paris, march 2011
it is close to 8pm, the time of our dinner reservation, as we plod down cobblestone streets.
from la motte picquet grenelle we had transferred to ecole militaire, harsh lights of the underground clipped by cool night as we climbed to street level. ink sky brightens in moving patches, spotlighted by the cylindrical glow radiating from the eiffel tower.
with our tattered map in hand, we stumble through the streets of the 7th arrondissement, passing doorways and signs, squinting at the foreign letters that darkness renders even more incomprehensible. along the street, potted windows glow with the warmth and ruddiness of wine-blushed diners inside, until we reach—aha!—l'Ami Jean.
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on the sidewalk outside a forlorn-looking young man is peering at the menu posted beside the door. just as we are about to duck inside he turns to us with a faint air of confusion and desperation. "hey, do you know if this place is any good?"
his americanness is palpable even before the first word. i smile. "it's actually our first time here, too."
he introduces himself as michael, an architecture student from boston ("no way!") who is studying abroad in florence for the semester and freshly (as of about an hour ago) and cluelessly arrived in paris for a week-long trip.
"this place is supposed to be really good," we tell him—no better place for a first meal.
"do you want to have dinner with us?" we offer, without really expecting him to say yes. but a moment later we are inside apologizing to an irked maître d' who is making a huff about providing an extra seat.
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| "what's this yellow stuff?" [pops a wedge into mouth] "hm.... butter." |
the three of us cram into a corner table meant for two, and a bounty of charcuterie arrives, the cutting board so large it nearly overthrows our wine glasses.
leaves of marbled ham, thick slices of white baguette, niblets of pure pig fat, velvety goose liver terrine, and tiny cornichons that have to be fished out of their brine with little tongs. it is probably more food than those of the peasant class saw in a lifetime under louis xvi.
michael rifles through his backpack and pulls out an enormous dslr and begins to snap photos. i marvel, feeling quite intimidated clutching my pink p&s. [clearly, this was before i got my own dslr.]
between gusty mouthfuls of charcuterie (do art students not eat unless someone feeds them?), michael explains that he had escaped to paris following a gut-wrenching breakup.
"what happened?" i ask.
"she got back together with her ex."
"fuck. forget her."
"but she smelled so nice..." he sighs. i giggle as he waxes poetic. he is a charming caricature of un artiste emotif. he was definitely in the right city for wallowing in forsaken love.
my underage self is tipsy with the first glass, woozy with the second, and drunk with the third.
i am basically full by this time but, unbelievably, there is more food.
the server brings out a tray of braised beef cheeks so tender it melts at the prod of our silverware, the glistening canvas of china prettied by daubs of coloured vegetables
soon we discover that the table adjacent to ours is also occupied by folks from les états unis—a trio of girls: mother, daughter, grandmother. we laughingly wonder if the restaurant segregated us on purpose, then shift our tables closer together. it rapidly becomes a party of introductions, shared dishes, "how do you know each other?"s, and more wine.
our waiter—ostensibly tipsy now as well—insists we order the rice pudding. "the best in paris!" he boasts. i'm dubious—how good could rice pudding be?, recalling the watery substance my mother always made with leftover sticky rice.
but we acquiesce.
it appears in a huge white bowl, an oozy divine mountain of rice globules streaked with honey. it is so thick that the wooden spoon stands up straight.
he spoons a cloud onto my plate, garnishes it with spiced granola and crumbled meringue, and finishes it with a drizzle of caramel au beurre sale.
a spoonful to the lips, a dream on the tongue. jesus.
my eyes close involuntarily as i drown in the silky sweet crunchy perfect melange of flavours, textures, and colours. christ.
three glasses of sauternes to finish. i drink it in one breath because... why not?
a while later we bid our adieus and fetch our coats. on the street outside my head spins from the wine, tongue yet tasting lingering sweet. le garçon obligingly lights a cigarette for me. a draw sears my throat, restores my balance. i stick out an arm and a cab instantly appears. we hastily exchange contact information and promise to invite him for dinner tomorrow...
from the window of the taxi i watch him saunter down the street, shabby backpack slung over his shoulder and cigarette perched between his lips. walking slowly, without any end or aim but to mend a broken heart.
—
we never did hear from michael again. i hope he was okay in paris by himself.
sometimes when i'm walking through the back bay and i catch a whiff of cigarette smoke i turn around, half expecting to see him.
—
p.s. names have been changed to protect the innocent :P
p.p.s. smoking is bad for you. [ETA: i don't smoke!]
p.p.p.s. you should check out the ulterior epicure's photos on flickr from his meal at l'Ami Jean! they are infinitely better than mine.
—
Chez l'Ami Jean
27 Rue Malar
75007 Paris, France
01 47 05 86 89
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