Le Passage Jacob, Or, Business As Usual
September 21 Not. So one morning in late August Bean and I were sitting at the Restaurant LeBec’s big old kitchen table with some of the Paris relations, what time in one corner Marc-Antoine (one of Tante Louise’s: le frangin de Jean-Louis) was monitoring the cameras that were keeping an eye on the restaurant’s official front door, at the head of a cul-de-sac off the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis, the official back door, which led to the kitchen regions, and various unofficial doors further down the cul-de-sac, incorrectly named the Passage Jacob, it doesn’t actually lead anywhere. Tho possibly some two hundred years or more ago it might have done: those large garage doors at its far end couldn’t have been there then. Also possibly at around that time its name might have been the Passage Jacobin, there being certain family legends which would tend to confirm that notion. Or, as the brilliant Bean had put it, collapsing in sniggers, that suspicion.
After weeks of incarceration at the château with Grannie the Bean and I had escaped to Resto LeBec, leaving her with the glad tidings that when Bean had turned eighteen (way back in April, it may be remembered), he had got Mum to formally resign guardianship of Bean Minor to him. So we took him with us, hah, hah. He was glad to go, he’d had a lovely time inspecting the grapes, almost ready for the vendange, with Oncle Fernand and Oncle Patrice, but apart from that Grannie’s constant interrogations about school and constant condemning of what she learned thereby had really got him down. Naturally all the aunts and uncles at the restaurant welcomed him with open arms (literally). So that was okay. And they had a toast to Bean’s splendid achievement. Well admittedly he’d had the backing of both John Raice and Mr Ovenden, but still, a jolly good effort!
And as la rentrée neared, we’d seen Bean Minor off to London with renewed assurances that no, Grannie couldn’t get him in her clutches again and yes, Bean had written to the Beak to explain and had even scored a congratulatory letter in reply, full of clichés about “glad to see you taking up your responsibilities” and “serious attitude to life” and stuff, but still, an acknowledgement, so everything was all right.
The ancient Oncle Maurice went too, claiming he had business in London, well there are some distantly related LeBecs over there and the Paris family does have certain business interests there but whether those in charge would want the old boy’s finger in the pie... Never mind, Bean Minor was thrilled to have his company and the old chap was thrilled to be accompanying him. Tho post-Brexit it was doubtful if that parcel of French garlic sausage for the pauvres gosses at the English school who had no tasty food (Tante Louise) would pass the border. However.
Restaurant LeBec was closed during the summer hols. because of the frightful influx of tourists Paris suffers under (not so much in the quartier, true, but nevertheless), and also because most Parisians firmly take their hols. then and escape the stuffy city for the delights of the country or the seaside or in the case of the locals, for the abodes of any relations who happen to live in those parts.
Nevertheless there was, as we were well aware, plenty to do. Which we had been doing…
Just when Marc-Antoine was reporting laconically: “’Y’a quelqu’un à la porte,” Jean-Louis, who’d been idly smoking a cigarette in the restaurant or if one liked to put it that way, keeping a sharp eye on the street, rushed in to report. There were deux Anglais at the front door and they wouldn’t go away even tho he’d called out that we were closed!
Yes, we’d heard him.
“Ignore them; they’re probably Americans anyway,” grunted old Oncle Alphonse, not looking up from the small soldering iron he was expertly wielding.
“They looked English,” replied Jean-Louis uncertainly.
Bean got up, a tolerant look on his face. “Fais voir.” He strode over to look over Marc-Antoine’s shoulder. He thereupon broke down in sniggers, gasping—in English—“I say, Sister Bean! Guess who!”
Even tho I knew that at this precise instant John Raice would be in London looking after Bean Minor before putting him on the train back to school my heart did a silly sort of flip thing. What an idiot. I went to look. I broke down in sniggers, gasping: “What are they doing here?”
They looked English, all right: Flossie and Uncle Flossie in full Junior Drones rig-out! A somewhat surprising sight on a warm, dusty pavement on a warm August morning in an undistinguished nay dingy spot off the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis.
Bean was telling Jean-Louis to open the door to them and say: “What-ho, chaps.” As his English tho quite fluent was extremely accented this wasn’t kind, to say the least.
“Not very responsible and right-thinking, Fullarton-Browne Major,” I said sternly in my best Beak voice.
“It’d be good, tho!” he urged.
“Oh go on, then. –Vas-y,” I said to the cousin in Q.
He objected strongly, asking suspiciously what did it mean?
So I explained nicely in French that it was an outmoded English vernacular greeting. Whereupon Jean-Louis said something very rude to the Bean. Ending with an injunction to say it himself.
So we both did.
“What-ho, chaps!” It didn’t come off all that well, given the immediately preceding cacophony of Resto LeBec bolts and locks being unbolted and unlocked.
“There you are! So this is the right place!” Uncle Flossie returned in relief.
“We won’t ask why it’s apparently fortified like Fort Knox,” drawled Flossie. “May we come in or would that be tactless in the extreme?”
(Cough.) “You can come into the restaurant,” I admitted.
“Got it,” he replied, ushering his uncle in.
