Steve from Mendocino
On my first day back in France, I arrived alone for some reason. I suspect Anne-Marie hadn’t yet finished the school year, or alternatively, she’d arrived before me. I forget. I came with my luggage to the restaurant owned and operated by her aunt and uncle, who concocted a joke for Anne-Marie’s sister. The restaurant was full at lunch as usual, and they put me alone at a table for two. When Monique arrived for her usual weekday lunch at the restaurant, they sat her with me on the pretext that they needed the other tables for service. Monique knew of my scheduled arrival and asked me at one point during the meal whether I was “Steve.” I denied it, and we all had a good chuckle later at Monique’s expense.
Anne-Marie and I stayed for a week in a spare bedroom in the apartment over the restaurant. It sat on a side street off l’Avenue de l’Opera, opposite a premium horse butcher shop and a few doors down from a fire department. Trash collection was loud and took place every weekday at 5:00 a.m. right outside our second story window. Not something I was used to. The bar opened every day at 6:00 am and workers came in for coffee, not infrequently accompanied by a shot or a glass of wine. The work day for Anne-Marie’s aunt and uncle began at 5:00 a.m. and ended at 11:00 p.m. Saturdays were slower and more relaxed for them, and Sundays were for cleaning. The restaurant closed every year for the month of August.
The food was a reasonably high level of Dijonais and Lyonais cuisine. The menu changed daily and included half a dozen main courses. Andre, chef and half owner, produced 60 full meals every weekday lunch and about half that for dinner, with nobody helping him in the kitchen. His wife ran the bar and handled the front end with the help of a server. Every Sunday she took down every bottle behind the bar and dusted it, as well as scrubbing all surfaces and laundering napkins and towels. Andre spent Sundays in the small cellar refilling bottles of Morgon and Côtes du Rhône from barrels. About once a month he would prepare family meals for relatives who lived and worked around Paris. At one of these he served a Grand Marnier soufflé. I asked him how he made those. He replied “with a bicycle pump.”
This was my introduction to the acceptance and generosity and love that Anne-Marie’s family extended to me for as long as they lived. This is why I wanted to move to France.
Anne-Marie at 19 years old while we were at UCSD. She will be turning 77 soon and I will be turning 76. It’s been a nice ride. No, we’re not together, but we’re both around.
On The Road – Steve from Mendocino – French Basque Country #2Post + Comments (19)