At noon on September 22, 2010, as promised, an e-mail swooped into my inbox from a Monsieur Bruno. The presence of the e-mail not only represented a promise kept, but also destroyed the stereotype that all Americans are hated by the French. For as Bruno himself had stated on the plane, “I like the U.S. quite a lot. You are all very nice, friendly, and open.”
I waited in anticipation for the message to load and then proceeded to read, re-read, and re-re-read, his silk-like prose and his thoroughly contemplated suggestions. Bruno’s message was very instructive and it even included links to websites where I could read recommendations and restaurant ratings. For one restaurant Bruno even included a website where I could make an online reservation. After much research—that was made very easy by Bruno—I decided to have my birthday dinner at Le Sarladais, a renowned and Michelin Guide rated (oh la la), restaurant serving traditional French cuisine. In the fashion of a European I made my reservation for 8:00 and then notified Bruno of my selection.
In my response e-mail I graciously thanked Bruno for his assistance and suggestions. I also made him aware of my dinner plans—perhaps subconsciously wishing he would join or ask to accompany me. This was actually something I contemplated for quite some time, Should I ask Bruno to join me for dinner? Would that be inappropriate? Too forward without wanting to be forward? After thinking about the mixed message my invitation could send, my ignorance of the man’s marital status (although I noticed he was not wearing a wedding band. And yes, I did check J), and the potential danger I could be placing myself in by inviting a stranger—whom I had only known for seven hours on a plane—to dinner, I decided to merely thank Bruno for the information.
After unsuccessfully maneuvering Paris streets by foot in search of Le Sarladais—with the “help” (or lack thereof) from googlemaps—I took a cab to the restaurant and arrived exactly at 8:00. The restaurant was situated on the corner of a small side street and had an entranceway that was shrouded in cabernet velvet. I meekly approached the host of the restaurant and notified him of my reservation. He nodded with a smile and said, “We’ve been waiting for you,” in beautiful, but very rapid French. It was at this moment that I truly absorbed my surroundings and realized that yes they indeed had been waiting for me. The restaurant, in spite of its renowned reputation, was in close-competition against the other 3,000 high-quality restaurants scattered throughout the city. It was as a result of this competition that my addition to the restaurant only increased the body count to a whopping number of six—the host, the waiter, and a French family of three.
I was seated in the fashion of royalty—it literally felt as if they had rolled out a cabernet carpet (to match the entranceway) for my arrival. The host began speaking to me in rapid French: “le journal, le champagne, une verre, une bouteille.” I had no idea what this jolly man was saying, so in clear French with an air of confusion, I asked: “Je suis désolé mais, répetez s’il vous plait.” He kindly nodded, inhaled, and rattled off the exact same expression at light speed—still nothing. To avoid asking him to repeat the phrase a third time, I quickly tried to decipher his statement and realized that he was offering me a glass of champagne. Why not? It is my birthday after all. Along with the champagne I was given a beautiful plate of salami and crousti that was big enough to feed three people, let alone one. For the “plat principal” I ordered a steak, “bien cuit” in a béarnaise sauce. The steak was served with “peasant-style” vegetables that were cooked to perfection. Along with my steak I was also offered a fine glass of Bordeaux that was absolutely delectable.
After finishing my meal, which I had eaten at a snail’s pace in order to savor each morsel, I was asked if I wanted dessert. I agreed and selected a carmelized pear gelée. I also notified the waiter that it was my birthday to which he smiled and replied, “Je sais (I know).” How could they know? Were they just being polite or was it Bruno? I puzzled over the waiter’s statement of acknowledgement until the pear gelée arrived on the table—with sparkler in tow. The host set the dessert in front of me, sparklers shooting every which way, and the French family (my only comrades) cheered in honor of my birthday. I smiled, thanked them all, and was then left in my solitude to finish my dessert. It was at this moment that I felt more alone than ever before. My ability to cope with solitude is something I typically pride myself on, I mean, for goodness sakes, this entire summer I lived as a traveling, housesitting gypsy, who with the exception of a dog or a cat, spent morning and evening alone in a myriad of houses. But this moment was much different. It was not the eating alone that was a problem—I never mind eating alone (as long as there is more than just one other family around)—but it was the fact that it was my birthday; a day that should be shared with family and friends who you care about and who care about you. Instead, although the French are lovely and Paris is gorgeous, I was surrounded by a restaurant host, a waiter, and a family who was engulfed in the presence of one another.
Without warning, fat tears began to run down my cheeks as I tried with much effort to swallow each bite of heavenly pear. The daughter of the French couple noticed my misery and whispered to her mother who then whispered to the father. I tried to suck the tears back into their ducts but it was too late, they kept sliding down my face onto my cabernet napkin (the French really know how decorate, don’t they). After regaining some composure I enjoyed the rest of my dessert and avoided thinking about my loneliness. I simply paid the bill, thanked them for the wonderful meal and for the birthday candle, and left a tip as a sign of gratitude (NOTE to all future travelers: in France the tip is included in the bill). The host thanked me and made his way over to a vase of beautiful cabernet roses. With caress, the host lifted one out of the vase and handed it to me, “A bientôt et bonne anniversaire,” he whispered with a kind smile. I left the restaurant feeling rejuvenated and I practically floated back to my hotel. Although a large part of me still felt alone and foreign, there was a small part that felt a sense of belonging and of care.
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