Earlier when I was discussing such a lofty subject matter as Apéritif and Digestif and the troubling question, is there life after that? I noted that the word “apéritif” is sometimes understood to mean an invitation to cocktails where the host and/or hostess will serve a selection of bread and cheeses, cold meats, a selection of wines -red and white and most definitely Champagne. However, there are those occasions when one is invited for an Apéritif Dînatoire (root word being dinner) so that in this particular instance one should conclude this to mean a more substantial display of food will be served but not “officially” served a table because in that case it become “dinner” and all sorts of other social do’s/don’t kick-in invariably kick-in. So in a dinatoire-type of environment, guests will sit, stand, or lounge about looking really happy and conversing oh so charmingly about such lofty matters as might erupt after they have had a few glasses of wine or a few stiff belts of Scotches. One samples a range of different hors d’oeuvres – some basic and classic while others perhaps more involved. In the U.S. where we long ago gave up having any social grace, we might call this “heavy on the hors-d’œuvre Mabel” or something along those lines. So having said that, you have a better understanding of my invitation to an Apéritif Dînatoire. Now having said all that, I was fully expecting my dear friends to roll out the carpet and I was not disappointed.
Maybe a quick tour of their apartment would be of interest, so come along with me, your tour guide.
Their front door opens onto a small entrance hall (a vestibule shall we say) and then through double glass doors which lead you into their Grand Salon (the living room) and from there through yet another set of double glass doors, into a Petit Salon (think of the PS as drawing room-type, I don’t dare call it a club room or TV room. When I feel particularly irritated for one reason or another with R and S I make sure I refer to the Petit Salon as the TV room. From the Petit Salon we go through another set of double doors into the dining room and from there, through mirrored doors that lead you into the pantry. Finally (yes) a single door which leads to their bedroom quarters. If you feel as if you have entered Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors or the Alice’s Rabbit Hole you’re pretty close in either case. My first tour, I told Raymond that I was so glad I brought bread crumbs with me. I once offered to GPS their apartment that way I wouldn’t get lost or at least offer then Google Earth. In both cases, I received a less than polite response. Shocked, simply shocked I was.
I like plastic furniture as much as the next guy but there are a couple of interesting pieces that I noticed or otherwise was told about. For example, in their entrance hall there is a large XVIIIth Century screen that lies flat against the wall and on the other wall is a painting titled “Halte de Chasse” by a well known French artist whose name escapes me but who apparently one day got tired of painting it and declared the hunt over. Neat trick! The Petit Salon has one French window opening on the front of their building. I rather like that spot and have been out there in the springtime sometimes during their parties just to sit on the balcony and enjoy, well definitely the view, for starters.
Not to be outdone by the little guy, the Grand Salon has three French windows and is carpeted with large size blue and gold Chinese rug. There is also a grand piano where I have had the occasion to (read: have to) listen to Sylvie’s beautiful musical talent – it brings back all those memories of my visits to the dentist. She had found time, between her busy social schedule, to diligently work on her lessons. Raymond told me that he was so fortunate to have found a reputable teacher, a Madame Thomas, who would come to their apartment to give Sylvie her lessons; Raymond said, almost sadly, “it still doesn’t seem to have helped.” I strongly suspect voice lessons are next. I for one, can hardly wait for that blessed moment to arrive. I find the sound of fingernails scraping on a chalk board, piercing the quiet summer’s eve in Paris, so evocative.
chez moi, I decided I really did not want to see my living quarters. The dining table had sixteen chairs – 12 original; I found that out one long evening while listening to an overly winded guest enamored with the sound of his own voice. The wine, shall we say, just wound him up further until eventually he became his real self: a total bore. There is that fine line with all guests. It’s a bit like fish that stink after three days. This guest, who shall remain nameless because I don’t want to be known as the Chef who started yet another rumor that was heard around the world. Anyway, he went on about the abysmal track record of the Americans as a world leaders, not doing this or that, what did “we” know, truly about old and new Europe anyway and Wall Street and the financial services meltdown were responsible for everything under the sun (I added don’t forget climate change -for which he actually thanked me.) I was itching to drop a few choice remarks (truly I was) and I have so many but they would have been a party killer, but discretion – which is my middle name and is the better part of valor, made me keep my mouth shut.
So that’s why I know how many chairs are original. By the way, the pantry and kitchen had been nicely retrofitted to meet the demanding needs of living in the present century. In other words every possible gadget that could be found in Paris which had some functional use, now or in the future, was in evidence. I was shown an original “tableau” which once indicated where the various servant’s bells were ringing from. I thought long and hard about installing the very same apparatus in my apartment but quite frankly I was a little afraid a bell might just ring in my Chateaux and even more afraid who might be ringing it (besides my dog.) There was a portion of the sizable pantry area that was private (less exposed) which they had nicely turned into a personal study area. Comfy little place, off the beaten path and away from prying eyes and all. I once had a little discussion there, a tête-à–tête with a staff member of our own embassy, all about world affairs of course or perhaps she was just worldly about affairs.