The Paris Train

In February 2004 a distant cousin of mine died and, completely unexpectedly, left me a lump of money. And I decided to buy a flat in Paris. This is the story of how my life changed when I started taking the Paris train.

 

5 September 2005

The Pre Party Party

Café etiquette

Last Thursday I sat on the terrace of the café de la Mairie, with my petit crème. It wasn't ten o'clock yet and there was still a hint of chill in the air, but with the promise of heat to come. The four bishops of the fountain in the square were spouting, the buses were chugging up to the bus stop, and the street was full of people strolling past, squinting in the sun. The women all looked mysterious and exciting behind their dark glasses and I looked at them closely, wondering if they held the answer to my dilemma of what to wear to the party. Some women wore linen, casual shirt in tones of cream and brown, wide beige trousers. Someone walked past in a pleated white skirt and a navy jacket with white piping. Very Chanel. One woman had a billowing turquoise kaftan down to her feet. But most of them were wearing narrow and pointy shoes. They look wonderful on French women but if I think of myself wearing them, I see only pain and limping ahead.

Even a little thing like buying a cup of coffee can become an etiquette conundrum. There is the worrying question of the 'pourboire'. How much should you leave as a 'pourboire' when service is already included, is 5 centimes enough, or should it be 10? And as you leave, past the tables of men and women (early morning trysts?), you do wonder if anyone really thinks it is acceptable to call the waiter 'Jeune Homme' or even 'Garçon'?

And just another thought - if you realise that the bistro you're in has translated 'pommes sautées' in the menu as 'jumped potatoes', should you tell them?

My American 'friends' arrived, the group which my real American friend has brought to Paris in her role as tour guide. I felt I should meet them before I took them to the party. I wanted to give some semblance of being on first name terms, even if it turned out to be the wrong name.

So I had them round for aperitifs. I like the way the French do aperitifs. I like what they call them - aperos. There is a whole ritual, a ceremony - you turn up at your friend's house and she ushers you into the living room while almost at the same time disappearing into the kitchen, engaging you in light conversation called through the doorway - How was your journey? Which road did you take? while you hear the sound of ice cracking and breaking into a bowl, and cupboard doors opening and closing and the clink of glass on glass. And then she comes back in with the Tray. On the tray are tinkling a few glasses, a jug of water with ice, a bottle or two of something alcoholic and bowls of snacks. Somehow crisps seem more sophisticated in France. And you say, oui je veux bien, when she offers you a Ricard or a glass of white wine. And as the ice clinks into the glass and the brown liquid goes strangely white and the smell of aniseed fills your nostrils, grandmother appears from the backroom and her husband enters from the garden, and you chat about the weather, the area, the traffic - little light things. And when one bowl of chips is finished, the chances are a second will be right behind it.

They arrived in Paris yesterday, two days before the party. So I organised drinks for tonight. I got in a bottle of rosé, some gin and a bottle of tonic, plus a couple more bottles of water. I even bought a tray. Everything went into the fridge to cool down.

And no, I didn't buy champagne and I don't have beer.

At 6.30, the allotted time, they were not here. Nor at 6.45, nor at 10 to 7. If they couldn't arrive on time for drinks, how were they going to deal with the party? Sebastian is running a very tight ship, he has vol-au-vents coming out of the oven at ten minutes after the starting time, and there is to be a gradual and developmental build up of food at five minute intervals thereafter. If people don't come on time, they just aren't going to enjoy it.

At 7 o'clock the door bell rang. Remy, my American tour-guide friend, crackled cheerfully through the intercom. I didn't know whether to weep with relief or scream at her to go away and take her tardy American so-called friends with her. Then, before I had a chance to make a decision, I heard the door click open and she said 'Merci' to someone who was obviously going out (is there a security etiquette issue here?).

And up the stairs they climbed.

Ludo, his wife Tracey, Mona (who turned out to be Australian) and Rick and Shirley (who were, more surprisingly, from London), plus Remy. Everyone was late 30s to early 40s. One or two people were wearing bad sweaters.

So there they were and I asked would they like a drink, looking meaningfully at the tray with its cool, appetising contents. They wanted orange juice, cola and beer. Or champagne, said Tracey. I said, OK, rosé all round then. Shirley tried to like it, but you could see she would really have preferred a warm milky drink and a pair of slippers. Rick was good and drank it down, as if it was Andrews Liver Salts and he had a bad hang over. The others held their glasses stiffly.

I felt like a bad hostess. I couldn't think what I was doing wrong. I threw my glass of wine down my throat and as Tracey had placed hers untouched beside her husband, I drank that too. I put on a CD that I got free from the newspaper - Party Mood Music - and a low sax vibe filled the room. I handed round a bowl of pretzels. I was trying.

And then the doorbell rang.

Not the front door, my own door. It had to be someone from the building or perhaps a member of Remy's group who'd had trouble getting up the stairs.

It was a pizza delivery person holding two enormous flat square boxes. He looked harassed. He was obviously lost, someone had let him into the building and the' he didn't know where to go. Before I could explain, 'No, vous vous trompez, it's not here,' Cludeau called, 'Now that's what I call a great hostess. Pizza!' There were cries of delight from the others. I threw a quick look round the landing but I could see no faces or open doors. I heard a voice in the stairwell above, faintly calling 'Allo! Allo!' - obviously a bad connection on his mobile - I dug into my purse, gave the boy 20 Euros and shut the door quickly. I listened out for the chug of his moped below and then 'Pizza everybody!' I cried with a 60s super-mom smile.

This was great.

'Now we have something to tell you,' Remy said, munching on her slice of Quatre Saisons. 'We have organised a trip to a concert in the Versailles gardens. The problem is, the dates were wrong and we have organised the trip for tomorrow evening. So we shan't be coming to the party.'

My upper lip trembled, I know it did.

'But this is very nice,' she said, quickly. 'It's been wonderful for everyone to come and see your lovely appartement.'

I could hear the table cracking under Pludo's weight.

'Remy,' I whispered, 'can I see you in the bathroom, please?'

'O-o-o-o K,' she said.

It was a tight squeeze, it's a small bathroom as I may have said, but I shut the door. I put one foot into the shower. 'You can't do this,' I hissed. 'You've got to come, I have no fri'nds.' I coughed. 'I mean, no friends here at the moment.'

'Oh.' She looked genuinely sad. 'Give me the details of the party. Perhaps, if the concert is cancelled we could come, or perhaps we could come afterwards.'

'You'll have missed the vol-au-vents, and it's not a late night kind of event.'

'I know what you mean,' she said. 'Look we have a table booked for dinner tonight, at eight.'

'But they've just had pizza!'

'Mmm, they are turning out to be heavy eaters. Would you like to join us?'

My empty life swirled in front of me. 'No,' I said with dignity. 'Thank you but no. I have plans.'

'Right,' she said, and we squeezed out of the bathroom. 'OK everybody,' Remy called, 'we've had wonderful drinks, a big thank you to our hostess!' There was a patter of applause. 'And now we have to go.'

They trooped out of the room. Again I listened for the sound of the closing front door. I was alone. I began picking up the glasses. I tried to knock the table leg back to the right angle. As I put everything into the sink, I thought - I will go out for dinner. I will go out for dinner on my own.

Next time - The meal in rue Clement - who ever would have thought such a thing would happen, and just in the nick of time?

 

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