LETTER #16 The French have a word for it.

I turned to the man sitting next to me in the Brasserie Neil and started a conversation. I had just been delivered a huge bowl of Tunisian goodies. Never missing a chance to open a chat I said “Est ce que vous voulez…?” It was just an ice breaker. He gave me the magazine “Pariscope.” He seems to have some involvement with musical events around Paris. Before I knew it he had invited me to a free concert in a small church that is behind Notre Dame. I discovered that it is only one of many free concerts that Parisians can enjoy. He promised to watch for me on Friday.

“Do the French have a word for serendipity,” I asked? He pondered. The closest he came was “ accident” or “chance” But with my limited French I could not begin to tell him that the word meant a special confluence of events and circumstances that offered an opportunity. It was just that kind of chance that let me open a conversation with him and with the woman who sat opposite him, I think she’s a principal with the magazine.

They left making us promise to attend the Friday evening concert. But I was not content. There was a woman sitting alone just behind us. She was ordering a “tarte aux fraises.” I said: “essayez le chocolat.” (which I think was correct.) She responded in English. Turns lout she is an Irish woman, very attractive I should add, who came to Paris years ago and has stayed. She rolled her eyes just a little when she confessed that love had brought her here. I am just guessing that the love didn’t pan out but she stayed anyway. In fact, Shirley, who is good at girl-talk, told me she is divorced.

We chatted at length. We exchanged phone numbers. We shall meet.

All this has a plus: the food. Again, surprises. I ordered “un plat” which was Tunisien. It started with an exquisite deep fried kind of flaky pastry, somewhere between a crepe and puff pastry. Hidden in the middle was a beautifully cooked egg. The waiter told me it was a “brique" (I’m guessing at the spelling, and perhaps I didn’t even hear properly.) It was wonderfully crisp and slightly slick from the oil it had been fried in.

It was worth the trip, a trip that began as a walk to a museum on Boulevard Haussman but was aborted because Shirley’s leg was troubling her. Again – serendipity. If not for her sore hip, we would not have ventured into this restaurant, would not have met the charming couple, would not have opened a friendship with a lady from Ireland, and would not have experienced “la brique.”

The meal itself, that huge portion I offered to share with the man sitting next to me, was a classic North African feast: chick peas, carrots, couscous, and a huge chunk of short rib. Not especially good, but filling. Who cares? We met more people. Every time I remember having been told that the French were reserved I discover otherwise.
Bien – there is indeed no place like Paris.