Le Cousin

Monsieur L has no siblings but many cousins, most of whom live in other countries. The one constant relative he sees in Paris is a male second cousin who is a doctor in the western reaches of the city. Dr. T is the complete opposite of Monsieur L, and yet just as quintessentially french. He is a workaholic with his own cabinet and rarely has time to take off for holidays. He was married once, but briefly, and the woman broke his heart, so he works some more to forget. In spite of his unhappiness, he retains his enormous sense of humour and easy generosity.

Dr. T has a long-standing regular Saturday dinner date with Monsieur L and because he feeds himself poorly during his busy week, he enjoys splurging for a good meal at tried-and-true restaurants. When in Paris, I am a pampered and convivial companion at these dinners as well. The evening usually begins with Dr. T coming over town in his va-vroom car as we run downstairs ahead of his arrival to try and save a parking spot for him on one of the narrow streets. He will exit from his car in a flourish of kisses and greetings, scenting us with his strong after-shave. He is dressed in a perpetual all-black uniform of black Lacoste polo shirt, black pants and a black leather jacket that bulks him up a bit more as he is not as athletic and muscular as his carefree cousin. The two cousins will play-fight like little boys again for my benefit and I will have to pretend to be the referee.

Usually he will bring with him a stack of glossy real estate magazines so we can dream together and drool over old manor houses on the beaches of Brittany, or debate the merit of finding a fancy apartment for him in the 16th arrondissement where his wealthy clients cluster. Then the two cousins will reminisce about their grandmother’s seaside villa in the South Finistère where they had spent so many happy childhood summers, and express their regret that it is no longer in the family.

Nostalgia whets the appetite and we will decide on one of several restaurants in the neighbourhood to patronize for that evening. Dr. T is not a culinary adventurer, and prefers not to stray too far from the basic classical french palate. Camille on Rue des Francs Bourgeois is always a favourite, as is Le Petit Bofinger across from the grander papa Bofinger, and a more recent addition, La Tête Ailleurs on Rue Beautreillis, where the elegance factor is a little more heightened and the food a bit more innovative.

Dinner conversation revolves around the usual suspects – politics and sex, how to find love again and have conjugal sex, how to enable an indolent life on the beaches of Brittany and have invigorated sex – interjected by observant comments on the other diners, coming and going, focusing on the women, of course. Dr. T has a more conventional taste in women and would like to find someone dependable to have a family with. He has been dating again but with little success. Even in Paris, love does not always strike so readily.

Monsieur L’s view of women is a little more cynical and provocative, but often axiomatically bang on. He can go on, if you let him, about how a woman’s prime asset can speak volumes – the “talking ass” syndrome, as he so crudely puts it. And what has that got to do with love, you ask? For virile men like Monsieur L, it is the only starting point, or target, worth following and with luck, hit well. [With age, however, his stance has mellowed and his culling less insistent, but that doesn't stop him from looking and assessing!]

Dr. T loves desserts and will frequently order two, which we get to partake in on top of our own. Sometimes when he visits, he will stop at a pâtisserie and buy a boxful, enough for ten pastry lovers, and proceed to consume half of the selection by himself. Sweet-toothed, funny-boned and bourgeois hip, his boyish charm can mask a certain psycho-rigidity that Monsieur L has accused him of harbouring, and yet he is the one who can make us laugh more than anybody else. And then he will drive us around Paris with the music blaring, his sexy black car careening through the seizième to show us on which posh avenue and in which splendid building he sees his happier life unfolding.

Love on the Avenue Kléber

Of the many grand boulevards and avenues in Paris, Kléber would not be counted on as a romantic one to traverse as it stretches between the Trocadero and the Arc de Triomphe. And yet on one fine spring day, love blossomed unexpectedly on the Avenue Kléber for a brief deluded moment.

I was walking along with a friend in search of a bank machine, and this would be the street to find many, before going for a quick lunch. Even on a sunny day, the large plane trees lining the avenue provided heavy shade for the powerful black cars idling along with their dark-suited chauffeurs – all waiting patiently for their unseen supreme masters who were perhaps blessedly ritualizing with their gold bullions behind the cold marble vaults of private banks and despotic embassies. [I may be being somewhat presumptive here.]

