Still Saturday. I had to eat no matter how tired I was. I remembered from the night before on rue Mouffetard that there were several restaurants on rue Descartes, north of the Place de la Contrescarpe before the hill began.
I was looking hot in my new linen tunic, but figured I’d better eat indoors because it was beginning to cool down.
Café Delmas is a bustling spot on the Place de la Contrescarpe. Crêperie Delmas is tucked in just behind. It was quiet, but I didn’t expect it to be as quiet as it was. Through the window there were at least three tables of people looking quite animated, but when I entered everything was muted. “Are they angry with the waitress?” I wondered, “Is it me?” Then I realized that the majority of the diners were hearing-impaired and they were communicating with each other through sign language.
I sat right in the window and ordered a Bordeaux, - that’s my thing - and a Crêpe Nordique. Despite that sounding like a hockey player from Quebec it was actually a buckwheat Crêpe with smoked salmon and crème fraiche.
Shortly after my crepe arrived, so did a single man, around 40, in a good suit. He was a very smiley guy and reminded me of a young Dick Van Dyke crossed with an equally young John Hurt. No prize, but like I said, he smiled a lot.
He seated himself two places further down the banquette from me. And then he said something. I had to use one of my phrases. Désolé, je ne comprends pas. Je suis Canadienne et malheureusement je ne parle pas français*
“Oh, then you are English?”
We exchanged a couple of pleasantries. He told me that he worked at the UN and had just come back from New York. Now I’ve seen enough Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant movies to know that this was probably a line.
He asked me if I would sit with him.
Politely, I said, “Non”.
He tried again, “I would be enchanted to have you join me at my table.” Again, “Non, merci.” He said, “No harm in trying” And that the older he got the easier he could handle rejection.
While eating we talked about my time so far in Paris. Throughout my dessert of Berthillon ice cream I was thinking that if I’d been braver I would have sat with him. I would have had a more essential Parisian experience than watching the city through my hotel window at 8 at night.
When my cheque arrived he asked if he could buy me another glass of wine. I shook his hand, said “Thank you, but no.” And I told him it was nice to have met him.
I didn’t join him; the reason being - how to extricate myself from the situation. What if he offered to go to another bar; spend the evening with me? What if he was odious? What if he was trouble? What would my husband say? What if he followed me? What if what if what if what if what if.
Afterward I knew that I should have been friendlier, but all in all, the 20-minute encounter made me feel good. I knew alone in Paris, I might have made a friend.
*Désolé, je ne comprends pas. Je suis Canadienne et malheureusement je ne parle pas français Means Sorry, I don't understand. I'm Canadian and unfortunately I don't speak French.
