FRENCH LETTERS 002

I am beyond desole. Not even the stock market in freefall can match my dismay at finding one of my favorite boites in Paris apparently gone forever. Nearly 4 decades ago when I first ventured to the City of Light, not a word of French in my kit bag, one of my first gastronomic experiences was at La Friterie, little more than a window opening onto rue Galande where it meets rue St. Julian le Pauvre at Place Maubert, smack in the middle of the left bank student quarter.

For one franc (25 cents in those pre-inflation days) you got a brimming portion of pommes frites (French fries) wrapped in a paper cone, luscious, thin cut, heavily salted and well done in the type of oil New York mayor Bloomberg has banned in Manhattan. They were served by a tall thin middle-aged matron, blonde hair piled high, with glasses I can only describe as similar to those worn by the “kiss my grits” waitress on the critically acclaimed “Mel’s Diner” TV series of the 1970s, or perhaps by the “ladies” in Tuna Christmas.

Over the years little has changed, especially not Mme. She appeared the same last summer as she did in 1969, same hairdo, same glasses, meme visage. And in my many, many visits to Paris in the intervening generation, there was always a stop at La Friterie.

Until this evening, when approaching on rue St. Severin from Blvd. St. Michele across rue St. Jacques, I found the windows boarded and a sign saying that if I just had a bit of patience, a new Wok City would soon be open to serve my every need. Right!

I got some frites at a nearby falafel stand. Cheaper, but not thin cut, not nearly well enough cooked, and apparently made with Bloomberg-approved oil. I fed them to the pigeons sitting on the bulwarks along the Seine. One pecked a stick, cocked his head at me, and walked away. I hear you, mon vielle, the world is changing and not all for the better.


The sun came out in Paris yesterday. For some 12.3 minutes. Citizens rushed into the streets and fell on their knees. When locals describe their “City of Light,” they refer to electricity and not Mr. Sun. At least not in winter months.


A friend sent me packing the other day to Bazar Hotel de Ville (BHV), a massive department store with a basement that would make Filene blush, although this sous sol is packed with hardware rather than discount clothing. I was armed with samples of the little trucs I was to bring home.

Many employees about, most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day. I show one an item and get the response, “Yes, we have them, but they are much bigger than this.” OK, but where do I find them? The response, “la-bas” sent me back 30+ years to a time I was working for a freight forwarder handling trade shows in Paris. I would be given a ticket with a case or pallet number, gather my trusty trans-pallet (a type of manual hauling device given to those not trusted to drive a forklift), and head off into the massive warehouse.

I would show the paper to one of the workers (most standing in groups of 2 or 3 discussing weighty issues of the day) and ask in my pigeon French where to find the material. The response was invariably “la- bas.” If in a good mood they might point in a general direction.

I asked a friend what “la bas” meant. She said “it just means “over there.”” But I came to believe the idiomatic translation to be “Just far enough away so you don’t pester me with your questions,” or “Ask someone else, can’t you see I’m busy.”

…the adventure continues…