The Bistro
When in Paris...
On one of our first trips to Paris, on a bleak evening, we peered through the misty window of a smokey and magnetically alive bistro in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. We entered, relieved to be out March Parisian chill.
Ignored at first but then acknowledged by a waiter now certain we were not typical tourists as we were bereft of cameras, backpacks and sneakers and wore blazers. We were led, not quite ceremoniously, to a banquette in the center of the action.
Prime seating! No better way to convey a sense of comfort and enjoyment than to place a happy good looking family front and center. The ambiance crackled with earnest conversation at all tables. All was punctuated with rarucous laughter from men and women , mist with a Gauloise in one hand and goblet of house wine in the other. All were oblivious to what was going on around them, intent only on the person opposite them. They WERE the ambiance. They were having a grand time and to think they did this almost every evening. At no other time did the phrase “joie de vivre” make more sense.
A strong Gauloise, and endless flow of wine, and I heard absinthe for some regulars after hours, while talking philosophy, politics or how lucky they were to be French. These were happy, or at least involved, people. I felt goose bumps rising when I considered that the older patrons r here, probably actually knew Sartre and Malraux. Heady stuff!
When in Rome (or Paris……). This, I thought, was the time to experience France’s deconstructed version of the split lamb’s head that my grandmother used to make ,this time with a valer head. The beautiful parchment menu was replete standard bistro fare; steak and mule frite, cassoulet, country pate with tiny cornichon, escargot, steak tartare topped with a raw quail egg yolk and the inevitable onion soup with melted Gruyere sliding down the side of the crock like a slow-moving miniature lava flow.
And then Voila, the tete-de-veau! The plate was impressive; tender cheeks, stringy but ever so palatable face meat, the tongue, sliced thin and fastidiously fanned across theta of the plate like an edible wreath, but no eyes, the formidable piece-de-resistance that excited my grandfather. But we were Americans and in the name of Gallic-American harmony, in the sockets were large black olives instead. Nice try, but still not enough stifle the grimaces on my children’s faces. I felt the same, but never let on.
One omission that I was about to argue for were the brains. There were no brains on the plate, one of my favorite foods from the culinary demi-monde. I politely beckoned the waiter, a true Parisian of impeccable presence, aloof but unfailingly professional. He approached almost tentatively and bent ever so slightly toward me. I asked in my hard-won French, Ou est le cervelle? Le cervalle? he repeated. Oui, I persisted , le cervelle. Where are the brains? He picked up my son Matthew’s unused fork and rummaged about the tongue and cheeks. I was right he conceded. There are no brains. He waved over an imperious woman of a certain age he pronounced. who was clearly in charge.
She took the fork and made identical motions over the plate with the same conclusion. No cervalle she pronounced. With that she ordered waiters, now numbering five, as there was something clearly going on with the American family, to the kitchen. All five soon returned and ceremoniously placed a magnificent plate of poached brains, sliced, fanned and garnished beautifully before me.
Madame Boss appeared by my side and prompted me to partake. I tasted a bit of the pictureperfect brains, turned to her, smiled and said,Merci, merci beaucoup, formidable, merci. She smiled a smile that said she did not offer them frequently and asked if all was now well with everyone. Indeed it was.
She did make a point to bid us au devoir, helping me with my coat and bestowing on me the fabled faire la bise, the double cheek kiss. It was a sure sign that we had conquered France, or at least a micro portion of it. Belle Americaine! We were Parisians , at least for the evening. I don’t remember when I felt so invigorated.
Our experience in the bistro was to be an oft repeated scenario throughout France and to a lesser degree throughout Italy. Social situations set on edge by the collision of differing cultures that can either end badly or resolve themselves in a way that enriches proponentsfrom both sides. We always came away enriched and hoped that our European counterparts felt the same. We think that they did.