Bon Appétit Jason

A warm glow filled Jason as he paid his portion of the dinner bill. There was no need for him to calculate a tip; he was in a generous mood and handed Gabriel a thirty-euro note.

“Pass on my compliments to the chef,” he said to the head waiter. “And keep a little for yourself; you managed a table of talkative tourists beautifully.”

Jason wondered, briefly, if the warmth in Gabriel’s voice meant something more. The thought passed almost as quickly as it arrived — a small fiction encouraged by Paris, where even kindness could feel like invitation. Gabriel thanked the American and wished him a lovely evening, at least what was left of it. The bistro clock had just clicked over the 1 a.m. mark.

Jason stepped out onto the pavement and glanced around the Place de la Contrescarpe. The rest of the group that he’d shared the evening with had melted into the night, and the street was almost empty. The night air still carried a touch of early-summer warmth, but soon it would be chilly. When he was younger, he would have taken a night like this to visit a few bars, maybe a club or two. Now in his sixties, he was content with good food, good wine, and his own company. And as he reminded himself, the purpose of his trip to Paris was just that—and to pay homage to the two women who had shaped his life.

Hotel-bound and no distractions, he decided. As he passed the cafés, bistros, and restaurants, lights were dimming, shutters lowered, chairs stacked. It was the same ritual the world over. He felt a flicker of longing for his restaurant in Boston, but not enough to call it homesickness. Tomorrow would be his first solo day in the city. The tour had been fun and at times interesting, but he was looking forward to starting his Paris Experience. A warm, soft hotel bed was all he required tonight.

Jason woke with that slow, foggy contentment that follows a night of indulgence and rest. A shower, a shave, and a moment to choose his wardrobe. It was going to be warm by the look of it; he flicked through his little hotel wardrobe and chose his favourite pants, a soft grey, light-wool pair that would go well with the subtle stripes of his cotton shirt. Both were from Andover, the only place he shopped in Boston. When a man finds his style, he stays loyal, Jason often said.

Breakfast was the first priority, and he’d long anticipated his chosen venue; it was the place that Julia Child had experienced her very first Parisian breakfast, and his own mother had talked about the café often. These days, Les Deux Magots was more than a little bit of a tourist trap, but that was the price you pay for being an icon.

Jason didn’t know which table Julia had sat at, but she had said it was on the terrace. This morning, the café was not overly busy, and the terrace tables were not yet at a premium. He approached the smiling maître d’ and requested a table looking across at the Saint-Germain-des-Prés church, a much nicer outlook than the busy Boulevard Saint-Germain.

He smiled to himself as he sat down. His true Paris experience was beginning. In his mind, all his Parisian meals were noted and in order. This morning it would be a Café Complet, just as Julia had. The espresso was not as good as at home—it rarely was in Paris. The croissant was better, but he suspected there were many better ones to be found in the city. Juice followed.

He had passed an hour at this famous eatery; in that time, the tourists had multiplied, and the general atmosphere had declined. He paid the unnecessarily large bill and decided to walk to his morning shopping destination. He passed through the Left Bank district and the hordes of tourists and crossed the Seine, passing beyond the Louvre. He strolled straight up the Rue du Louvre to a store he’d only ever read about, first in Julia’s book about her time in Paris, and then again and again as the shop appeared in every second Paris memoir.

He would have recognised the storefront without a photo; its description was embedded in his imagination. Commanding a street corner, the dull green of the paintwork, the yellow lettering announced E. Dehillerin and its founding two hundred years ago.

Jason stepped through the door and back in time. The showroom was crammed with rows of wooden shelving; the shelves were stacked with a truly remarkable assortment of kitchenware, but most importantly for Jason, the best range of copper saucepans he had ever seen. A smiling salesman approached him, and an hour later, his order was placed. Some would say the money that changed hands was eye-watering, but to Jason, this was an investment—an investment in his own happiness. None of the beautiful copper was destined for his Boston restaurant; this special selection was for his home kitchen, and he would use it lovingly. The manager of the store, well pleased with the size and value of the order, assured Jason it would be shipped with today’s dispatch and would be awaiting him upon his arrival home. There was much shaking of hands and even a few cheek kisses—unexpected gestures in such a conservative store.

Jason left the store with a skip in his step. If he were honest, he was almost floating. His mother had bought her first copper pot here on her visit as a young girl in the early fifties; he remembered it and the dishes it had produced when he was a child, but like his mother, that original pot was long gone.

