I had wanted to dine at this restaurant for years. A bit expensive so I had to save up my pennies.
I love walking through Paris. So I dressed well, put on my sneakers, and put my good shoes in my backpack and headed off early.
I walked from the 17th down to the 4th arrondissement. It was November 1; All Saints’ Day. France is still fairly Catholic so it is a holiday and the museums are free.
Ile de Saint Louis was closed to automobile traffic.
I was on the last stretch when I heard two American women, clearly headed in the same direction, gossiping loudly about not much as they hurried along in a New York City kind of way catching up to me.
I smiled at them as they passed me, ignoring me, about walking right over me.
Really. I decided to pass them – I can do the New York hustle walk as well as anyone – I’ve lived there. I smiled at them and was about to say hello, we must be headed to the same place, but they acted as if I didn’t exist so I decided I didn’t need to bother.
I knocked on the door. A gentleman answered, looked at me down his long Aquiline snooty nose, at my backpack, then down to my sneakers, let the other ladies in with great relief, and was about to close the door one me when I smiled and said, “J’ai une reservation.” (“I have a reservation.”)
He hesitated, looked again at my shoes, my outfit – perfectly respectable outfit, a suit – and back at my face…
After torturing him, letting him have to think a little, I added, “Ne t’inquietes pas. J’ai mes bonnes chaussures dans mon sac.” “Don’t worry. I have my good shoes in my pack.”
He still was dubious but opened the door.
He occupied himself with the others whom he clearly thought had class while he wavered about what to do with me. I started to sit down to change my shoes when he about had a heart attack and said, “NO MADAM!” and pointed to a window seat out of the way in the corner in the dark.
A little annoyed, but keeping my eye on the ball – lunching upstairs, I humored him.
Seeing me quietly in the time-out corner, he escorted these other ladies with the good sense to walk in Paris in high heels to the elevator.
Having changed into my very chic, lunching at the Ritz, I mean Tour D’Argent, shoes, I started to head to the elevator to go up to the restaurant when the doorman took my backpack to check it. Couldn’t possibly have that in the fine dining area. Quel faux pas!
I took the elevator to the restaurant. The Maitre D’ had not seen me in my sneaks or backpack so wasn’t as concerned…..yet!
However, he was worried about an American woman dining alone so he put me out of the mainstream but at a window seat – in fact the best seat in the house for views outside. I had a beautiful view of Notre Dame, the festivities of All Saints’ Day and the Seine.
A waiter brought the menu. I realized as I looked at the price of the set menu that I had left my travelers’ checks in my back pack. I wondered if they took them. They must. Did I have enough French cash….
I gave my order.
Would Madam like some wine? A half carafe? House wine?
I went for broke. Almost literally. I figured I might as well experience all of it. I tried to quickly mentally add up the French money I had in my pocket, praying there was enough. “Yes,” I answered.
“And some Perrier, please.” Oh boy.
I decided not to bother worrying – worrying wouldn’t change the negotiation at the end of the meal.
So far the wait staff was acting a little less apprehensive.
However, still worried that I was alone, they brought me a book to peruse. It was a book of fine dining around the world. It increased my hunger.
Little did they know that I love eating fine food alone. I want to savor it, enjoy it, not worry about being scintillating in conversation while my food gets cold. That’s one thing Gen Yeager and I have in common – we don’t worry about conversation when we are actually eating our meal. Between dishes, sure, but not usually between bites.
I also was fine, more than fine, just gazing out at Notre Dame – what a beautiful day.
The service was pristine. I enjoyed the artful food and partook of the wine (partook? sipped, more likely).
I noticed the waiters becoming more and more attentive and respectful. I brought my attention back into the restaurant and noticed that the two American women and a few others were very boisterous, hardly fitting the environment and not as elegant as their dress. Ha ha.
I dined slowly. I wanted to savor the experience, make my money last a long time. Or put off the issue of getting my travelers’ checks, hoping they take them.
I surreptiously studied the customers. I determined none were regulars. The couple nearest me were looking around thrilled to be there, not sure what to order, or what to do.
