,
they are unable to answer any requests
for travel information.
Thank you for your understanding.
