October 13, 2016 - Birthday dinner in Paris, France, in 1987

Part 2

          My husband was more relaxed now.  He waved the waiter over and ordered two more ‘vassahs.’  It seemed easy now; two fingers and he simply raised the empty bottle.

          Crisp linen, silver, crystal, brass, and flaming dishes filled the restaurant with opulence.  The conversations of the patrons were subdued, yet filled with the tinkling laughter of lovers and amused friends.  Across the room was a classically beautiful woman sitting across from whom I believed was her distinguished husband.  She was toying with her wine glass telling an amusing anecdote in a conspicuous fashion totally captivating his attention.  What had captured my attention was the merino wool dolman-sleeved two-tone dress she wore in taupe and black.  I had unpacked an identical dress less than an hour before except mine I had made from a designer Vogue pattern and hers was undoubtedly an original.  The richness of cashmere, tweeds, and pearls of the fashionably and elegantly dressed patrons added to the excitement of the evening. I almost got drunk on ‘vassah’ while absorbing all the intoxicating sights.

          Our salade saisons arrived on cut crystal plates.  There were eight different kinds of lettuces all different colors and textures including red sails, escarole, and bibb.  They were absolutely extraordinary.  The dressing had a nutty flavor with bits of fresh herbs.  Later we discovered upon reviewing the bill back in our hotel room, that each salad had cost us $14.95 (US dollars); [Mind you this was in 1987.]  Of course, they tasted wonderful.

          We were on our third round of ‘vassah’ when our steaks arrived. My filet sat in the middle of a perfect circle of cognac-laced peppercorn cream sauce.  Perched near the edge of the plate was a bundle of green beans that had been tied with a scallion.  I deeply inhaled and savored the cognac’s essence.  Slicing into my steak, I found the inside was blood red and cold to the touch.  I’d never get the point across that I wanted it done more.  I shaved the cooked edges off and that would suffice.  What I could eat of my rare steak was exquisite.  I vowed to myself that I would learn "well done" when we got back to our hotel room.  I would dig my travel dictionary out and learn how to order French food.

          “Dessert?”  The waiter asked when we finished our entrees.  We had noticed the five some had been served dessert.  There was a meringue confection of some sort with a clear amber sauce on it.  And, I had no doubt in my mind, the other dessert was chocolate mousse garnished with chocolate curls.  My husband leaned back waving at the next table saying,

          “I’ll have what grand mère is having.”

         

          “Ah!” the waiter wrote it down and turned to me.

          “Chocolate mousse,” I properly pronounced it.

          “Goot, goot, goot,” he exclaimed as he cleared our dishes away and vanished.  Upon his return, he placed the meringue confection in front of my husband and placed an empty crystal plate in front of me.  Holding a quart bowl, he scooped out a giant spoonful of chocolate mousse onto my plate.

          “Fine,” I said. When he scooped the second giant spoonful onto my plate, I said,

          “No, no,” shaking my head.  As he put the third giant spoonful onto my plate, I raised my voice,

          “NO, NO, NO!”

          The waiter placed the bowl on the table with a flourish and a big smile.  The waiter had himself a private joke loading up the mademoiselle’s plate.  It was rich, creamy, and luscious.  My husband was busy crumbling his meringue and he asked me,

          “What is the sauce on here?”

          I took a taste and started to giggle uncontrollably.

          “Grand Marnier, the waiter must think we are pretending that we can’t speak French, yet you turn around and order a dessert by name.”  The waiter comes by to see if we need anything else.

          “Coffee with cream,”  I say.

          “Coffee?” the waiter asks.

          “Cream,” I add.

          “Cream?” he screws up his face not comprehending.  I then pronounce it differently,

          “Crème.”

          “Crème?” he questions surprised.

          “Crème,” I say firmly.  The waiter shrugs his shoulders and goes off.  Upon his return he serves me a demitasse cup filled with espresso coffee and a quart crock of clotted cream with a flourish saying, “Crème” as he places it on the table.

          I smile to myself. I got exactly what I asked for.  I put a spoonful of ‘crème’ in my cup which held about two tablespoons of espresso and beat it into some stage of smoothness.  I had wanted a regular cup of coffee, not espresso.  

          How embarrassing this was with my French heritage.  I have a Parisian-French grandmother and Canadian-French grandfather and all I can say in French is au revoir, bon soir, oui, non, mon petite, and toilette.  Note to self: I will learn conversational French before my next trip to France.

          Our dessert and coffee have been long finished, yet the waiter, seeing my husband motioning to him, turns away. Fifteen minutes later, my husband catches the waiter’s attention.  Again, the waiter turns away.  We were perplexed at this situation.  My husband was not going to pull the table out to let me out.  Getting up to ask would be fruitless.  Forty-five minutes had elapsed, and we were tired and wanted to go.  Again, my husband catches the waiter’s attention.  This time I notice the waiter’s eyes travel from the table to me and then back to the table in a questioning expression. 

          Suddenly I realize what the problem is.  I, the mademoiselle, had committed the grandest faux pas of the evening.  Dinner is not done until the mademoiselle signals that dinner is done and has indicated that she wishes to leave.  It was simply my foolish mistake.  I announce,

          “We’ve been living in Forest City too long!”  I immediately crumple the dinner napkin that was still neatly on my lap and place it on the table. Instantly the waiter is at my husband’s elbow presenting him with the cheque.