“Oh,” the unfortunate Uncle Flossie said, peering round uncertainly. Once one’s eyes adjusted to the dingy light one perceived that the restaurant was pretty dingy over-all. Very basic wooden floor, very basic tables and chairs. Very old dark varnish on the panelled walls.
“It’s not for the tourists,” I explained.
“No. Tho if a stray one does happen to wander in, one of the uncles offers them boudin aux pommes or oreilles à la Sainte Ménéhould,” Bean added helpfully, “and once they’ve looked up their phrasebooks they turn green and leave.”
Obligingly Flossie emitted a snigger. His uncle sniffed slightly. “Rather care for a good black pudding m’self, but I don’t know the other thing, old chap.”
“Pigs’ ears,” said Bean simply.
This got the expectable English recoil and: “Ugh! –Hang on, it’s a leg-pull, right?”
“No, of course not. It’s a classic French dish. I mean, it’s a simple way of doing them,” the Bean explained, “but it’s straight out of Escoffier. They won’t be on at this time of year but if you’re lucky come September they’ll start serving them again. Trouble is, each pig only has two ears, y’see.”
“Uh—ye-es…”
“Whereas you can get a lot of chops off one pig,” my sibling explained carefully.
Flossie immediately dissolved in helpless sniggers, gasping: “Self—evident, Nunky!”
“Oh, see whatcha mean, mm. Well the Frogs’ll eat anything!” Uncle Flossie dismissed the subject cheerfully. “Now, fancy hitting the tourist high spots, mm?”
We looked at him in horror.
“No?” he groped.
“At this time of year it’ll be wall-to-wall Americans, Germans and Chinese all pushing and shoving to get the best selfies of themselves blocking the view of whatever,” I explained.
“The Pont Neuf is practically sinking under the weight of them all, it’s as bad as Venice,” added Bean.
“Hell. Well—uh—retreat to the George V?” the poor chap suggested sadly.
Flossie shook his head. “I think they’d be infesting the dining-room, Uncle Flossie. Possibly not the worst ones, but you can be sure there’ll be a crowd of them with more money than taste. I did try to warn you. Times have changed since your day. There were some putrid ones in the lobby when we checked in, weren’t there?”
“Damn.”
“You’d better stay here and have lunch with us,” I decided.
“Mel—” said Bean in alarm.
“I’ll speak to them.” I dashed through to the kitchen and explained.
Tante Louise shot to her feet, beaming. “Les pauvres!” Of course they must have lunch with us!—etcetera. Meanwhile Tante Thérèse was ordering the cowed Mireille, a distant cousin of about my own age whom I was secretly determined to liberate without delay, to tidy that up, girl! Words to that effect. Much worse in French.
September 26 Not. Continuing straight on: I’m not sure if Uncle Flossie got much of the subsequent speech from Tante Louise of apology, welcome and culinary suggestions, but he certainly got the gist and shook hands very heartily and thanked her profusely.
Old Oncle Alphonse, having carefully cradled his miniature soldering iron in its cradle and ordered you boys to tidy everything away, then hurried in there to add his ten francs’ worth. The boys being Jean-Louis and his peer Charles-Xavier (son of a LeBec who was temporarily absent at La Belle France’s pleasure, so to speak), plus one, Colas, aged almost thirteen and cheeky as they come, only not so much when his dad was home, which he wasn’t, much, as he conveniently drove a long-distance lorry for a legitimate haulage company, thus allowing plenty of opportunity for less legitimate business, so to speak.
So by the time the visitors were ushered into the kitchen the big old table was completely cleared, there was nothing incriminating on the benches, and Mireille was meekly slicing the remaining baguettes bought this morning into nice chunks for lunch all wrong.
Uncle Flossie of course is the genial type who’s always prepared to enjoy himself and can do so in almost any company, so all went well and he praised the food to the skies. Happily unaware that what Flossie had described as “a French discussion” had been a demarcation dispute between Tante Louise and Oncle Albert over the main course, she wanting to make quiches and he insisting that they would be all wrong with the planned dessert, or did she not want to serve the latter after all? Words to that effect. Much, much worse in French. So of course he won. Well he usually does but this was just a family meal, not the resto itself.
The hors d’oeuvre came as a bit of a surprise but after all it was summer and this was the 21st century, we were no longer living in Escoffier’s time tho sometimes in the Passage Jacob it certainly felt like it. Oncle Albert generally let Tante Louise have her own way with the hors d’oeuvre unless of course it was oyster season. Or if it was going to clash with everything else on the menu. She wasn’t admitting to the source of this recipe but Mireille had privily mentioned to me that it was off the Internet and not to breathe a word to Oncle Albert. Which of course I wouldn’t dream of. Il faut être solide entre les femmes, hein? She smiled weakly, not daring to agree with me even in private, poor little thing.
Salade de nectarines, feta et menthe. Dressed with olive oil and lemon juice. Doubtless the original would have been served in some impossibly fancy way but Tante Louise merely set a scoop each on large plates. True, Uncle Flossie wasn’t the only one present at the board to look disconcerted. Old Oncle Alphonse got up frowning and retreated, but it wasn’t a silent protest, he returned with a couple of bottles of Chablis. Oncle Albert objected that that particular cru was rather flinty for “ce truc grec aux fruits”, wasn’t it? But the old man replied that the thing was soused in lemon juice (much worse in French). So we had it. The old chap was right as usual, and Flossie solemnly toasted him. Possibly the vernacular speech in reply wasn’t entirely understood but never mind, harmony reigned.
