“Madame, Your husband called again.” Like the majority of all men ranging from young adolescent males (some of which included my own high school guy friends) to the very old, our Parisian hotel concierge was in love with my mother. She looked up graciously hiding the pain of a torn ACL. “Would Madame like some ice?” Before she could reply, he clapped his hands and turned up his nose, “I will bring it to your chamber en moment.”
Yes, we had come to Paris despite my mother’s current handicap. Her New Year’s resolution “to get in shape” had met its demise on the country club tennis courts in early January. Whap whap and snap snap, she tore her ACL and spent the next two months on the couch, reading and drinking copious cups of tea, while she dreamt and I believe, dreaded her upcoming trip to Paris. Nevertheless, she was determined to go in order to show her daughter that AP Art History, American Literature, and French, were not just course requirements or prerequisites for college admittance. Rather, they meant something more and this mother wolf, ever determined, sacrificed herself with the hopes of making me a little higher brow.
Hobbling along the banks of the Seine, waking up early, and staying out late, she indulged all of my curiosities from the right to the left bank. No doubt, she was a true mother wolf through and through– but one with a wounded paw.
While my mother was in terrible pain, I was in complete awe. I did feel horrible pushing her in a wheelchair through the Pompidou Centre but could sense her delight at my reactions to paintings of Mirot, Dali, and Magritte and later my excitement at the discovery of Sylvia’s Beach’s Shakespeare and Company bookstore.
Later, I would reward her with little gifts of pate, creamy cheeses and wine back at our hotel. I would stuff my face while she popped ibuprofen and took swigs of her Cote du Rhone. Our American interpretation of French room service was certainly a sight for sore eyes. But we did not care and instead cackled with delight.
Soon, we would hear a knock at the door. It would inevitably be the concierge come to check up on Cher Madame. Like school children caught red handed scarfing down stolen chocolate bars, we would shuffle around the room, wiping the crumbs off the bed while we carefully hid the wine. Soon, the concierge would wheel in a little tray carrying a silver bucket of ice. He knew us as the pauvres americaines but we knew him as Mr. Eyebrows.
Our nickname was not meant to be malicious or condescending. We loved Mr. Eyebrows and simply acknowledged the fact that he embodied everything that a Mr. Eyebrows should – from his impeccable pressed and tailored outfit to his slender Jiminy cricket physique to his shiny bald head, his wispy white eyebrows were the perfect compliment. Without them, he would have been lacking in some final touch.
If anything, our nickname was meant to be endearing, as his kindness to my mother was unexpected. Prior to my visit, I had heard horror stories of Parisians turning up their noses at Americans. But Mr. Eyebrows liked us, despite our nationality, bad French, and awkward dress – no doubt because of my Mom. With her Hermes scarf, blond coiffed hair, and beige raincoats, she was a handicapped Catherine De Neuve – effortlessly elegant on those damn crutches. Perhaps, it was the good wine, fatty cheese, or countless pastries, but she glowed.
As Mr. Eyebrows looked forward to seeing my mother each day to delivering her petit silver buckets of ice to proudly announcing my Dad’s messages, I looked forward to the Hotel de Suede’s, breakfast.
During my five days in Paris, I became a convert of the morning meal. Prior to that, I ate breakfast like I did homework – dutifully but without thought. My mindset was this, “ If I am to survive the day, ace that AP exam, and make it through field hockey practice, I must eat breakfast whether I desire it or not. So I would march downstairs and eat the morning gruel at St. Catherine’s. This usually consisted of scrambled eggs that were either overdone and dry or undercooked and runny. If so, I would doss them in ketchup and sprinkle it with massive amounts of salt and pepper. I could jolt my system a little more with sides of bacon, sausage links, greasy biscuits, and deep-fried French toast sticks.
And there was always cereal for those weight conscious gals such as Smart Start, Special K, and Raisin Bran along with options of white starchy bagels and cold cream cheese. It is no wonder to me now that I did not like breakfast then nor knew how to properly begin my day. At home, my breakfast ritual was hurried and tasteless. It wore on me like boarding school life eventually did. All I wanted was a cup of coffee and a big of hunk bread with some marmalade or raspberry jam.
Paris granted me this wish. Miles away from St. Catherine’s, I would rise early excited for breakfast a la Parisian style, saunter downstairs, and wait patiently in the breakfast room while I quietly observed the guests from the self-important BBC film crew to the French guests reading Le Monde.
Soon I could hear the rickety elevator ascending from the basement kitchen, the brass doors would slowly slide open and soon Mr. Eyebrows would emerge wheeling out a small silver tray filled with slender pots of dark strong coffee, pitchers of steamed milk, and a basket of assorted croissants, brioches and breads all accompanied by various comfitures that clearly were not Smuckers grape jelly.
I adored this breakfast marveling at its simplicity and subtle elegance. Yet, I was unable to pinpoint what exactly it was I loved – was it the café au lait and the novelty of drinking coffee out of bowl? Or was it the warm bread and buttery pastries that outshone any bagel or doughnut back in the states? Perhaps, it was the homemade jam? It was hard to say.
Looking back now, I see that my mother was right to take me to Paris. It was the perfect introduction to the charms of Europe – culture, art, language and history all in one bite. More importantly, it revealed to me the subtle elegance and artistry that lies in food - beginning with something as simple as le petit dejeuner.
The French are the masters of this. From the disciplined pastry chefs to the diligent Mr. Eyebrows who deliver their work later that morning, it is evident that food is more than just fuel. For them, it is a way of life - a way to honor the hours rather than pass them by allowing one girl to always remember the first time she saw Paris.