Le Marais, Music and a Meal

Marina and I had spent a good part of the day exploring Le Marais, le quartier Juif of Paris with its antique shops, jewelry stores, art galleries, clothing boutiques in ancient buildings and under medieval arches. Tired we sat in the park at the Place des Vosges surrounded by a palace where Catherine de Medici had plotted power moves to protect her sons and discourage Philippe of Spain from religious warfare.

The sun was warm. We wore no coats, a great change from the week before when we had been bundled up to protect us from the falling snow. Spring, after one of the coldest, snowiest winters in ages, was arriving.

Since it was Wednesday with no school the park was full of children playing in the sand box or tossing balls.

A business man, suit, briefcase and cell phone walked by. He was talking softly on what could have been an important deal, but suddenly he started walking on the low metal wall surrounding one of the grassy squares as if on a tightrope, the way he must have done as a little boy. Back and forth he went and as he talked a smile on his face made us decide he must be chatting with his lover.

Marina knew of a vegetarian restaurant. To me vegetables are a wonderful thing and I try and make them, beans and grains 95% of my diet. I do eat meat, preferably when I know it was raised humanely and hormoneless and slaughtered as quickly as possible. I will never be a total vegetarian until I no longer succumb to the smell of frying bacon which removes all resistance to any ethics.

The restaurant was small with less than 20 tables. The walls were light yellow with original paintings. The owners do everything themselves from preparing the food to waiting on the tables. Even the bread was made by them.

As soon as we ordered, a strolling musician entered. By his costume, I suspected the other two Musketeers were waiting outside along with the green ostrich that had donated the feather in his hat. His guitar was pasted under miniature flags of countries hiding all the wood. He approached our table. “Bonjour.”

“Bonjour,” I said.

“Where are you from?” He switched to English. Okay, my accent in French always screams Anglophone.

“Genève,” I said.

He went back to French and sang a song about Switzerland. Table by table he made his way around the restaurant making sure each patron had a personalized serenade. Sweeping his hat from his head he received the donations and left either to work another restaurant or to gallop away on his horse to save some damsel then sing to her. I suspect the first is true, but I prefer to imagine the second.

Our food came: cole slaw, a perfectly seasoned squash, ratatouille, and a terrine of cèpes, mushrooms.

The joy of the day was partially created by the sensations of sight, smell, taste, partially by the panorama of Parisian life around me, but also there was the satisfaction, or outright smugness, that for me Paris is not a once in a lifetime experience, but a place where I have spent a lot of time and can easily get to again, again and again with or without a tightrope walking businessman or a Musketeer.