Paris Journal VII: Le Bon Saint Pourcain

photograph by Hallie Cohen

At the intersection of the Rue Servandoni and the Rue du Canivet in Paris's 6^th Arrondissement lies a green painted storefront that once housed a restaurant called Le Bon Saint Pourcain. The white lace curtains still cover the lower half of the windows, as the cursive signage on the exterior continues to identify an establishment offering “cuisine bourgeoise" and operated by "Cyrille and Francois Associes," but a sign on the window says “Ferme Pour Travaillez.” Le Bon Saint Pourcain was the vestige of another era.  It served home cooked meals in the same atmosphere that might have greeted an allied soldier during the liberation of Paris. Francois is a short man with thick black eyebrows which frame his ruddy complexion and give his face a perpetually quizzical expression. On a normal day, he stood out on the street in his white apron and took reservations from regulars who he was more likely to have known more by face than by name. He'd never heard of “OpenTable”. The meals were served by his daughter Fabienne, a large boned woman, whose sullen face was no indication of her feelings toward the customers. She was a little like the Mona Lisa to the extent that you didn’t know what she thought about you, no matter how many times you came. But what the service lacked in warmth was made up by the interior of the place and by the spirit of the crusty and loveable Francois which permeated the atmosphere. Le Bon Saint Pourcain served hearty dishes--beef bourguinon, cassoulet, boudin, chicken chasseur, tarte tatin-- that had no pretentions to greatness, but which made you feel great. You never feared going home hungry or with that empty feeling that sometimes occurs when you wonder if the Paris of yesterday only exists in the photos of Robert Doisneau or Henri Cartier-Bresson. When asked about that sign in the window Francois, who has a house in Brittany, confirmed that he’d sold the place and finally retired.

Paris Journal IV: Silence is Golden

The Musée Carnavalet in the Marais section of Paris is the Museum of the City of Paris, which is housed in the former residence of the great letter-writer Madame de Sevigny. One of the permanent exhibits is the room Marcel Proust occupied. “C’est dans son modeste lit du laine qu’il composa la plus grande partie de A La Recherche du Temps Perdu.” It was in his modest wool bed that he composed the great part of The Remembrance of Things Past, reads the inscription on the wall outside the installation. The room was covered in cork at the suggestion of his friend, the Comtesse de Noailles, to ensure silence. The same décor existed in the three residences Proust occupied after the death of his parents: 102 Boulevard Haussman (1902-1919), 8 bis rue Laurent-Pichat (l919), and 44 rue Hamelin (1919-22). With its antique desk, its chest, its tiny upholstered chair, Proust’s digs resemble the small but elegant respites in the expensive boutique hotels that are ubiquitous in Paris these days. Its embroidered couch recalls Freud’s study. Proust’s cane remains, and on the wall is a picture of Proust’s father Adrian, a doctor who wore pince-nez. One floor up in the Carnavalet is a floor devoted to the French Revolution, which contains a framed copy of the Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen. The first article reads: “Le but de la société est le bonheur commun.” The aim of society is the happiness of everyone—a dictum that has apparently eluded the hardened creatures who still lurk in the doorways of the infamous rue St. Denis only a few blocks away.

An American in Paris

George Gershwin’s An American in Paris haunts the recent scandal about General Stanley McChrystal’s on-the-record remarks about the Obama administration’s efforts in Afghanistan. The biting criticism leveled at the American operation, in particular the derisive remarks made about Vice President Biden, is linked to the eruption of the Eyjafjallajokull volcano, which stranded McChrystal and his staff in Paris, where the initial interviews with Rolling Stone journalist Michael Hastings took place. Did McChrystal succumb to the selfsame rapture that inspired Gershwin’s iconic tune? Paris can have this kind of effect on even the most hardened military leaders, and it’s no surprise that McChrystal opened his heart in the City of Light. The whole episode, with Europe brought to a standstill by volcanic ash, has the quality of A Midsummer Night’s Dream—Paris functioning as the Forest of Arden, where Puck (now a left-wing journalist) turns Bottom (our erstwhile General) into a donkey. The fallout in Washington is the reality to which the pageant is finally reduced. Hemingway famously drank champagne at the Ritz as the Allies liberated Paris, so our hapless General was on hallowed ground as far as the romance between America and France is concerned. Let’s face it: however compelling Marja and Kandahar may be as theaters of war, they can’t hold a candle to the specter of General Courtney Hodges leading the First Army down the Champs Elysées in ‘45.