Er, until Uncle Flossie noted that it wasn’t a bad drop and asked: “I say, Alphonse, old chap, who’s your wine merchant? –No? Er—wine shipper?”
The old man generally pretended not to understand any English at all but he was well acquainted with the vinous vocab. In all its manifestations, so to speak. He burst into torrents. Your average Vesuvius has nothing on Oncle Alphonse when he gets going.
“Don’t panic, sir, he isn’t having a fit,” said Bean kindly into the pause for breath. “The gist is, never trust a damned middleman. This is straight from what you’d call the cellar door, in English. –Ouais, ouais, Oncle Alphonse: à bas tous ces mecs!”
“Oh! Right! Jolly good!” Uncle Flossie nodded hard at the old chap. “Jolly good, Alphonse! A bas and all that!” And raised his glass to him.
So harmony reigned again and they were able to serve up the main course!
Foie de veau sauté aux fines herbes. Thin slices, nicely done in butter. Accompanied by simply boiled small haricots verts, the like of which one never sees in England, as Bean Minor and I had discovered. I dare say a smear or two of beurre de Normandie had been allowed to get in there somewhere but otherwise they were pristine. Uncle Flossie’s reaction was an astounded: “By Jove!”
At this point Flossie may have become aware that Bean and I were regarding him fixedly. He cleared his throat.
Immediately Bean warned: “Ne dis rien au sujet de la nourriture des veaux.”
“Er… Oh! Jamais, mon pote!” he gasped.
The aunts were quite bewildered. What were the boys talking about? This liver was from an excellent milk-fed veau français!
Well, quite.
Don’t ask me why the English regard that as perverted. After all, one is going to eat the creatures anyway…
Oncle Albert then produced a couple of bottles of Château LeBec. The 2003. Well a wine of that quality would definitely last even more than fifteen years but yes, by this time it was pretty good. Uncle Flossie’s eyes lit up like anything.
“I say, old chap, what’s the French for jolly good?” he asked Bean.
The jolly old sibling was at a loss, as well he might be.
“I think if you lift your glass and toast the chap he may get the point, Nunky,” noted Flossie.
“Oh, right! Cheers, Albert! Santé!” he offered brilliantly.
This went down jolly well, as did the Burgundy, and harmony reigned once more…
Well until young Colas tried to sneak a second glass, but then one can’t have absolutely everything Here Below, can one?
Then came the salad. Everybody but our guests was expecting it. Flossie preserved his calm but his uncle was seen to blink. Tho its quality produced an amazed look and fervent congrats. Not to say a certain difficulty in believing that it was only a soft-leaved laitue, a very common type of lettuce in France and possibly other places of which Parisians don’t bother to be aware. Then what was in the dressing, if they wouldn’t mind telling him? They wouldn’t mind at all but as the perfectly truthful answer was olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt, moutarde de Dijon, he just looked at them limply. And managed to beat Colas to the last few leaves. Tho the kid scored the privilege of wiping out the bowl with a chunk of baguette.
After that Mireille was almost killed because there appeared to be no bread left and one could NOT eat cheese without bread—“Sans pain?” Sheer horror all round. But she’d only hidden it from Colas in the pantry—more like a small room, about the size of John Raice’s whole kitchen—and Panic Stations were called off.
“I say,” said Flossie very quietly in my ear as the company’s attention focused on their Camembert or fromage frais (goats’, of course), “do the old bats always victimise that girl?”
“Yes. Daughter of a poor relation from the provinces,” I explained very quietly.
“Got it.”
“To be fair, I don’t think they know they’re doing it. They’ve always had daughters to boss around, but they’re all grown up and got their own families, now. They’re all much more robust types, you see.”
“Right.”
“Don’t worry, I’m taking her under my wing,” I said grimly.
“Er—wasn’t actually worrying, old thing,” he replied, rather startled.
No, well it wouldn’t be like Flossie Nightingale to start bothering his head over another human being, true. Tho there was always the hope that he might grow up.
“Um, take her out with us this afternoon?” he murmured.
I nodded, but muttered: “Look out,” as Tante Thérèse’s eye wandered in our direction. “Essaie ce fromage de chèvre, Flossie!” I suggested loudly. “C’est pas terrible.”
“Er—merci,” he said weakly, accepting a chunk of it on a piece of baguette. He chewed manfully, swallowed, and tried to smile.
Charles-Xavier was a great afficionado of fresh goats’ cheese. He leaned forward enthusiastically. “C’est terrible, hein?” he beamed.
Flossie’s jaw sagged. “Uh…”
“In French, tho this may seem hard to credit,” I explained cheerfully, eating a bit on my own account. “Yum! –In French, that is, the vernac., ‘pas terrible’ is more or less the equivalent of the English ‘not bad’.”
“Y—uh, think I got that, Sister Bean,” he said weakly.
