Monday, May 5, 2008

Looking for the real thing

I normally don’t go anywhere near the Eiffel tower, or any of the other touristy places, but that day I felt like emptying my mind of fine herbs, innovative sauces and the smell of rabbit slowly cooking in a sweet Alsatian wine. The chive straws I use to decorate the mousse de canard were still blinding my sight, and my clothes smelled of fried olive oil. I needed to get out of the restaurant so badly; I hadn’t even dared telling my assistants. I just left.

Le poids rouge was situated in Montmartre; in one of the side streets that tourists rarely find, as the other streets around are more lively and colourful. The flowers never bloom as much on Rue Albert Rouge. The windows are darker, and the air feels slightly stickier. I walked to metro Abesses, and travelled across the Seine to Pasteur, just next to Montparnasse train station. I thought of my brother whom I had last seen there two months ago before he went back to London to his wife and two kids. He had needed I break; I think the week in Paris served him well. He seemed a bit more happy to be alive when we kissed goodbye on the platform. I think he’ll stay by Aida’s side in the end. She is a complicated woman, and having two small copies of her certainly does not simplify matters. But he’s a man of principles at the end of the day – once he has chosen his woman, he’ll stick to her.

By the time the metro reached Concorde, I had seen five women sit down across from me. Four of them had left so far. The fifth one was elderly, with grey hair tucked in under a blue plum shaped hat. Her wrinkled hands firmly gripped a fluffy white handbag, which reminded me of a lapdog my mother used to have when we were kids. The fifth woman did not leave me. I left her. I walked towards the sliding doors (that pinch you very hard if you do not pay attention) and in the corner of my eye I saw her caressing her handbag.

The change to line six was quick, and I arrived at Bir Hakeim 49 minutes after I had left the restaurant. I felt relieved. The afternoon was sunny, and the air was full of foreign languages expressing the beauty of an 81-story high iron construction. I went straight for the hotdog stand and ordered a French one with mustard but no ketchup. I enjoyed my lunch on a bench next to the stand, watching two stray dogs fighting over a left behind sausage (Paris is full of them). The terrier was about to win over the sausage dog, which seemed like a contradiction of terms. Poor dachshund, I thought.

My lunch was interrupted by a tourist looking for “Rue A. Rouge” next to metro Anvers, and my heart did a somersault. I studied him closely, trying to determine whether he was the type to look for an unknown fine dining restaurant in Montmartre. He had blond dreadlocks, an unzipped leather jacket and somewhat baggy pants. He was carrying a backpack the same size as his upper body. His eyes were curiously looking for any sign of recognition.
-Do you happen to know it, mademoiselle? He was red in the face, and his light t-shirt was slightly wet and glued to his chest.
-I come from there, I said. He looked at me; puzzled, waiting for me to continue with my sentence.
-I came from there, I corrected myself. He seemed even more confused, and put down his backpack on the ground. Including the sleeping bag, it reached all the way up to his waist. His eyes asked if he could join me on the bench, and I nodded silently. He seemed like a sweet guy, and my stomach filled me with hope. Maybe he prefers red beans over green ones as well? Maybe he too eats and eats and eats, but never quite manages to still his hunger? Maybe he too has just one piece missing from his puzzle…?
I never got to know. He left me to buy a hot dog, asking me if I could keep an eye on his backpack. I felt slightly irritated, but told him the French one is the best one. He returned with a normal hot dog with ketchup and mustard. I watched him take the first bite, and then he went into fits. He made gasping sounds and put out his tongue like an overheated dog. I passed him my water bottle and he thanked me with his green eyes. Funny, first I had thought they were blue; but now that the sun went behind a cloud, they looked light green.
-Too hot? I asked, and he nodded. His hands looked beautiful around my Evian water bottle. They were large and tanned, with clean short nails.

He was from Canada, travelling across Europe on his own. He had done Scandinavia, Germany, Holland and Belgium. Now he wanted to do Paris as well.
-I want to discover the real Paris, he explained. I don’t want to do the touristy things. On his 4th bite of the hot dog, he told me it felt like the mustard was coming out of his nose.
-It’s normal, I comforted him. It’s absolutely normal. He changed the topic. I wondered if he liked me. I turned a bit more towards him on the bench, and started twisting my hair around my right index finger.
-So… You were telling me that you came from Rue A. Rouge? Is it close to the Moulin Rouge?
-Yes and no… But I’m not really from there. I just work there. I sensed that he didn’t like being corrected, and he punished me by not asking any follow-up questions. I moved my right hand down my side in a sensual way, but he simply looked down in his guide book.
-Because there is this restaurant on that street… Le poids rouge. He pronounced it in perfect French, except that he put too much emphasis on the “poids”, which made it sound like he was referring to a shabby corner bar rather than a fine dining restaurant.
-I own it, I told him, and my chest felt enlarged. Oh. Oh! It had finally made it to the guide books! This was a special day.
-Wow! So, are you the pea? He asked with a twinkle in his eye. That’s awesome! In that case, I shall grant you the honour of my company tonight! They say in the guide book that there is nothing touristy about Le poids rouge, and that it is a good start to discover the real Paris… The way he pronounced the name of my restaurant was getting on my nerves.
-Le poids rouge, I corrected him; putting more emphasis on the ou-sound in rouge. Le poide rouge is a fine dining restaurant in one of the side least discovered side streets behind Sacre Coeur. Do you like mussels?
-I don’t know, he answered, and lifted his shoulders. Never had them!
-I just bought 2 kilos worth of mussels. Do you want to eat at my house tonight instead of the restaurant? I couldn’t believe my ears. I had just offered a complete stranger over for dinner! I didn’t even know his name. My heart was pounding, and I felt suddenly warm inside. He looked up at me, wiped some sweat off his nose and smiled.
-That’s a rather generous offer, mademoiselle… His sentence sailed up towards the blue sky, mixing with Japanese awestruck sighs about the tallest building in France.
-Amandine. I saved his words from flying away to unknown dimensions. Nice to meet you.
-Great, Amandine. I’m Gabriel. I don’t think I can say no to dinner at a professional chef’s house in Paris… It can’t get more real than that! He stood up from the bench, and started searching for something in his backpack.
-This is something small for you. He handed over a key chain in the shape of a red and white beaver. Under it was written “Roots”.
I had a date! A real Canadian date!

