Le Grenier de Montmartre

 This is an older piece that sadly I never posted.

Nonetheless it is still "timely" as you will read.

As Chevalier sang: "I Remember It Well!"

 

Thanksgiving in Paris

An expectation, a re-living; It was to have been special

 

"Te souviendrais-tu le repas merveilleux à  Le Grenier?"

 

Have you ever awaited a happening so much that it very nearly became an obsession only to have the anticipation evaporate as if it never existed? 

Boston Red Sox fans surely understand this unique emotion as does Charlie Brown.

So now do I.

 

It was a small place this Paris restaurant called Le Grenier, a mottled-green edifice with a disagreeably looking gargoyle perched next to the entrance.  A five-minute stroll from the Montmartre funicular, the café sat unassumingly on Rue Mont-Cenis, just off the Place de la Terte in the anachronistic 18th Arrondissement.

 

A government mandated public notice still proclaims the building is old; one wonders why they had to go to the expense of stating the obvious but this is Paris.

 

A part of me laments writing in the past tense: it is an admission that something that I once thought important has slipped away resulting in the ensuing missive being more historical than contemporary. The reality is Le Grenier has vanished, relocated to some nameless black-hole cosmos reserved for old restaurants.

 

Reflecting further however, I realize that by definition what I write must be in that tense lest I be mistaken for a reincarnation of Nostradamus. Accordingly, this is reminiscence, a collection of memories, memories of a restaurant that for most is long forgotten, but not for me.

 

Such was the character of “The Attic”, there was maybe room for two-dozen clientele, all squeezed onto wooden benches, duty-bound to become close acquaintances before the evening was complete. Faded pictures and hand painted plates balanced on wall shelves.

  

The ceiling was invisible, being camouflaged with a horde of uncountable currency notes, inscribed and tacked monies, the artifacts of decades of diners: Francs and Dollars, Guilders and Deutschemarks, Lire and Shillings. Speckled among the money, were neckties, or perhaps more correctly, the bottom halves of neckties excised from their wearer by the Patron if he found you to be worthy of such an honor, but that is getting head of the story.

  

The evenings would begin quietly in an almost dignified manner, well as dignified as possible considering the surroundings. Food would be ordered and served and multiple bottles of wine proffered and opened.

  

The fare was good, at times remarkable, more so if the kitchen dimensions were appreciated: Coquille San Jacques from La Manche, Coq au Vin from Loire, Cassolettes from Bretagne, the smells intermixing, enhancing the passion of the experience.

”Plus de vin s'il vous plaît” was the common entreaty.

  

Strangers were no more.

  

As the profiteroles were being treasured, two singers materialized, bearing guitars that appeared, as did their owners, to equally merit the same age notice borne by the building.

Like a duet of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Nanki-Poo’s, they began a series of ditties, repeating what they had for countless nights but never lessening in panache.

  

Magically, it seemed as if a miasma enveloped the guests and there we were, singing and swaying and linking arms as if some delightful apparition  had brought us all to this spot.

Inhibitions were set aside and for a minute maybe you were not in Paris but in Rick’s in Casablanca, or Harry’s in Venice or Raffle’s in Singapore.

  

Whatever uncertainties you brought in vanished with the pulse of the Gallic songs, the character of the evening advancing with each Piaff and Chevalier chorus.

Recompense was permission to add yet another piece of currency to the generations of those above. The sanction was not mandatory, and was never taken lightly, nor was the even greater reward: your tie separated from your neck by the swift scissors of the proprietor who then with appropriate applause would hold it aloft like a trophy before adding it to the ceiling collection. No one was immune.

Over the years I shared the experience of Le Grenier with many:  a very special friend; business colleagues; clergy members of my family; my son’s high school rugby team.

  

Each experience was unique.

 

 

 Au revoir Le Grenier; merci pour les mémoires

 

 

Montmatre, Paris, October 2004