—On the other side of the table the Bean might have been seen to hide a snigger with a chunk of Camembert.
Smoothly yours truly continued: “I haven’t finished. The adjective ‘terrible’, on the other hand, may be used to equal approx. ‘spiffing’ or ‘jolly good’.”
“What?”
“Yes. –Don’t for God’s sake drink that Burgundy after goats’ cheese!” I added in alarm as he reached numbly for his glass.
“Oh—no. Silly me. –If this is a leg-pull it’s jolly unkind to the ignorant foreigner,” he said plaintively.
“No, you cuckoo!” said Bean from the other side of the table with a laugh.
—Mireille’s English vocab. was very good: she looked at him in bewilderment.
“No, it’s not a leg-pull, that’s why Charles-Xavier sounded so keen. He loves it. –T’aimes le fromage de chèvre, n’est-ce pas, Charles-Xavier?” I added loudly.
He beamed. “Bien sûr! C’est extra!”
“There you go,” I said to Flossie.
He nodded feebly: “One learns something new every day. –If I clean my palate with a piece of bread, then may I have some Camembert and a sip of wine?”
“Certainly, old chap,” I said graciously.
He directed a certain unfavourable or Fed Up look at me but went ahead.
“Oh boy,” he concluded, shaking his head in stunned admiration. “Why aren’t you all down at the ancestral acres drinking the cellar dry?”
(Cough.) “Tell you later.”
His eyes twinkled. “Got it!”
So after the salad and cheese naturally one had the dessert. Tante Louise’s special tarte aux mirabelles. Her visitors’ faces were blank. Little yellow plums, definitely the best of the summer fruit! she declared happily.
Having had this translated good old Uncle Flossie agreed, assuring her the tart was certainly the best of the summer puds! And toasted her heartily in a glass of Oncle Alphonse’s eau de vie de mirabelles. Very Considerably Over Proof as it was. By the time he’d finished smacking his lips over his third tot of this remarkable spirit he wasn’t bothering about its provenance or indeed, legal status; just as well.
The meal finished, as always, with coffee. And in this case another nip of the eau de vie de mirabelles for the older gents. Flossie refrained, noting that if he had any more he’d probably fall over. Wise move, Bean and I approved. Uncle Flossie was then cordially invited upstairs to smoke a cigar. A great privilege, I explained.
Refraining from also explaining that lurking in the upstairs sitting-room overlooking the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis allowed one to monitor the said street. Tho admittedly the camera in the window did that, and was incidentally supplemented by a link to the official (or Police Surveillance) camera, by what means only Marc-Antoine or his techo mates who’d all done the bac technologique could say—tho they weren’t doing so. So his Oncle Albert had been quite right about letting him do those subjects and his cowed parents, who’d rather wanted him to do the bac général and then go on to law, which no-one could claim wouldn’t be useful for the family, had dropped the subject entirely.
September 30 Not. Continuing straight on: Well of course what one usually does in France after lunch is have a rest. So we forcibly prevented Mireille from doing the dishes by hand and shoved them in the dishwasher, which was what it was for, and the aunts wouldn’t know, they were passed out upstairs in what was probably technically the back parlour. The traditional retreat of the ladies when the gents were in the front parlour—yes. Then we gently led Flossie through a maze of back rooms past closed and in many cases locked doors and voilà! He goggled.
“It’s a garden!” he croaked.
“Yes,” I agreed. “There are a few hidden gems like this in Paris, but not many. It gets a bit too much shade but they manage to grow lots of herbs, and the apple and plum trees seem to survive. And the fig does well, it’s got a really sunny spot.”
“Have a deckchair, old chap,” said Bean with a grin.
“Thanks, I will.”
And we all four sat down and relaxed in the late August sunshine…
One couldn’t come to Paris and not see the Seine, so late afternoon saw us Junior Drones and the genial uncle in our finery and Mireille in my robe BTBG, which she genuinely admired, down near the Pont Neuf. Well yes, there was the river, and there was Notre Dame, and that there in the distance was the Tour Eiffel. And those morons on the Pont Neuf relentlessly taking selfies were mixed Chinese, Americans, Germans and, uh…
“Sounds Swedish,” ventured the brilliant Bean.
After a moment Flossie and I got it and dissolved in sniggers. “Borgs!” I gasped helplessly. “Yeah!”
“Oh, right,” said Uncle Flossie, blank but game as ever. “Scandawegians, eh? Can’t stand them, either. Always look as if they’ve been scrubbed, y’know? Um, suppose the Rue de Rivoli’s out, is it?”
“Americans,” said Bean laconically.
“Oui,” Mireille agreed timidly.
Uncle Flossie squeezed her a bit—at the precise moment he had one arm round her waist and one round mine. “Right, you don’t fancy ’em either, pet? Well—suggestions, anyone? Nice café, have a drink or two, watch the world go by?”
Er…
“This world?” retorted Flossie with feeling as a particularly cretinous tourist tried to—apparently—balance on one leg on the bridge what time its pal, back turned, took a selfie of both of them.
“No, okay. Know what I fancy? I know this may seem potty,” he warned. “Taking the Metro up Montmartre way, along the bit where it comes out into the open.”
