Ninon and Me at the Grand Comptoir Read online

  Copyright Katherine Watt 2019. All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  Luciole Publications

  luciolepublications.wordpress.com

  Print ISBN: 978-1-54398-730-0

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-54398731-7

  For inquiries regarding this book please email

  [email protected]

  For Hervé, who gave me a home in which to write, entertained me with his musical antics and ready smile and, along with Ninon, made me just a little bit Parisienne.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Ma Rue

  Looking for Ghosts

  Ninon

  Fact vs Fiction: The Noctambule

  The Golden Age

  Beauty Secrets

  First Love

  And So It Begins

  The Career Path

  About Last Night

  Cold Feet

  Go Out

  Caroleen

  Thierry

  Daniele C

  New Year’s Eve

  Welcome 2018

  On Writing

  The Rug Man

  Les Chiens ne Font pas des Chats

  Locked out!

  Eleven Days in Paris

  Les Salons

  An Accidental Salon

  Madam Monique

  She Turned Them Gay

  La Séduction

  Who are these people?

  Quatre vingt dix neuf per cent

  Le Cours de Cuisine

  Le Divorce

  French Girls Think Differently

  Days of Confusion

  Dinner with the Girls (and Gareth)

  La Chope

  The Dinner Party

  The Lost Generation

  Taking Inventory

  Gareth

  All F’ed Up

  Honor Among Thieves (and French Girlfriends)

  A Duel

  Une Pause et un Nouveau Départ

  Family Incoming

  Back to Work

  Jolie Laide

  La Fête (and then some)

  Girls in Short Shorts

  We Are the Champions of the World

  You’ll Get What You Get

  An Insurance Policy

  Avril 1667 rue des Tournelles

  An Embarrassment of Riches

  A Holiday

  Hunan Food, Bartleby, Guy de Maupassant and Tattoos

  Life Happens Outside

  Housekeeping

  Worlds Collide

  An Alcohol Fueled Day

  Canicule

  La Fiesta

  Petites Vacances

  La Canicule Continues

  Beverly and Dave Visit

  Le Dépositaire

  The Boys, Writing around Craziness, and Postulating about Intimacy in France (Paris?)

  Back in the “Nunnery”!

  Francais

  The Transmigration of Souls

  School Yard Fights

  Progress

  Marquis de la Chatre - called away by duty

  Monsieur Chapelle - A love denied

  Ninon on “Amour”

  I Suck at Being in Love

  Caroleen Strikes Again

  Une Petite Soirée

  Les Vacances moins un jour

  A love letter to my stalker

  Friends and Enemies and the Blurry Lines Between

  La Rentree

  Ninon Tutors le Marquis

  Playfulness and Weakness

  The Funk

  A Tale of Two Meals

  Busting Myths

  The Threat of Homelessness Hangs Over Me

  L’Appartement de Architectural Digest

  Coffee and a Cigarette

  Understanding Ninon

  Relishing the sensation of enjoying happiness

  Tired

  Ninon

  The Ongoing Saga of My Search for a Home

  So Many Fish in the Sea

  Joia Is Where You Find It

  La Fête des Vendanges

  Les Chiens sont Rois

  Things Still Happen Outside

  And the Crazy Goes On

  J’ai le Cafard

  Domestic Bliss (or not)

  Seasons

  Book Clubs

  The Actor

  The Elephant and the Six Blind Men

  It’s Raining Men

  Tragedy

  Renard

  Aftermath

  Aftermath of the aftermath

  The Spin Plate

  Rev 2

  Spring Again

  Popping the Five Star Bubble

  An Ending

  L’Ecoles de Filles

  Termini

  November 26th

  Acknowledgments

  Coming in 2021

  Prologue

  One of my big regrets for the past forty years was that I didn’t live abroad in my twenties.

  Little did I know that it would be so much better in my sixties. In my twenties I would have been so stressed out about what my career would be like, who would my husband be, and what would my future children be like. Now I know the career turned out quite well, the husband not so much but that did result in some great kids (and grandkids).

  In my twenties I would have been poor and living in a smelly hovel with roommates I hated and complained about constantly; living on baguettes and whatever wine someone else would buy for me. Now, In my sixties, I have enough money to play with the idea of buying a Parisian pied-à-terre of my own, order the dégustation menu and opt for the wine pairings.

  Perhaps more importantly, I see Paris through the eyes of someone who has traveled the world, kissed enough frogs to know which would turn into princes and which will stay frogs, be bold enough to insert myself into any scenario and to be comfortable just being me, on my own.

  People exclaim that I am living my dream… I’m living their dream. I think it less my dream than my indulgence and the intentional design of the next chapter. In part, I am following ghosts. My small neighborhood on Montmartre’s Butte found me by a happy accident. Some ten years ago when I rented my small but perfect apartment on rue Caulaincourt I had no idea that it would be my hopefully forever home a decade later. And while it was admittedly the bookshelf with a couple of hundred books that drew me back, some of those very books introduced me to a world that grabbed my curiosity and still refuses to let go.

