Deer Hunting in Paris. Paula Young Lee
about emergency trips to the bathroom.
A famous nineteenth-century novel by Emile Zola, Au Bonheur des Dames, tells the story of a provincial girl who comes to Paris and gets a job at the Bonheur des Dames (Ladies’ Paradise). Plain and penniless, Denise joins the flow of material goods imported from around the world. Caught up in the ritual of commercial exchange, she slowly loses her naïveté, her bad haircut, and cloddish shoes. It is not an improvement. The inspiration for the Bonheur des Dames was the Bon Marché (Good Market) in the 7th arrondissement. The world’s first purpose-built department store, the Bon Marché is still an impressive ode to commerce, but what sets it apart is its enormous gourmet food shop on the ground floor.
I couldn’t afford to shop for groceries at the Bon Marché, but I’d visit every once in a while because it was always good for a laugh and cheaper than going to the movies. Once, I watched a portly woman in a hot pink dress going around the store with an empty shopping cart, and putting back every single item she’d picked off the shelves. Finally, after going round the store about six times, she picked out a square half-pint jar of honey, turned it round and round in her hand, and then she carefully placed the cube in the very center of her cart, creating a little island. Then she kept going.
She was clearly not Parisian. If she were, she would have known that the fastest way to a food decision was to make sure you had no way to carry it.
Here are ten more useful things to know about living in Paris that aren’t in guide books:
One. Paris is not France.
Many French people think Parisians are snooty. Many Parisians would agree. What is the problem?
Two. Dogs are everywhere.
Dogs are to Paris what sheep are to Ireland: no matter where you go, there they are. And so are their cute piles of poop. Despite warnings, you will step in it. It will be your fault.
Three. The pharmacist will identify your wild mushrooms so you don’t die from eating them, and will prescribe suppositories if you do.
Suppositories cure everything, including sore throats and freckles.
Four. Organ meats are omnipresent.
Livers, hearts, brains, tongues, and gizzards are featured on most respectable menus. If you get sick of cow and pig and ask nicely for a big plate of fresh vegetables, it is very likely that a duck will end up on your table. This actually happened to my sister. Vegetarians should consider themselves warned.
Five. Chic Parisiennes wear see-through blouses. Do not try this at home.
The “chic” part depends on the expression, which must be stern and flat chested. To complete the look, it is necessary to hold a man instead of a handbag.
Six. Apartments are very small, and closets are optional.
If they do have a closet, it is the water closet. It is rarely used for clothes. It often doubles as a library.
Seven. You get one outfit per season, and sometimes less.
In the Great Heat of 2003, for example, an unwritten rule emerged: you shall go totally naked in your apartment, all your naked neighbors will see you, and no one will ever speak of it. During the summer, the City of Light can intensify into an inferno, the air filled with a roiling, heavy heat as thick as puréed pumpkins. Very few buildings have air conditioning, yet there are also no fans. When I asked a French friend about this, she gave me a perplexed look. Then she replied politely, as if explaining Why The Sky is Blue: “I’d use it for two, maybe three days. Then what would I do with it for the rest of the year? Put it in the bathtub?” My fault for asking: I’d forgotten the Space Rule. This is . . .
Eight. There is room for only one of everything.
Over the years, I’ve stayed in various apartments in Paris, and none had space for a fan. Most barely had space for me. I suspect this is the reason why Parisians are so thin, as they live in studios that only have enough space for one glass, one fork, and one spoon. Who has time to wash the dirty dish in the sink? Wherefore Parisians, who really can’t be bothered, zip around the city tearing off great hunks of baguette with their teeth.
Conclusion: Aerobic eating is a wonderful sport. As with most things, however, skill levels vary. It’s harder to do than you think.
Nine. There is always a line, and the line is very long.
There are different reasons for this phenomenon. In checkout lines, for example, locals pay in cash, and give exact change. The cashier will take this change and count it back, often making a mistake and having to start over. This process can repeat itself two, three, even five times. Frustrated diners give up and head to McDonald’s, thinking that “fast food” means “fast line.” Disputes, haggling, and warm beer will ensue, leading to days of standing in long, defeated lines at the Préfecture de la Police.
Moral: In Paris, it’s always better to go to a sit-down restaurant with waiters, because they carry machines that take Visa. Food will not arrive quickly, but eating will happen sooner.
Ten. The toilets do not flush. They concede.
When American toilets flush, they suck the refuse through a black hole that ejects the contents into outer space with the force of a thousand jet engines. French toilets sigh depressively at the bleakness of their job. “Merde!” they complain, and then they go on strike. When they do, the shit doesn’t hit the fan, because there aren’t any (see “Seven”). The shit hits your shoes. In Paris, there are delightful toilets called “Turkish” designed to send women straight to Chanel for an emergency pair of replacements.
At the Bon Marché, the bathrooms were upstairs. So were L. L. Bean camping clothes appropriate for “Le Week End,” just in case tourists decided that fishing was the quickest way to sushi (see “Nine”).
On this trip, because I was thinking about fast food, I made my way to the Great Wall of Canned Pâtés. Deer pâté, boar pâté, goose liver pâté, duck liver pâté, and random wild meat mashed with mushrooms, all in pretty glass containers small enough to go through airport security, and far better as gifts than nearby cans of cassoulet that were the size of small televisions. (No good: they required rolling suitcases to get home and would never make it past the bomb detectors.) Because I liked the label, I picked up a pâté jar with the rustic drawing of a rooting pig, and was busily inspecting the snout when the sound of a shrill voice screaming “Ajax!” broke my concentration.
“Ajax!” the voice screamed again.
If the accent had been American I would have assumed it was a brand-loyal woman desperate to find her favorite household cleanser. However, the accent was British, and it was coming from a fortyish woman with bright blue hair and black lipstick, a black tube top, an iridescent flowered miniskirt, no stockings, and combat boots, standing near the display of miniature vegetables. A small red-haired boy streaked past.
“Ajax!” she yelled. “Come here!”
The child did not comply, taking off instead in the direction of the domestic wines. This was much better than the honey lady. Blue Hair was definitely worth following.
Pig pâté in hand, I started tracking her.
She advanced with an aggressive, forward-hunched, lock-kneed step. “Ajax!” she shrieked, apparently uncaring that the entire store could hear her. “Bloody ‘ell!” she muttered under her breath. “Leave him ‘ere, I will. Let ‘im find his own way back to the bleedin’ hotel.”
Ajax was nowhere in sight and not coming back on his own. She, however, had shifted her attention to a row of tomato pastes, which she studied with a disgruntled look on her face. “Bloody ‘ell,” she muttered again to herself.
As she spat and stomped and swore to herself, a small man at the fruit section started heading towards her. He had shorn gray hair, a prominent Adam’s apple, ruddy jowls, and was bony except for a beer belly, giving him the look of a ferret whose biggest accomplishment in life was