“Well,” said Bean fairly, “if we do that and get off at Stalingrad and take the correspondance we can get down to République, no problem—that’s direction Place d’Italie—and walk home from there.”
“In the heat, Bean?” I said doubtfully. “It’s a bit of a walk. And the trains’ll be crowded and stuffy, too.”
“Most people are still on holiday, they won’t be too bad. And if you don’t want to walk we can always take the correspondance again at République and do the hop, skip and jump along to Strasbourg-Saint-Denis, that’s ligne Pont de Sèvres-Nation.”
“Is that right?” I asked Mirelle cautiously.
She nodded, blushing.
Uncle Flossie had been listening to the exchange uncomprehendingly but smiling nonetheless. “Tell you what, then: we stroll over the bridge, find a café, have a bit of a sit-down, catch the Metro after that, eh?”
“Yes. Well we’ll have to head for Charles de Gaulle-Étoile first, if you want to do the trip up to the dix-huitième, and that’s the line with the fancy tiling that the tourists love, but okay,” Bean agreed. “We’ll have to get on at Louvre.”
“The Louvre, isn’t it?” groped Uncle Flossie.
“Uh—no sir, meant Métro Louvre,” the Bean explained illuminatingly.
Possibly taking this in the spirit in which it was meant, he nodded, beaming, and we set off to cross the Seine. Even tho it was now getting on for the tourists’ dinnertime the throng was still thick: ugh. And it was still pretty warm.
So we ended up sitting in a large tourist-trap in the Place St. Michel, absorbing coffee or cold drinks and watching the world go by… Which probably had been the old boy’s intention in the first place, but never mind.
Then it had to be pointed out that altho the said Place St. M. did have a giant Métro station it did not connect with where we needed to go, even tho the tourist sights on the other side of the river that our intended line led to were so close… No, we couldn’t say why, Uncle Flossie. We’d have to go back and head for— “Métro Louvre,” drawled Flossie. So off we went and let the names of the well-trodden tourist track flit by us, up to the top of the Champs Elysées—well, underneath it, so to speak. And luckily, because Métro Charles de Gaule-Étoile is HUGE, both Bean and Mireille knew the changes really well, and we ended up on the right line going in the right direction. Two different and quite distinct problems, as it were.
Uncle Flossie was thrilled when as expected we emerged into daylight and trundled along looking at… well not slums, exactly, the worst bits are further to the north. Aged bits of Paris to which nothing had been done since Toulouse-Lautrec’s day. Certainly if you stroll along from the said station Stalingrad (at the junction of the 18ième, the 19ième and the 10ième) more or less towards Montmartre, you find yourself in the middle of what can only be called scunge; a bit later in the evening along there there’d be sheepish-looking short queues outside certain open doorways leading to dark staircases, and in some cases actual females lurking within these doorways. It’s illegal to solicit on the streets of Paris. The Parisians have always taken that literally.
“Those were the bits the tourists don’t see,” the Bean explained helpfully as we disembarked at Métro Stalingrad.
“Oh, absolutely, old chap!” Uncle Flossie agreed happily.
Well great, if that was what he wanted.
And so, with a certain amount of gasping and “Hang ons!” from the strangers in our midst, we made the changes at the correspondances okay and caught the further trains in Q., down to the grands boulevards.
Yes, that was the Porte Saint-Denis, but one did not want to walk underneath it, Bean assured the puzzled uncle hurriedly. Languidly Flossie explained: “The other name for such an arch is pissoir, sir.” He got it. And we circumnavigated it circumspectly and headed up to the Resto LeBec.
… Goodness! Was that all we’d done this afternoon? Etcetera. Fortunately too idiomatic for the foreigners in our midst to follow, even Flossie missing most of it.
It was of course too early for dinner, but we had a wash and brush-up, and an apéro while we waited…
Well it wasn’t quite all stops out, as of course in summer many emporia close and many items are not available unless planned for well in advance. But it was pretty much la grande bouffe de l’année dix-sept, nevertheless. And very merry indeed.
There was no problem getting the foreigners safely back to their hotel, as le beauf’ de Michel (Michel not present) of course drove a taxi. So we poured them into it, le beauf’ de Michel being given the usual warning by Oncle Albert, received with the usual tolerant scorn, and off they went.
Phew!
“What in God’s name are we going to do with them tomorrow?” worried the Bean.
Very good point…
Well as it happened Uncle Flossie had his own ideas and so we ended up doing the tourist round, more or less. Affluent-style. Rather a lot of sitting under the arcades on the Rue de Rivoli, Americans or not, kind of thing. Little stroll in the Jardin des Tuileries, that sort of thing, too. We did go to the Louvre, id est looked in horror at the pointy glass Thing in the courtyard and decided not to bother.
That evening he wanted to take us Junior Drones and Mireille to dinner at the George V. So Oncle Albert accepted firmly for Mireille. Squashing the aunts flat. The restaurant was not open, they didn’t need her to chop anything. Nor—steely look—for anything else, Thérèse!
Well of course the dinner was very nice but not a patch on anything the cousins served up, as good old Uncle Flossie didn’t fail to point out.
