Travelers' Tales Paris (39 page)

On the eastern edge of the mythic French capital, just beyond the famous and forever congested
périphérique
, another reality thrives: Montreuil-sous-Bois. There isn't much forest anymore, or peaches for that matter—the town was once famous for its indigenous fruit trees. “The Montparnasse of the
fin-de-siècle
” might still seem a bit over the top, but then again, so are prices of drinks at La Coupole in Paris's irreplaceable Montparnasse.

Ce qu'il ya de plus étranger en France, pour les Français, c'est la France
. What is most foreign in France, for the French, is France.

—Honoré de Balzac

TISH CARNES BROWN

T
HE FROG SIGN CREAKED AS IT SWUNG ABOVE OUR HEADS.
W
E
opened the door directly under it and crossed the courtyard. Although it wasn't necessary, my husband knocked on the door of Roger's just as he did the night he discovered it. After a few seconds, the door squeaked as it was opened by a woman looking very formidable in a severe black dress. I smiled. No wonder he thought she was the madame of a brothel all those years ago.

“
Oui
?” Although she had aged, her voice still had the sultry Simon Signoret quality to it.

“
Bon soir, madame. Est-ce que possible
,” Dave hesitated, searching for the French words hiding in the back of his memory, “
pour moi et ma femme manger ce soir
?”

“
Oui, monsieur
,” and she stepped aside so we could enter her restaurant.

Tables and diners lined each side of the long, narrow room. The din of conversation and a variety of mouth-watering aromas surrounded us. Madame led us half way down the aisle and seated us at our table.

So this was the famous Roger's I'd heard so much about. We
were on our honeymoon and we'd come to Paris not only to see the celebrated historic sights of that beautiful city but to go in search of a piece of Dave's past, hoping it too still existed. I desperately wanted this restaurant he'd frequented to be the same for him. So far so good, but knowing how things change, I vowed to eat my
cuisses de grenouille
with crossed fingers.

It wasn't long before a robust, middle-aged man, with a cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth, approached us. I recognized Madame's husband and the proprietor, Roger, immediately from Dave's description of him. His soiled white t-shirt overhung a long, white apron. He tossed a hunk of bread onto the bare wood table and extracted a couple of bottles of wine from under his arm. After upturning our glasses, he first poured some red and then some white into each one: Roger's celebrated “
rosé
”
apéritif
. And true to form, he took the ashtray, dumped the contents on the floor and wiped it out with the bottom of his t-shirt.

Dave ventured some more rusty French. “
Bon soir, monsieur. J'ai mange ici beaucoup ans passé. Est-ce que possible le même t-shirt
?” he laughed and pointed at Roger's shirt.

“
Mais oui! Un très vieux t-shirt
,” and he made a face while holding his nose. “
Vous êtes américain ou anglais
?”

“
Américain. J'ai travaille à Paris pour l'Armée des États-Unis en cinquante et un. Mes amis et moi mange ici tout les Mercredi soirs. J'ai apporte ma chérie
,” he pointed to me, “
ici manger vôtre grenouille—le meilleur à tout Paris
!” My chéri's
French was now rolling off his tongue and my heart swelled with pride.

Roger cooed at the compliment. “
Merci beaucoup monsieur
.
Merci
.” And with a devilish grin, he whispered conspiratorially, “
Le périscope pour vous
?”

“
Certainement! Et
binoculars
aussi s'il vous plaît
!”

Fantastic! Roger was going to perform his periscope trick. I glanced around at the other diners to see who might be the likely victim.

He returned and handed the binoculars to me so I could see the chalk board menu on the wall at the end of the room. But I had eyes only for the periscope. It was handed to Dave upside down so the sight was focused
under
the table. While he looked through it, Roger walked up to a woman sitting facing us at an adjacent table and lifted her skirt. She obviously knew him because in mock anger, she slapped his hand and for our benefit, pronounced him “a naughty old man” in heavily accented English. The three of them howled with laughter. I beamed. Our time travel trip back to the old Roger's was so far totally successful. Now it was up to the waitress to perform the grand finale. But it was ridiculous for me to even consider the possibility that she could be the same one. Then I quickly chastised myself for such negative thinking.

I scrutinized her out of the corner of my eye when she brought our wine and
grenouille
and concluded that she was, after all, about the right age.