Much smaller amount of money in hand, we headed into a quiet salon de thé that had almost finished serving lunch. There was a lone man eating at a table outside, but we chose to sit inside in the empty dining section. A few people entered to buy pâtisseries from the counter but not for a sit-down meal. At a certain point, halfway through my enormous salade norvégienne, I looked up and met the eyes of an attractive nordic-looking man who had just stepped in the door. He was not in a suit like every other man on the serious Avenue Kléber, which made him a little more intriguing. The second time we glanced at each other, I was “catched”, as Monsieur L would put it. I should admit that I don’t usually heed the attentions of other men. But this one was odd. There was a palpable spark of sorts.

I watched him order something from the woman behind the counter, leaning over to ask her something else. La toilette, because that was where he headed, and on his way back, he made a point of looking directly at me. I wondered if he was expecting me to invite him over to our table, but my friend was gabbing away, oblivious to all the meaningful eye-engagement going on behind her back. He retrieved his purchase from the counter and as he left, wished me au revoir. I managed to return a tight little smile before he went out the door.

By now, I was a little warm under my lacy collar and finally enlightened my friend to the situation. She swiveled her head towards the window to try to catch sight of him before he disappeared down the street. As it was, he had stopped to speak with someone standing under the tree across the sidewalk from the salon de thé. He looked over at us occasionally as if waiting for us to finish our lunch and emerge.

I was not feeling brave enough to seize the opportunity. Perhaps if I was alone, perhaps if I didn’t over-think things, perhaps if I was less shy… perhaps if Monsieur L had not “advised” me about such predicaments, but more like an overly protective father admonishing his naive impetuous daughter!

We finally took our leave, and as we walked down the sidewalk, he crossed our path slightly ahead of us and went into the café on the corner of the block. He kept his eyes on me but I wasn’t sure if it was an invitation to join him. No words were uttered again, and I was tempted, but my friend had kept on walking. I looked back at him standing at the café counter. He smiled and waved at me with his whole arm. I waved back, but it was that moment of flustered indecision that I now regret. I was already a little in love…such a silly coup de foudre really over a late lunch on the Avenue Kléber, and in this ever busy and crowded, but nonetheless expectant, City of Love.

Happy Frenchmen

Is there really such a sub-species? Or is it a certifiable oxymoron?? Queried with a small dose of facetious cynicism, I don’t profess to have been exposed to a great number of les hommes français, deliriously happy or not.

But the one frenchman I do know very well is generally playful and jovial. Is that the same as being truly happy though?

“We are always searching for ‘a-pee-ness,” he will whine to me when he is in a less merry mood.

“Really?…I thought you already have a rather nice one!,” I will snigger back. It will take him half a second to clue in as to what I am referring to from his English mispronunciation. [Ahh...but we do have fun with his french accent and other malapropisms! In retaliation, he will tell me that I speak French comme une vache espagnole, and so on it goes...!]

Despite his usual good humour and the ability to make me laugh frequently, Monsieur L, like most frenchmen I suspect, has his issues – his many, many issues. And whenever one of those demons makes an appearance, he will not hide his anguish and agitation, giving vent to the mounting angst in a blustery blaze. It can be the neurotic oedipal related abandonment complex that has been lugged around forever in that oversized splitting at the seams suitcase, or a paranoid episode of insecurity around certain dominant male friends, or the stress induced maniacal house-cleaning before maman comes over.

No matter how hard it is sometimes, and how easy at other times, to placate him during his crises, it is apparent that deep in his core he is not fully content with and within himself. I will remind him that it can be as simple as choosing to feel what you want…be it being satisfied or appreciative or grateful or just zen out. The past is moribund, the future still nebulous. But easy for me to be philosophical about such things – I am not french, nor a man.

Monsieur L asserts that most of the men he knows will never have all that they desire, and thus cannot hope to be absolutely happy with their lives…[and isn't this the perpetually confounding universal conundrum? So no breaking news there!] I counter that short of being a reclusive hermit poet rolling around with a great big jug of wine in a mountain hut, who really lives out their ideal anyways.

And as with a child, I take him out by the hand to the nearest
pâtisserie, choose the chubbiest baba rhum for him, and soon all is right with the world again.