  Ghosts. Everywhere. A block away from my apartment is the building where Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec shared a studio with Suzanne Valadon. The sidewalks of rue Caulaincourt have been paved over many times over the years, but walk a short distance in any direction and you�
��ll find yourself navigating the same cobbles that were tread by Degas, Picasso, van Gogh, and a host of others.

  Every book I read, every google search, every wikipedia page, lead me to another and another and another. I wanted to understand my new home and with each layer I peeled of the onion I found myself looking for more. Starting with those expats before me; Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas and their famous salons, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and the rest of the “Lost Generation”. It took me down the path of the artists that haunted my quartier in the early 1900s. It made me curious about those who came before them and I turned to Emile Zola. Still further back I dove and I spent six months devouring everything I could read about the French Revolution. And even still I am finding more. I just downloaded (but have not yet read) Stephen Clarke’s “The French Revolution and What Went Wrong”. I was excited to dig in as soon as I heard him talk about “fake news” at the time of the French Revolution.

  I found Alexandre Dumas fils and his book “Lady of the Camellias”. I was intrigued by the young courtesan and her popular salon. I walked the few short blocks to Cimetière de Montmartre to sit by their graves. I listened hard for their voices but didn’t hear them. There was something else. Where was it?

  Then I found Ninon and a partnership was born. She not only spoke to me, I felt as though she lived somewhere inside of me. I needed to tell her story. But I didn’t know then that Ninon would bring me to my own story.

  Ma Rue

  Rue Caulaincourt. I would argue that it’s the best street in Paris. But not just rue Caulaincourt, specifically the three or four block section where my apartment is. It took me awhile to understand that what makes my particular part of Montmartre so perfect is that I am situated on the curve of the street, allowing me to see down and up the street from any of my three big floor to ceiling French windows. Outside the windows, tiny balconies just cry out for pots of flowers. I put the last bits of my baguettes on the balconies for neighborhood birds, most often pigeons but sometimes robins that find their way to me.

  The street is lined with trees, both home to the birds and harbingers of the changing seasons. When I first arrived at Christmas lights stretched across the street from each light post, creating a cheery welcome to all who entered the little village. After Christmas came the snow, not an every year thing for Paris. This year the snow came fairly regularly and piled up on the sidewalks and in the gutters. The sidewalks were very slippery in the mornings, before any bits of sun managed to warm the ice enough to turn to slush. The slush would freeze again in the late afternoon and make navigating the sidewalks a hazardous enterprise. In March and April the bare trees started to come alive again, first with tiny buds, then bursting into actual leaves; by May creating the familiar leafy bower that lines the rue.

  Imagine my shock on a Sunday morning in September when I was awoken at 8 am by a horde of city tree trimmers. They closed off the uphill side of the street and teams of them were wielding their chainsaws and clippers from cherry picker lifts. Another was hoisted into the tree by a series of ropes. Neighbors I had never seen were standing in open windows and on their tiny balconies in bathrobes. Trucks followed their progress collecting the massive piles of clippings and hauling them off. By 9 am they had reached the trees outside my windows. The fellow on the ropes was engaged with a woman across the way, on the fourth story, arguing loudly and with expansive hand gestures, telling what to do and what not to do. Three of the workers congregated below, listening to her. They ignored her friendly advice. The next big tree the chainsaws attacked was not only pruned but completely taken down to a one foot high stump. The trunk was then cut into five foot lengths that were soon scooped up by a claw and deposited into a waiting truck.

  By the time I left for a lunch engagement the parade of workers had the cutters at the top end of my perfect three block section of rue Caulaincourt, the branch scoopers in front of Le Cépage and the sweepers in front of my apartment. It was quite a nifty little process that amazingly left enough greenery to assuage my fears. What of the downhill side of the street? Would I wake up next Sunday to find more of the same?

  Mine is a self contained little village. On that span of the street one will find three boulangeries, ensuring that one will be open on any given day. I regularly go to Maison Lardeux situated on the square less than half a block from my front door. It’s where I buy my baguette, most of which goes either to the birds or in the trash. If there is one symbol of France I think it would have to be the baguette. Look out the window at any time, morning noon or night, and you’ll see someone walking down the street holding a baguette. Moving to Paris I fell into the trap of feeling like I need to get my daily baguette to be a real Parisian. In fact, I nearly never eat them. They must be consumed within minutes of purchase or they become hard as rocks. True, there’s nothing quite like the crusty end of a still warm baguette, munched on the way home. But after that I find little to enjoy about them. They are of course an excellent vehicle for amazing beurre de Bretagne and they do make decent pain perdu the next morning.