At the coffee and liqueurs stage he produced something from his pocket and said in a frightfully casual voice: “Picked this up the other evening when I dropped my napkin.” He held it out.
Dead silence reigned at our choice table within the chaste precincts of the George V’s dining-room.
A small blue bead. About four millimetres in diameter. A very intense blue… Not sparkling, no. Quite shiny.
Oh, God. Mireille’s face was pure dismay.
“Looks like a bead,” said Flossie on a casually indifferent note. “Someone broke a necklace, perhaps?”
Something like that. “Um, yes. Must’ve,” I croaked.
Uncle Flossie sniffed slightly. “Mm. I do know lapis lazuli when I see it, y’know. Dare say it’s a coincidence, but I know Pierre and Véronique de Lavallière quite well. She was devastated when her priceless collection of lapis lazuli was stolen a few months back. They took the lot. The carved pieces, the mounted gemstones—lazurite, y’know—and even the bits and bobs of jewellery. Had quite a few Twenties Art Deco pieces: dare say wearing the Junior Drones gear brought them to mind.”
Bean, Mireille and I were speechless, but Flossie appeared unmoved. If I hadn’t known him so well I’d have sworn he actually was.
“Yes, must just be a coincidence, Nunky,” he said mildly. “Poor Mme de Lavallière. Still, I’m sure they were insured.”
“Hm. Dare say. Well maybe it got tracked in from the restaurant,” he said, rewrapping the bead in his handkerchief and stowing it back in his pocket.
Once he’d taken himself off to the Gents’, Bean, Mireille and I looked at one another weakly.
Flossie sat back at his ease. “Please don’t attempt an explanation: my nerves can’t take it,” he drawled. “Tho I will just say most restaurants don’t need quite so much CCTV, do they, even in these benighted times?”
“Shut up, you’re not a ruddy counsel for the prosecution yet!” I snarled, losing it rather.
“Never fear, I’m on your side. But I would adore to hear some of the details.”
“Well you’re not getting any!” I retorted. “Don’t dare to tell him a thing, Bean!”
“Okay, but you know what he is. He’ll suss it all out in no time.”
Frankly, I didn’t think that was possible: the intricacies of Oncle Albert’s business interests are impenetrable. But he could suss out some, yes. “Nevertheless.”
“I am not going to shop your ubiquitous relatives to the cops, fellow Junior Drones, so let’s drop it,” sighed Flossie.
We dropped it, and a sour silence fell at our choice table in the choice precincts of the George V.
October 4 Not. (Still late August, in fact.) Continuing: Oncle Albert having kindly pulled strings for Uncle Flossie, we were able to get in at the Moulin Rouge together with five million tourists that night, so at least we didn’t have to talk. I can’t say I took in much of what went on except that it was pretty much as expected: a lot of legs and boobs on display. After which, le beauf’ de Michel having been successfully contacted, we all crammed into his taxi. Bean, Mireille and I were safely dropped off, yawning, back at the Resto LeBec, tho whether le beauf’ de Michel would succeed in persuading Uncle Flossie and Flossie to do the rounds with him was a moot point. We did attempt to remind Uncle Flossie that he’d told us he had an appointment with old friends of the rather posh sort coming up on the morrow, but he seemed very, very cheerful…
The morning didn’t precisely bring sage counsel. It did, however, bring the thought Who the Hell would have expected Uncle Flossie to be so sharp? …On the other hand, Flossie must have got it from somewhere.
Bother.
It also brought Flossie himself, rather late, but grinning. No idea what time the old boy got back last night—uh-huh. But after the administering of various remèdes he’d set off to see the old pals looking quite cheerful. And given that they lived at Neuilly, and were frightfully BTBG—wink at Mireille (who of course went pink)—we weren’t missing anything, were we?
BTBG? When in God’s name had he picked that one up? …No well, sharp as a tack, right? –Right. But I did wish he wouldn’t encourage the poor girl. He meant nothing by it: female admiration is taken for granted by such as F. (James) Nightingale Esq., as is the casual flinging of the occasional little posy of encouragement to the members of the breathless admiration society, but innocents like her are apt to take him seriously.
Bother, again.
October 6 Not. Continuing straight on: Today, couldn’t we just do the sorts of things we’d normally do? he asked nicely.
Er…
But actually I don’t think he did mean anything by it. He voted eagerly for it when Bean and I admitted that we’d probably nip over to the Rive Gauche and suss out the bookstores, and maybe have a wander down to the Île Saint Louis, Bean adding redundantly: “Sister Bean loves the really old buildings there, and the people in her favourite hugely expensive antique shop don’t seem to mind us just looking.”
To which Mireille added timidly: “Vairy few Americans find it, Flossie.”
“No, well the richissimes ones probably just tell their dealer to source stuff for them,” the Bean allowed, “but the one or two we’ve seen there seemed quiet and well-behaved. Want to risk it?”
He did, so off we set. Métro Strasbourg Saint-Denis, the Porte de Clignancourt line—no, the other direction, Flossie!—and straight down to the Place St. Michel.
He wanted to know why we hadn’t got off at Cité, that must have meant the Île de la Cité and therefore Notre Dame, but we explained there’d be ten thousand idiots there with their backs turned to the great cathedral taking— Quite.
