À la recherche des odeurs perdues

Well, what can you expect at the beginning of the Arc weekend — But look out for the Free downloads!

I yearn to be in my old France. I want to be in a Bar PMU, in some back-street of Les Halles. I want to smoke Boyards again, that pungent, filterless fag wrapped in corn paper that you had to constantly drag and smoke, or else it went out. The interior is ochre and maroon brown and has a faded Camargue flamingo advertisement on the wall, by the exit to the kitchen. It has no frame it is merely there, glued in place perhaps by a century of tar. The bar has the original zinc top and on it the absinthe water spigot; the place reeks of French people. Of meat and garlic and beurre noisette, a hundred smells, all from the kitchen - which you must go through to get to the loos. Of sweat from the Tunisian boy who is the plongeur, the sous chef and the cleaner. Of the facial cream that all French beauties seem to wear, some foundation of lavender, vanilla, and citrus and something undefinable, but deeply enticing. I’m thinking about lunch and having an anisette, and I’m thinking I better check the racing on Paris-turf.

Jean’s wife Solange is in the back and produces a Menu for €22, take it or leave it. Today it’s Oeufs pochés au Frisée et lardons and Rognons de Veau bordelaise. The gravy is the creamiest mahogany brown, shiny with the butter added right at the end to give it a shine. There is a beautiful mound of veal kidneys, shallots, a hint of the bone-marrow that wasn’t consumed within the sauce, mushrooms, garlic and red wine. It sits on a mound of mashed celeriac. I eat it with a baguette and a pichet of vin rouge. I want English Mustard but don’t ask… I settle for Dijon, which is actually better.

I’ll commiserate about the vicissitudes of life with Jean, who has to work 258. He loves and hates Europe, and loves and hates the English, but mostly he hates Brussels because Euro Law says Little Froufrou has to stop work after 35 hours, to have time off to eat her Big Mac and become self-aware. Froufrou is his daughter and her self-awareness comes by drinking huge amounts of Red Bull, listening to gangsta-rap or Algerian music by GenZ213 supporters, wailing for the return of the Hirak movement. No, Jean doesn’t understand either. She’s a bit bored because she hasn’t got a protest to go to this weekend. It is the only thing about her, Jean recognises as being French.