“Don't you remember her?” I asked.

“No,” he answered very definitely, cruelly dashing my hopes.

As we sipped wine and dug into succulent, tender little frogs legs dripping with garlic butter, Dave told me the story again.

In 1951, Lt. David Brown, U.S. Army, was stationed in Paris during the Korean War. (He's always been grateful for that roll of the dice.) Since he lived on the French economy instead of on an army base, the Hotel Bon St. Jour was home. (The rate was a dollar a day which included laundry service.) He usually ate his meals at the same neighborhood bistro but every Wednesday, the monotony
was broken by dining out at various restaurants with his friends and superior officers, Major Frank Bayard and Captain Tony Biando. That is until one particular Wednesday when they took a friend up on his recommendation of an unpretentious and fun Left Bank place called Roger La Grenouille. It was fated to become The Wednesday Night Restaurant.

According to directions, they took the Métro to St. Michel, walked along Quai des Grands Augustins and turned left onto the rue des Grands Augustins. On that particular moonless night, the street lights weren't operating. And not a ray of light escaped from the tightly shuttered windows. The street couldn't have been darker. Or quieter. The three officers huddled together. As they approached number 28 the silence was broken only by the creaking of a frog sign swinging in the breeze above them. Since the entrance wasn't on the street, they assumed it was off the courtyard on the other side of the door. The officer of lowest rank was sent to reconnoiter the territory. Lt. Brown bravely opened the door and tiptoed across the courtyard toward the only door which had a strip of light escaping from the bottom. He knocked softly and waited while listening to his thumping heart.

The door squeaked and creaked as it was slowly opened by a very mysterious woman dressed in black. Dave tried to ignore the chill running down his back.

“
Oui
?” She strung out the “oui” in a sexy, throaty voice.

His jaw came unhinged when it finally registered that he was facing the madame of a brothel for the first time in his life. (Or so he told me.) Funny trick the friend had played sending them to a brothel! But then again he thought, what did it matter? Brothel or restaurant, they couldn't lose.

“
Un moment s'il vous plaît madame
,” and he turned to give his superiors, who were hiding in the shadows, the all-clear, come-ahead
sign. As the three entered, Dave barely stifled a laugh. Were they ever going to get a shock! But the aroma of garlic butter told him the friend hadn't tricked them after all.

Roger, the “frog,” compensated for any disappointment Dave may have felt. He performed his bit with the trio from his “
rosé
” to his periscope. But the finale was performed by the waitress.

After spending a leisurely three hours over a very enjoyable dinner, Frank and Tony rose from the table, leaving Dave to compute the tip. (Those were the days before
service compris
.) When he reached the door, the waitress blocked his way.

After pressing something into his hand, she whispered, “
Un baiser. Donnez un baiser à moi
,” and she pointed to her puckered red lips.

Dave's eyes bulged. There was no mistaking
this
French! She wanted him to kiss her! Not the other guys who had been politely shoved out the door but him! He eagerly leaned forward and just as he was about to kiss her lips, she quickly turned her cheek to him.

“
À bientôt, monsieur. À bientôt
,” and she ushered him out.

Well, she was just being coy, Dave thought. Since she was going to see him soon, she had obviously slipped him her phone number along with something that felt cold and hard in his palm. A key to her apartment?

Outside, he joined the others who were busy looking, with the aid of a cigarette lighter, at little lead frogs they'd been given as souvenirs. With anticipated dismay, Dave opened his hand. Yep. Another frog.

“I suppose she kissed you guys too?”

“Kissed?” Frank questioned. “I didn't get a kiss. What about you Tony? Any kisses?”

“Not a one. I guess she liked you best Dave.”

And so the evening was salvaged for my husband by two good friends.

We'd arrived at Roger's at eight. Now it was almost midnight. We had devoured
cuisses de grenouilles
,
cassoulet
,
coq au vin
,
salade de
tomate
, a generous portion of the huge cheese tray (passed from table to table by the diners themselves as it had always been) and finally strawberries with
crème fraîche
and coffee. I didn't want to leave. I wanted to postpone the disappointment I was sure would accompany our departure. But it was time to face reality:
she wasn't going to be the same waitress
. I consoled myself with the fact that it had been a wonderful evening, full of surprises from the past and certainly no reason to feel disappointed.