“Okay, I’m a dashed imbecile,” he concluded ruefully.
“You have come at the wrong time, Flossie,” said Mireille carefully. Going pink, of course.
“She means the wrong time of year,” the Bean elaborated.
“Got that, thanks, old chap. Well I’ll just have to come again later in the year!” he said to the pink-cheeked one with a laugh.
Pinker than ever. Bother.
But blessedly after that he didn’t seem to pay any particular attention to her. And the bookshops of the Boul’ Miche were duly sussed out. Then, avoiding the crowds in the Place St. M. with their backs turned to the views, we wandered off down the Rue du Bac, there being a couple of interesting little shop windows further down, and then along and back, and so to the two islands in the middle of the river and over to the little one…
As usual the crowds stayed on the other island, so we had a really nice time. And decided that if our ships came in (a strange English idiom which had to be explained to Mireille, receiving a dazed look and the remark that so many English expressions seemed to relate to ships, it was odd)—well if, we’d buy that lovely dark wooden sideboard or possible cupboard or, well it was dark, looked like very old oak to our untutored eyes, rather chunky, and completely irresistible. Er… possible bread cupboard or linen press, is it, Flossie? If you say so, old chum! The shop assistant ignored us, the shop was far too up-market to inform one there was no browsing. (Yes, I have encountered that phenomenon: in a dress shop on the grands boulevards, so I didn’t look at their belts and buy one as intended, I walked out never to return).
Added to which possibly the gear Flossie was in today suggested that in ten years’ time or even less this would be a Customer. It was all down to the generosity of Uncle Flossie, of course: his parents had apparently forgotten they ever had him. Mr N. had been promoted from New Zealand to South Africa by this time, but it hadn’t seemed to occur to either of them to ask Flossie to join them for the summer.
Well it was lightweight gear, of course, but nonetheless spiffing. Lightweight cotton shirt with a scattered pattern of sketchy blue flowers (two shades) on a very pale yellow background, with a pair of pale blue cotton bags, both of them shouting “Burlington Arcade,” and his white Junior Drones tennis shoes with socks in the darker blue of the shirt’s pattern. Plus the boater. To die for. Well, Mireille certainly looked as if she could. Next to him the Bean and I in jeans and Tees paled into insignificance, as did Mireille in a brown cotton Thing ordained by Tante Thérèse, poor girl. Shopping was definitely on my agenda for both of us.
The Resto Lebec was mooted for a somewhat belated lunch but Flossie admitted that he really couldn’t face another huge French meal, so we just wandered vaguely northwards, more or less up the Rue du Temple, not an area frequented by tourists. It was hot, dusty and had a definite slope to it, so we found a suitably dingy little café and sat outside in the sun with glasses of indifferent jus d’orange (en bouteille, whereas posher places serve fresh jus d’orange pressé, I kid you not), plus French “sandwichs”: half baguettes stuffed with garlic sausage or ham, according to taste. We all had the ham. “Jambon de Paris ou de Westphalie?” the waiter asked as usual. Okay, it was Paris, so for Flossie’s sake we had the jambon de Paris. Then he insisted on shouting us to coffees and a drink, meaning alcohol, and was somewhat surprised when Mireille chose a sirop. Sirop d’orgeat. Shuddering, the Bean advised him against trying it. Okay, he’d have a Calva’. Good choice.
There was no hurry, so we just sat for a while, chatting and sipping, and then wandered on happily up the road in the heat and dust and grit of a typical Paris August afternoon towards the Place de la République and thence home…
Good Heavens! Is that all you did? On Flossie’s last day! Et tout et tout…
Unfortunately he’d promised to join Uncle Flossie at the posh friends’ place for dinner, so altho we could have put him on the Métro, Oncle Albert firmly rang le beauf’ de Michel, who as usual turned up trumps. And with fond kisses all round (literally: the both-cheeks treatment for beloved male relatives slash close friends), we saw him off.
Then we had the post mortem over not coming home for lunch… Oh, well!
October 9 Not. Continuing: After that unexpected round of excitement life at Restaurant LeBec resumed its petit train-train. La rentrée came, the workers returned to Paris, the tourist crowds blessedly diminished, Bean, Mireille and I started our courses, noses to the grindstone all round, the restaurant of course re-opened and as September wore on into October the leaves on the endemic plane trees turned brown, oysters were back on the menu, and game started to reappear in the markets. And considerable activity of the usual sort went on in the many back rooms of Le Passage Jacob.
Plus the usual visit of les flics, why the crisp October weather spurs them into action, unknown, but so it is. As usual, they found nothing. No, well, the kitchen was pretty busy with its legitimate business, naturally, and it’d take a better man than any Paris cop to figure out that that heavy carved old wooden dresser isn’t just for holding generations of LeBec plates. Well it’s easy if you know how but even the Nazis, so the story runs, never figured it out. It’s a charming piece, yes, and one, Commissaire Martineau (dit “Clouseau” by the extended LeBec family), greatly admires it and has even offered to buy it from the poker-faced Oncle Albert. The uncle’s usual line is: “Just country ware, but we’re very fond of it; sorry, M. le Commissaire.”