  The boulangerie could provide a serviceable source of sustenance all on its own. In addition to several varieties of baguettes (tradi, aux graines, normal, batard), there are tempting and fattening croissants, pain au chocolat, pain au raisin, choux, sandwiches, pizzas and several types of quiche. Continuing down the counter you will find the pastries; eclairs of many flavors, tiny goodies of all varieties, gateaux, tartes, macarons; a feast for the eyes, the tourist camera, and a hazard for my waistline.

  Two doors down from the boulangerie is the boucherie. Outside a rotisserie works most of the day, with chickens turning on the spit dripping their fatty juices onto baby potatoes in pans below. The butcher’s cases contain a veritable cornucopia of seasonal offerings. My favorite time to visit is close to the Christmas holidays when the case overflows with whole pheasants, rabbits, black chickens, scores of loaves of pâté en croûte, shells full of tempting prepared Saint Jacques and crevettes, trays of dauphinoise potatoes with or without truffles. Fat sausages and other saucissons hang from hooks above the counter while loops of chains of tiny ones rest in baskets; the continuing feast for the eyes. The friendly butchers are always happy to help with recommendations as well as cooking instructions. After two or three visits, you become a regular, greeted enthusiastically, and allowed to take however long you like, regardless of the line forming behind you. After all, this is France.

  Five doors down from my apartment is the fromagerie. There the cheesemonger will help you select a variety of cheeses for the perfect cheese board for either an apero or after dinner. His shelves are bursting with some fifty or sixty different types of cheeses; big rounds of comté, cheddar, swiss, emmental, cantal, runny rounds of brie, epoisse and camembert, giant chunks of roquefort and bleu, dozens of little chevres in all shapes and sizes and finally my favorite the Brillat-Savarin, a creamy white crusted cow’s milk cheese with a layer of truffles in the center. Across the shop from the cheese case is a smaller case filled with butters from Brittany. They are like no butter I’ve ever tasted, some with flakes and crystals of sea salt imbedded, some doux or sweet.

  Across the street from the cheesemonger Monsieur Vincent has his tiny cave à vin. His motto is

  “I love two things; wine and rue Caulaincourt”. There is barely room for one customer to stand in this space jammed with wines and champagnes. On the shelves lining the walls, stacked up in cartons and cases on the floor, wine everywhere. “Monsieur”, I said, “Je veux un bon vin rouge à offrir. Que recommandez-vous?” Monsieur succeeded in upselling me and I left with two bottles because he was emphatic that one would not be adequate for a meal. I gave one as a gift. The second sits in my wine rack for the perfect dinner. “Monsieur, je veux un bon champagne pour une soirée ce soir.” I left with three bottles “au frais,” already cooled in the shop’s tiny refrigerator. “Monsieur, je veux un bon porto à offrir,” I asked when I was going to a dinner party a
nd I wanted something a little different. I left with an impressive bottle, the best in the shop. Monsieur Vincent has funny hours so it’s important to be watchful or you might end up resorting to wine from the G20, the small grocery store across the street. Not to worry. The G20 has an impressive array of wines and champagnes as well as other liquors.

  It would be blasphemy not to mention the produce vendor directly across the street from me. Not only does this colorful shop provide all the currently in season fruits and vegetables one could possibly want, it’s the perfectly picturesque view I see when I look out my windows. I contend that Monsieur is the hardest working man on rue Caulaincourt. He opens promptly at 8 AM and doesn’t close until well after 9 PM; rolling his big stands of tomatoes, this season’s fresh fruits and the orange juicing machine into the shop before rolling down the corrugated metal door. In the Spring I noticed cherry pits accumulating on my tiny balcony. A few days later I discovered where they were coming from. Small birds were stealing the cherries from the baskets on the stands in front of the store and flying to my balcony to enjoy them. Monsieur laughed when I told him about them. One December I asked Monsieur if he had asparagus for a recipe I wanted to prepare. “Mais non! Ce n’est pas de saison!” No, of course not. They are not in season.

  Sprinkled among these most vital of shops are the florist, another gloriously beautiful storefront and indicator of the season, the rug man (God only knows what his business really is), the pharmacist, a hair salon, a Lebanese deli, a laundromat, a video rental store, a tiny toy shop, a vendor of vaping supplies and some five or six realtors. Add to these no less than ten cafés or restaurants. The street level of the Haussmann style buildings, shops and restaurants of rue Caulaincourt, punctuated by massive double doors that if you have the passcodes will give you access to the homes above them. All seven stories, no more, no less, what is found inside the double doors varies a little. Once past the front lobby filled with mailboxes, a second door invariably leads to a courtyard, sometimes modest, sometimes grand. All around Paris these little passages can provide amazing glimpses into the private lives of Parisians.

  J’adore mon petit quartier, not only Montmartre, not only the Butte of Montmartre, not only rue Caulaincourt, but specifically rue Caulaincourt between number 41 and number 70; three charming blocks, with everything one might need to live happily in Paris.