The American women and their group were getting louder and determined to be the definition of the loud, uncouth American. But well-dressed so they deemed themselves okay.
Some were clearly French, and Parisian French in particular, eating, talking, arguing, debating as only the Parisians can.
After much deliberation, there were many delicious as described desserts. I chose the Grand Marnier souffle.
For some reason, I determined I was going to finish the large bottle of Perrier and the half carafe of wine. I refused to waste any.
The Grand Marnier souffle was soup. I tried two bites and gave up.
I gently put the spoon down, and looked up for a waiter.
Within a minute or less, one was walking at the other end of the room. He glanced my way. I locked eyes, raised my eyebrows and he rushed right over.
I nodded toward the souffle and courteously told him it was soup in my magnificent French: C’est soupe. Whether he understood my words or not, he could see what I meant. He whisked it away.
On retrospect, at that point, I should have said I did not want to try again with the souffle and should have ordered the other dessert. I had tasted the Grand Marnier souffle, er, I mean soup 
so a chance to taste the other….but I wasn’t quick enough.
They brought a Grand Marnier souffle this time. Much better than the Grand Marnier soup.
After I finished the souffle, they brought a three tier dish with bite-size petit fours and chocolate miniature desserts.
Well, if I had a known, I wouldn’t have ordered the souffle or soup.
It was going to be a long lovely afternoon. I figured I’d probably miss the free admission to the museum. Ah well.
I sipped my wine, realized I’d not only have to stay longer to finish off the petit fours, I’d need to stay longer so I could finish the wine and be able to stand up and leave.
What could be better? Delicious sweets. Delicious wine. A view of Ile Saint Louis and the Seine. The spires of Notre Dame with their gargoyles.
Waiters now realizing that sneakers don’t define class or lack thereof.
They brought some delicious coffee, too.
I tasted everything first before I circled back to the best ones. Then I had a moment’s thought that maybe they weren’t all for me, that this was the restaurant’s community tiered sweet tray. Oops.
As I was finishing the last tasty bites, l’addition, the bill, appeared.
OK. Think I’ll just keep sipping that wine.
I opened the bill, got out my purse, and literally counted the last centime. I had….exact change. No kidding. The exact change to the last centime. Phew. There would be no embarrassing moment saying do you take travelers’ checks. Oh, and by the way, they are downstairs in my backpack. No really. Oh, I have to go to the bank, which is closed on All Saints’ Day to get them changed……dishes?
Phew. OK Double Phew.
I now really enjoyed the last sips of my wine which I did finish. I think I had been there for over 2 hours, maybe three.
I gathered myself, checked to see if standing was working and floated to the elevator. I was escorted by the waiters who had decided I was elegant and the classiest customer.
I noticed, they did take travelers’ checks….at a ridiculous exchange rate.
I arrived at the ground floor, headed to the cloakroom, was greeted enthusiastically this time by the doorman – word travels fast. He helped me retrieve my back pack.
A I looked around to sit down to change back into my pumpkin/sneakers, I suddenly noticed that the chair in which I had been about to sit at the start of this adventure, had a sign I hadn’t noticed earlier. It said that this chair was Louis XIV and dated from the 17th Century.
Well, no wonder the doorman was apoplectic when I was trying to lower myself into it earlier. I noticed it now had a rope across it.
I went back to my window seat, changed into my sneakers, said a Merci, as the door was graciously held open, and stepped out onto the street.
I think I changed some French minds: don’t judge American gals by their footwear. Those sneakers gals just might have a pair of classy heels in their backpack & know how to behave with elegance and grace in a 4 star restaurant. Just let her know the chair is over 300 years old!
I floated to Ile Saint Louis to watch the clowns, the jugglers, the stilt walkers – I mean 10 foot high stilts – from the ground vantage point.
And when I’d had my fill, I went inside Notre Dame to hear the sermon, the priest chanting and the music. There is something ethereal in listening to music and chanting in Latin in those wonderful, old cathedrals. The height of the spires and dome causes the music to float aloft truly giving the presence of other worldliness and spiritual guidance.
Magnificent. All Saints’ Day was heavenly. My idea, at the time, of a perfect day.
c. GCYI