Cheetah Haysom

French Lessons

If you are taking teenagers to Paris, don’t leave French cuisine out of the cultural experience. My brother and I, enjoying a reunion in Paris with three young teens, found that even devotees of the Golden Arches and Pizza Hut can be converted – though at a price.

Caution: We mentioned that frogs’ legs and snails might be on the menu. The youngsters’ enthusiasm for French food was thus desultory. But we found that the three-course “fixed price” meals on the Left Bank were not too challenging for the teenagers’ tastes or the adults’ budgets.

For our last night in Paris my brother and I wanted to take the kids upscale, to the sort of bistro where the wine comes from a bottle, not a jug, and one orders a la carte. A Parisian contact was asked for a recommendation. He didn’t know us, but kindly made a reservation at place off the Palais Royal gardens. Unsure about bistro dress standards, we all put on our travel friendly best. The two boys wore those trendy khaki pants with pockets that droop down the legs, as though made to carry grenades and flick knives.

At the given address we peered in the window. The room reminded me of a gorgeous reception hall I’d once seen at Versailles Palace. “Wrong place,” pleaded a child. We knocked. The Maitre d’hôtel opened the door and immediately closes his eyes. He found our reservation and, without a wince, bowed to my brother, offering him a sampling of exquisite ties. After a quick glance at Giles, 16, he opened a paneled cabinet of navy blazers, pulling out a perfect fit, as though dressing the diners was as customary as dressing tables.

“Champagne!” he announced. Thirteen-year-old Simone, who couldn’t see the proffered flutes of bubbly, glared at her father in fright. Was he offering a little French thing for her to wear? We declined the champagne (for economy) and were led into a softly lit spectacle of crystal, silver, gilt and mirrors. David gave a whimper. As he followed the waiter his sneakers squeaked.

The only diners were a couple who occasionally gave us that “shush up” glare reserved for people who talk in a library. By Simone’s calculation there were 12 waiters for our table. Giles observed that they were laughing at us. “Nonsense,” I tried. (I was now conscious of the super-glue, which showed where I’d repaired my faux sapphire earrings.)

Our menus were in French, the selection short. The children were amazed to see no prices. Giles grinned. “Maybe it’s free”. That cracked them up. “Is it too late to leave?” whispered my brother in the hoarse way he describes being trapped by a dangerous beast in the African bush. His menu did have prices.

A snappy young waiter with a wide smile poured coke into the children’s wine glasses from a little decanter – but didn’t ask them to taste for corking.

Unexpectedly, a plate bearing a decorative morsel was placed before each of us. A frisson of consternation went through the youngsters. Was their encounter with frog upon them? Which was the frog fork? Nicholas, concerned with the bill, said he thought it was complimentary. “What’s a “complimentary’?” one of them asked, and they dropped their heads in search of legs and feelers.

The mystery morsel tasted celestial – a crispy chicken inspiration (I think.) The room was filling up and all around us elegantly dressed diners were eating in reverential silence. There were no young people – David guessed the youth of Paris were eating at McDonalds. After a little conference on economy, we all agreed that the adults would have H’ors D’oeuvres and the children would have desert. I ordered “Saumon mi-cuit en terrine, lait fume–” – there was just enough for everyone to savor. My brother, on the basis of my translation, chose "Homard de Bretagne et wasabi”, expecting a pat–. He was startled to find a lobster served in the shell in a creamy sauce. (Homard was not in my Learn French in Your Car course.)

Emboldened by the deliciousness, the youngsters were game for anything. “What,” asked Simone, “is langoustine?” I said it was usually the most expensive item on a menu. My brother murmured that everything was the most expensive on a menu. . The prospect of them smashing at a carapace in this sepulchral hush filled me with foreboding. But the tender white flesh had been extracted from the shells and delicately placed in drizzle of gentle green avocado.

David and his uncle shared the “Canard Colvert a la citronelle,” for two, which David said was the best duck he’d ever tasted, if he’d ever tasted duck. I had Pigeon Prince Rainier III”, which was stuffed with fois gras and served with truffle sauce. After one snippet, David swore that my pigeon was the best thing that he ever tasted. Giles, who gets a dollar for every barn pigeon he shoots at his farm in New York State, began to see opportunities in the food service business.

A man with moustache-proportion eyebrows, seated at the next table, kept glancing at the children and winking at Nicholas. The kids were astonished when the man buried his face in his wineglass for so long it seemed he had been asphyxiated. My brother explained about the “nose” on wine and we let them take a sniff of ours. It was a bottle Nicholas had chosen from the right side of the wine menu, trying to disguise the fact by asking the opinion of the sommelier. “I want something that will compliment the meal. How about this?” A Chambolle Musigny Guyon 95, it was near the least expensive, but cost more than our hotel rooms that night.

The desert chosen by Simone and David, “Palet aux noisettes, chocolat” was as artful in construction as the sculptures in the fountain pool outside the Pompidou Center. Giles’ sherbet of “mangue et lichis” was a tour de force of tropical flavour. The youngsters were now in tremendous spirits, in spite of being barred from further decanters of coke.

The man of the nose at the next door table ordered cheese. As the “Table des Fromage” was trundled past us, Nicholas and I succumbed. Thus, our aficionados of pasteurized process singles came to sample aromatic aged cheeses. The man next door gave my brother an approving wink.

Relieved by the children’s restraint, and touched by their enthusiasm, I congratulated them on perfect restaurant behavior. David immediately knocked a glass of water onto his plate. The ringing clatter resounded through Paris. Then a flurry of men swooped towards us with napkins, as though poised for this event: “Pas problem, normale “ they beamed. In a flash they’d gone, leaving no sign of spill, just David’s deathly pallor. His young life had passed before his eyes.

Morale was restored when a platter of little pastries arrived. Similar gifts from the chef were at every table. The youngsters observed our fellow diners, then took one, tasted, murmured, became reverential…they were turning into little Parisians before our eyes. Then the restaurant suddenly emptied. The man of the nose winked at Nicholas and left. My brother returned the beautiful tie, Giles gave back his blazer and we swallowed the bill.

Giles was ebullient – he declared that dinner to be the highlight of the trip. He had enjoyed the spectacle, the food and the French! “And guess what!” Simone grinned. “No frogs legs”. David was reserved. Then recently I asked him to rank an innovative casserole. “Five out of ten” he said kindly.” I wondered what would earn a full ten? He He said I couldn’t do it, so I pressed him. “Dinner,” he smiled, “at Le Grand Vefour in Paris.”

* The 2000 Michelin guide to restaurants in France has anointed Le Grand V–four, at 17 rue Beaujolais, as the newest recipient of its coveted Three Stars – the Holy Grail of the French restaurant world. The oldest of the seven Paris restaurants with three stars, it was founded in 1874 and was at various times frequented by Napoleon, Victor Hugo, Georges Sand and Colette. (Phone 011-33-1-42-96-56-27). Ties and Jackets required. $$$$
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