Letter from Paris, 12 October
Among the first items on a tourist's query list is the weather to be expected at destination. So much so that when I was commissioned to write the Paris entry to the Encarta Encyclopaedia, the weather had to be introduced right at the beginning. I was reluctant to do so, because you never know what you are going to get these days, and each year seems to be going even more that way. Last November 1st (le Jour des morts) I was in the cemetery of the village of Najac under a southern Californian sky, while flowers still lingered in the gardens along the road that led to the little cemetery. In case that in itself wasn't strange enough, the night before, as we arrived in Najac, I had to rub my eyes in disbelief at the outlandish sight of a couple of small-sized witches and a skeleton hovering against the backdrop of Najac's celebrated and formidable medieval castle. The 31st of October is still designated as Toussaint on the French calendars and agendas, but as a celebration it has become Halloween in real-life modern France, including in its most remote rural parts.
But this time round, in the weekend preceding la Toussaint 2005, the sun has beaten all the records and Paris yesterday was brilliantly summery, complete with sunglasses, tea-shirts and exposed bellies and navels (including some that would have been better off covered). And yet, on Saturday at midnight the clocks went. The weatherman has said it's not going to last, but he's been saying this for several weeks now, and for the farming segment of society the on-going drought is sheer disaster.
Saturday night took me to a couple of cosy places in Montmartre that are even better in bad weather. Foreign friends who are preparing a film situated in Montmartre were visiting for that purpose, so we had to remain on the hill, and I had to open to them some genuine old timers from the turn of the century, which is when there film is to be situated. A few drops of rain teased us tentatively as we made our way to the restaurant, but by the time we were out in the open air again, the sky was as clear as a beautiful summer night, and the stars joined forces with the romantic street lights as we wound our way towards the Lapin Agile along the cobbled, deserted streets. Although I once owned a place in Montmartre, and love Montmartre, I very seldom go there because it's so far out. But whenever I do, I feel the need to report to you readers, because it truly is one of the most charming spots in Paris, and so genuinely unspoilt despite the tourists, who, thank God, do honour to their herdish instincts and tend to stick to the Place du Tertre and the Sacré Coeur. Those who wander off into real Montmartre are of discreet nature and blend imperceptibly into local authenticity, adding to it a colourful touch without spoiling it.
This was already the case at A La Pomponette, where we first stopped for dinner, and where we did hear several American voices as soon as we walked in. I feel the need to specify this detail because I once received an angry e-mail from an American lady who went to a restaurant I had recommended in my book Romantic Paris and several articles, which, among other flaws according to her, was full of Americans. I answered her that I was sorry it was against the law in France to put up segregationist signs such as, " the
celebrated rue Lepic, half way up the hill, since 1909. Vincent and Theo Van Gogh were no longer living at no. 54, just a few houses away, but another celebrity is connected to the restaurant, the truly Montmartrois character and artist, the celebrated Poulbot. It was he and the restaurant proprietor, Arthur Delacroix, who were at the origin of its cute name referring to drinking wine from a glass without a stem, which the two friends enjoyed together once, during a wine tasting somewhere in Seine-et-Marne. When they returned home from their outing, they agreed to replace the commonplace designation Chez Arthur with A La Pomponette which makes you happy before you even step in.
Once you are in and see the old-fashioned rustic tablecloths and napkins that will soon become prized collectibles and the multitudes of museum-piece etchings and drawings (notably by Poulbot) that cover all the walls, you know that you are going to have a wonderful evening in the company of copious portions of French fare. The very fact that the torch has been handed down to the fourth generation is in itself a guarantee of authenticity. So yes, the pâté and saucisson that came with our apéritif maison (always go for home specialities), were a full meal unto themselves, and it being October, I could not forego their seasonal dish of mushrooms (always go for seasonal food).
And then, like so many French parties who have had too much to eat and then walk it off, we got our exercise climbing up the second half of the hill.
And there was my old favourite, Le Lapin Agile, which remains eternally young and unaffected by the passing of time. How simply delightful. My friends thought it would be a kitschy tourist trap, and frankly, I can't figure out how it manages not to become one. You would expect it to be an animated version of the T-shirts and posters of Aristide Bruant and Yvette Guibert that cram the vicinity of place du Tertre. But somehow it doesn't, even though it does recycle the bon enfant songs and banters of yore. The French audience, by far the majority at this time of year, were genuinely having a wonderful time. As did the adorable young Japanse couple who couldn't understand a word when they were targeted teasingly, but didn't seem to mind at all. As for myself who am not a night bird, I was wide awake and full of beans, and literally had to be torn away by my friend after 1:00 am. I would have gladly prolonged the night into the morning.