The dresser’s carving isn’t elaborate, in fact it’s rather naïve, just curlicues with leaves and round bosses that might be fruit, but the look is most appealing: it’s no wonder Commissaire Clouseau covets it. He sometimes strokes it in passing, having no idea whatsoever that if you stand in front of it, place a hand on either side on those particular bosses on the front edges, and turn them, the left counter-clockwise and the right clockwise, and then—this is the trick—push them both upwards at the same time, the whole thing swings out. To reveal a useful passage featuring some very handy shelves, onto which any evidence of irregular activity can be bundled in a jiff’.
Should one venture down this passage one can, if one knows how, find oneself, right at the far end, emerging onto another street entirely (at the far rear of those closed garage doors at the end of the Passage Jacob). Or one can turn off well before that and, again if one knows how, enter any of a number of small rooms. Used for any of a number of activities, not merely storage. Well as I say even the Nazis never found out the trick of the dresser and of course as the family carefully never polished it or made it look attractive in any way during the War years none of them tried to steal it bodily.
From which one might well gather that la famille LeBec has always been far too fly to have anything in the nature of a sliding panel that might be discovered by tapping of the walls. In which one would be jolly well spot-on.
There is a cellar, yes. In fact there are extensive cellars, reaching almost the whole way through the block but with no direct access from the far side. The restaurant’s official cellar is extremely accessible, because of course one often needs to pop down to fetch a bottle of wine. The entrance is just at the inner end of the short passage which also gives access to the kitchen from the back door. And in fact is just an ordinary if narrow flight of stairs. Quite a reasonable collection of rather average wines and spirits may be found there—and of course was by the Nazis, who nicked most of it and then expected to be served wine in the resto. Only to be told most respectfully by the incumbent of the time, also an Albert, that: “Your troops removed most of it, monsieur,” (bowing). This resulted several times in a disbelieving search, in which the coal cellar was discovered with fierce glee and ordered to be cleared. Of course it contained only coal. These days it isn’t needed and has been bricked up; by this time the bricks, which were old to start with, have completely blended in.
Of course the real cellars aren’t accessed by that too-public staircase at all. Or through the restaurant itself. The kitchen, which has windows giving onto the Passage Jacob, opens onto the back passageway with the outer door to the right, plus a couple of other doors directly in front. One accesses a storeroom for dry goods. The other just opens a giant walk-in linen cupboard, lined with shelves. If you walk in, and close and lock the door behind you, one low set of shelves swings outward and voilà! Well you have to stoop but then you’re on a small landing and can descend to the real cellars. (Including the old coal cellar, yes: why waste a perfectly good space?)
These days they’re used mainly for storing acres of valuable wines, but during the War they also sheltered three Jewish families from the quartier. Meanwhile in the resto the contemporary Albert was of course assuring the Nazi officers that this indifferent red was the best of his remaining wines, and if he got any decent stuff in he’d save it for them and he did have a bottle of Cognac today, if they’d care for a nip? Et tout et tout. So much so that at the Liberation he was accused of collaboration, but the Jewish friends he’d saved soon put a stop to that, as did the revelation by the Résistance of the activities that had been carried out in the cellars on their behalf. Weapons storage being the least of them.
Well Bean, Mireille and I were pretty busy with our swot—it was useful that I could help Mireille with her English Lit. while she could help me with my French ditto, tho sadly neither of us was any help to Bean. But he seemed to be soaking it all up like a sponge and we got a lot of totally unnecessary intel about botany, horticulture, etcetera, but we just let it all float over our heads…
October 12 Not. Continuing: In what little spare time we had, we performed Useful Tasks. Such as a little courier work—no-one suspects a student of anything except carrying a few drugs, and if you look clean and presentable and have your books with you the flics won’t bother you, unquote. Or indoor work such as stringing beads, or, with a certain amount of basic training, digging little coloured stones out of their settings… Then, we had access to the university’s extensive library collection. Much, much safer than using the Internet for research, les flics could trace that. But wonderful books existed, showing excellent close-ups of… Uh-huh. The styles, not so much the actual pieces, was it, Tante Thérèse? Uh-huh. Well how could one object to flicking through beautiful art books? It was most enjoyable. And so long as we didn’t use a flash no-one would notice if we took the occasional snap on our very useful mobile phones. No, do NOT email them, mon chou, such things can be traced by les fl— Oh yes. Silly me.
Well it all adds variety, doesn’t it? And since they wouldn’t let us pay a red cent or as it were a bean for our board and lodging, at least we were contributing.
Plus there was always lots of chopping to do for the restaurant.
So there we were. Bliss.
As Bean put it happily: “Gosh, dashed Marbledown seems a million years back!”
It certainly did. And ditto for dashed Merrifield.
Tho of course we kept in regular touch with all the Junior Drones, and Egg, Crumpy, Flossie and naturally Bean Minor were looking forward to seeing us at the end of Term. Jolly good! Meanwhile, Paris was our oyster…
Next chapter:
https://theeggandfriends-anovel.blogspot.com/2025/11/autumn-in-paris-with-visit-of-m.html
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