Paris in Love (39 page)

Marion and Lou took us out to dinner tonight. Marion was adamant that we try a restaurant with at least one Michelin star, so Lou and I surveyed the (many) possibilities and chose Stella Maris, which means “star of the sea.” The chef is Japanese, and yet the cuisine is French; we thought his star was probably very hard-won. Indeed, the meal was wonderful, though we came to the conclusion that the
amuse-bouches
, of which there were two or three, were better than the entrées. And that no one should spend that sort of money on food.

Apparently the “distinguished professor” look is in high demand in Paris. In the last week alone, a young man leaning in a doorway winked at Alessandro and beckoned; a lonely lady snatched an opportune moment—when I was transfixed by a store specializing in “high heels, all sizes”—to approach him. “Perhaps they think I’m French,” he said, preening a little. “Perhaps they think you have a wallet,” I said cruelly. His face fell, and I remembered that husbands have tender egos, even if they garner their compliments from unlikely places.

We rented our apartment in part because of its flowery moldings; we had no idea that among its attractions was the fact that
it was precisely two blocks away from the oldest
confiserie
, or candy shop, in Paris: À la Mère de Famille, founded in 1761. This is a feast for the eyes as much as the palate: delicate crystallized violets, pastel sugar eggs, and darling marzipan apples, sized for a doll’s tea party—or a sweet nibble in the Garden of Eden.

Yesterday I watched as Marion gave six-year-old Sadie the “runway look” that Sadie had picked out from a large eye-shadow palette. Marion’s finger brushed pale pink, and she stroked it over Sadie’s eyelid. “Now a little smoky blue at the corners,” she murmured, dipping her finger into the pink again. She peered down at the instruction card Sadie had chosen. “A little more blue …” She rubbed a little more pink at the corner of Sadie’s shining eyes. “There, you look gorgeous!” And she did, runway ready, without a touch of color on her eyelids. “You’re so good at this, Mama,” Sadie said—and I could scarcely disagree.

The homeless man must have a florist admirer! Today he has two new bushes with red berries, like shiny kidney beans.

S
pring has come to Paris! The sky before my study window is pale blue, with airplanes’ fleecy vapor trails patterning it like lace, and the building across the street is gleaming in the sunshine. The itinerant brass quartet that occasionally plays in our quartier for money is down on the corner tootling “Blue Moon” with great verve but not such great timing.

Anna came out of school with her mouth tight and miserable. Each day one student gets to ring the dismissal bell, and today was Anna’s turn. So she dashed downstairs, so excited that she didn’t think to ask for permission; she just rang that bell. It wasn’t time yet, so she was yelled at and thrown out of the office, and—worst of all—a boy named Tommaso laughed at her.

Yesterday I saw a quintessentially French umbrella in a shop window: bright red polka dots with a ruffle. I could just imagine that cunning ruffle dancing down a rainy street. I bought it for
Anna, only to be asked (with outrage): “Mama! Do you think I’m Minnie Mouse?” If on a wet day you see a quintessential Minnie walking down rue du Conservatoire,
c’est moi
.

Today young men stood outside the Métro stations selling bundles of small narcissus, their stalks tied together very tightly so the heads burst into exuberant posies. Almost every woman handed over a couple of euros, so the street was filled with women holding bright yellow flowers to their noses, looking happy.

At lunchtime Alessandro and I strolled over to a Hôtel Drouot auction preview featuring vintage haute couture, that is, designer clothing made completely by hand. I tried on a Chanel opera jacket that must have weighed fifteen pounds, thanks to the exquisite, heavy gold embroidery and beading—thousands and thousands of tiny hand stitches and shining bright beads. For just a moment, I felt like Grace Kelly.

Florent is the epitome of a romantic Frenchman. Alessandro reports that he is head over heels in love again. It’s as if the Italian waitress never existed. Now all he talks about is his colleague, whose name is Pauline. Apparently she is interested but evasive. Florent is forty-one and very much wants to settle down; Pauline is only in her twenties and not ready for a long commitment. Alessandro pointed out that the waitress was quite a bit younger, too, to which Florent retorted that his father is seventy-one and married to a thirty-five-year-old. Hmm.