* * *

It was kind of weird. She was not bad, though not my definition of beauty by any stretch of imagination. She had long brown hair and her body was a bit too flat for my liking. I like them with curves, and preferably with a somewhat wider arse. I’m completely not into flat arses, but still. She was all right. I had come to Paris to escape from my ex back in Ottawa. I didn’t really want to think about her right anymore, because there was nothing else to think about. She had just left, and that was it. In a way, I think I’m better off without her.

I thought about buying flowers for Amandine, but couldn’t find a flower shop on the way to her house, so settled for chocolates instead. Carte d’Or. It sounded fancy enough; like a “golden opportunity” for something. I arrived at her house at twenty past 8 – just within the range of being fashionably late. I had made sure not to use any after shave after showering – I had read somewhere that women are more attracted to a man’s natural smell. So, here I was; au naturel, outside this real French girl’s house. I peaked into her mailbox and put my right ear towards the front door. I heard a kitchen machine working inside. I knocked five times, but she didn’t hear me. I wondered what she was wearing, and weather her arse would turn out to be as flat as I remembered. I rang the doorbell and the noise inside stopped. The front door flung open, and there she was; the most stunning girl in the neighbourhood. I felt warm inside, and put my left hand into the pocket of my brown corduroy trousers. They were of the loser type, and you can never be quite sure. I felt warm inside, as her small breasts welcomed me inside.

The house smelled of white wine and roasted nuts.
-I prepared an aperitif for us, she said; and offered him a martini glass with an olive stuck to the side. I tried to hide the fact that I don’t like olives by drinking very slowly. That way I was postponing the empty-glass-moment when the owner starts fiddling around nervously with it. I knew that it would look strange at that point not to eat the olive, so I avoided the situation all together. Amandine put a bowl of honey-brown pine-nuts in front of me, and told me “chin-chin”.
-This is the new trendy apero in Paris, she said. I didn’t know if she referred to the nuts or the drink, but I smiled politely. Her breasts looked enormous tonight compared to this afternoon, and I felt that she really wasn’t such a bad girl. She had slim, long legs and a long neck, which kind of made up for the lack of curves.

She served me “moules à la gruyere” and real "crab claws, served on a bed of citronella leaves and asparagus mousse”. It was really nice, and I enjoyed her company. When she laughed, she reminded me of a chimpanzee I had seen last night on TV. She was cute though, I realised. Her nose and ears were small, and her waist was slim. While she was telling me about the hidden areas in the world capital of romance, I got my nerves up and reached over to her neck and touched her.
-I think I’m finding the real Paris… I told her. She laughed nervously, but you could tell she was enjoying the attention. I lifted up her hand and kissed it lightly. She giggled.
-You’re a gentleman! Her English was surprisingly good, and she could keep up a conversation without too much difficulty. I wanted to kiss this real Parisian, but she was too involved in explaining about how she had prepared the raspberry flavoured crème brulée. I don’t eat desserts normally, but this was kind of good. And anyway, I didn’t want to upset her. I thought of the olive still left on the side of my Martini glass. Luckily her back was too it, so she could not possibly have seen it from her side of the table. I’m doing well, I thought to myself. I’m doing really well here in Paris.

* * *

After two bottles of Pinot Blanc, she told him that it was getting late. He played stupid, and told her how much he has enjoyed this first taste of beautiful Paris. She insisted politely that she had to work tomorrow, and forced him thus with gentle but firm female savoir-faire to get up from his comfortable seat in her sofa-bed. He knew it could be turned into a bed, because his parents had a similar looking one back in Mississauga.
-Will I see you again? He asked; searching for her eyes. I want to buy you dinner as thanks for tonight. It was awesome. I leave to London on Tuesday, so how about tomorrow?
She took longer than usual to answer, and the air was thick with crab fumes and lost dreams.
-That would be nice, Amandine said with a smile that was just about genuine. She knew this wasn’t the real thing, and that tomorrow she would have to return to her maigret de canard and sauce made with either strawberries or oranges – whichever was in season. They said bye and he walked into the early summer night, knowing that the humidity of the early summer night would instantly make his nose sweat. The Eiffel tower was ivory coloured in the sunset; prepared to be embraced by yet another long and lonely night.

Monica Westerén, 05.05.2008

1 comment:

Dottir said...

hey there! the changing viewpoints of the story are very elegantly done! i found the beginning a bit slow with describing Paris, but then when the real story has started it really involved me. congratulations for the guy's part, you did a very good job there i think. but we have to listen to our guys' authentic opinions about this tomorrow :-) so more later.. but all in all, you keep up the quality girl, it's inspiring!