With lunchtime approaching, there was time for a little celebratory cocktail, and he knew just the place. It was only a short walk from the site of his kitchenware extravaganza to the iconic and rather ancient Harry’s New York Bar. As Jason walked to his scheduled midday cocktail, he mused over the astonishing array of the famous who had sipped at the bar; some were even his heroes. Oddly, there were no public references to Julia Child visiting the bar, but he knew from the correspondence Julia had with his mother that they had met there more than a few times, so this would be a many-pronged homage.

An almost underwhelming bar front greeted Jason, but stepping inside was like stumbling into an Aladdin’s cave of history and ghosts. He exhaled a long, contented sigh as he surveyed his surroundings, a room that felt more familiar than new. Long ago, he had accepted that he was a romantic and that it had shaped his life in more ways than he would like to admit, and not always for the better.

Pulling up a bar stool, he nodded to the white-coated bartender and ordered a Reverse Martini. The bartender was a little surprised at his request—so few knew this take on a classic martini—and Jason watched with a critical eye as it was made with precision and a little love.

He let it sit for a moment, savouring the thought of it and its connection to the two women in his life, their shared enjoyment of it and the bridge it gave the three of them. He sipped it and noted that it was better than any he’d ever made: refreshing and not too strong. He winked his appreciation to the waiting bartender.

At this time of day, with the bar having just opened its doors, it was almost empty. Jason enjoyed a sense of it being just him, alone in his thoughts and imagination. He motioned to the bartender for a second martini. He was feeling indulgent—and, if he was honest, faintly melancholy. As the cocktail was being prepared, the door opened, and a reasonably well-dressed man walked in, surveyed the space, and sat down at the stool next to him.

He ordered a Negroni, his accent betraying him as Australian. They both sat in their own thoughts, but if Jason knew one thing about Australians, it was that they liked to talk and never needed an introduction to become familiar. Silently, he counted the seconds until his neighbour spoke. He doubted it would be a full minute before the Australian broke the silence. And he was right. Once the man next to him had taken a sip of his drink and given an audible grunt of satisfaction, he launched into an introduction.

“G’day! You can’t beat it, can you?” he said, it wasn’t really a question.

“Hmmm,” Jason replied. “The bar, drinking at midday, or your Negroni?”

“Paris, of course,” the Australian answered. “I mean, it’s rather perfect, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, I know what you mean. It would be hard to find a more perfect city.” Jason sipped his martini.

“Do you come here often?” his neighbour asked, and before Jason could ask if he often asked unknown men that question, the question was clarified.

“Gee, that sounded like a clichéd proposition! Sorry mate, I actually meant to ask if you were a frequent visitor to Paris.”

They both laughed, and the awkwardness was dispersed.

“It’s actually my first visit to Paris, but I feel like I’ve been visiting all my life,” Jason explained.

“I know what you mean,” the Australian replied, and introduced himself along with an offered hand.

The two men shook hands—two Anglo-Saxon Francophiles in an iconic bar.

“Do you know much about the history of this place?” Jason asked.

“Of course, but I’ve never been here before. It’s always been on my list, but somehow I keep being distracted.”

The Australian was on a roll, and Jason was happy for the man to lead the conversation; he was content to sit and enjoy his cocktail.

“I’m a sucker for this city, and I keep coming back. I know most people call it the City of Light, but I call it Paris the Temptress. I keep promising myself that I’ll behave, but inevitably the city tempts me.” He nodded to the glass in front of him, now almost drained of its Negroni, and laughed.

“And yet, here I am at midday, draining a cocktail. See what I mean.”

Jason motioned to the bartender to refill his new friend’s glass.

“I know what you mean. At home, I’d very rarely be having a cocktail at midday, but here,”—Jason took a sip—“it somehow seems just right,” and, nodding to the collection of famous guests whose portraits hung on the walls, “and of course they would all approve.”

The Australian thanked Jason for the drink and pre-emptively ordered a reciprocal round. They talked over their drinks, the Australian admitting that he had made a decision to find himself a little apartment in the city, and that he had surprised himself by “falling in interest” with an enigmatic Parisian woman, and that the city was well and truly under his skin.

If you had happened to ask the Australian after they had said their farewells, he would have surprised himself to admit that Jason had not really given anything away about himself and his reason for a solo trip to Paris. But sometimes that’s what happens when you are so keen to tell strangers how you have caught a touch of the Paris Fever.

Jason left the bar a little after the Australian, not wanting to be pulled into the current of the man’s day. He had his own plans and didn’t want them sidetracked. Just like his mother and Julia, he always had a plan.

The sun was now high in the sky, and it was a perfect time for lunch, and if he were quick, he wouldn’t miss his booking.