Out to dejeuner
by David Benjamin
“A good photograph is like a good hound dog, dumb, but eloquent.”
— Eugene Atget
PARIS — I follow, meekly, the footsteps of Eugene Atget.
Atget
was the original, essential Parisian, unable to get his fill of the
City of Light. In the early days of photography, Atget fed off the
Light, trudging every inch of the city, taking pictures of every
magnificent view and every mundane cranny. I emulate Atget only in my
efforts to roam Paris with camp and camera, whenever I’m here, creating
an “album” that’s a fraction as large as the vast, tireless oeuvre of Atget.
Atget
took thousands of photos, carrying a huge telescoping box camera and
its ungainly tripod, plus a trunk full of fragile glass plates. All I
haul is a camera bag, my Pentax, two lenses and a memory chip that holds
more shots than Atget could shlep in a month. But Atget was a walking
encyclopedia. I — despite my superior technology — am a mere brochure.
My
latest expedition took me to a cobbled alleyway called the rue Berton.
Atget beat me there by 116 years. Rue Berton is mildly famous for Honoré
de Balzac’s backdoor, where he escaped when the bill collectors came
around the front. It’s also, coincidentally, the back wall of a little
urban chateau that housed Marie-Therese Louise, Princess of Lamballe.
She was Marie Antoinette’s BFF. In the Revolution, Marie Antoinette was
ceremoniously beheaded. The Princesse de Lamballe was simply hacked to death.
Despite
the cloudy day and lousy light, I got my photos of the moodily
evocative, but unspectacular alley, picked up a few fallen buckeyes as
mementos and wandered then toward the Parc de la Muette. On the
fashionable rue de Passy, I foraged — in the impecunious spirit of
Balzac — for a cheap lunch.
I dodged two obviously chic joints —
already speckled with early-eating American tourists — and opted for
the humbler Tabac de la Muette, where the waiter guided me to a little
nook that afforded a few of both the interior and the street. Nearby
were two expat American women, conversing volubly in English. I ignored
them strenuously, concentrating on my book (I’m re-reading Invisible Man) until they were supplanted, felicitously, by an elderly Parisienne who ate like a cat and uttered not a mew.
The
impeccably efficient waiter returned and took roughly 15 seconds to
record my order and shimmer off. ‘Til my omelette arrived, I read. But I
also noted that, beside me, the waiter seated a beautiful girl (dark
hair, pale skin, Claudia Cardinale’s eyes). She was my sixth of the day.
I count beautiful girls in Paris. Everyone should.
The
omelette (barely garnished: two leaves of iceberg lettuce and one wedge
of underripe tomato) was perfect, light brown on its surface and runny
in the middle. As I partook, I scanned the room. I belatedly grasped
that I’d stumbled into an old-style Paris café/restaurant that had yet
to be remodeled into yuppified sterility. It probably will be soon.
The
light here is appealingly dim, in case I’m lunching (billing, cooing,
holding hands) with a woman not my wife. This subtle gloom echoes off
old maple woodwork dark enough to match my souvenir chestnut, each wall
panel centered by an oval mirror. The light we get is gold, from Belle
Epoque fixtures, sconces and a chandelier whose dusty-orange glass
shades are tulip-shaped. But around the chandelier on the ceiling, a
circle of paisley-shaped, dark-stained Art Nouveau laths. Café
decorators in Paris mix periods shamelessly, and nobody complains.
The place is called a “tabac,”
because it’s licensed to sell tobacco products. Typically, the tobacco
counter is up front to the right of the doorway, and it’s expansive.
They sell a lot of smokes here and probably have a wide array of allumettes,
wooden matches in decorative boxes that serve as excellent, cheap,
packable souvenirs to take back home to the family in Topeka (if only
tourists knew).
Beyond the tobacco stand, the bar — oak blackened
by a thousand hands, marble panels, marble bar — crowded with drinkers
too thrifty to pay the extra fare for a table. The steps down to the
W.C. are also marble, a touch of cool elegance (or mock opulence) from a
different time.
Mopping up egg (the bread is good, not
sublime), I see, behind the stairwell railing, a fellow diner. I sigh in
admiration. He’s about 75, eating alone in a linen suit, conservative
tie, light-blue Oxford shirt, dance-ready loafers. He’s Paris after the
war — Maurice Chevalier, Charles Boyer, Yves Montand. Have you ever, in
an American restaurant at lunch, ever seen a man in a linen suit, tie
and polished shoes, using his fork properly? Or even one who has the
sheer chutzpah to wear linen?
I suppress the urge to go over and hug the guy.
(Me? Fuggedaboudit! Photographer’s vest, cargo pants, sandals, and a “Here Come the Beatles” t-shirt.)
Suddenly,
my gorgeous banquette-mate is paid up and motoring. She has miles to go
before she sleeps (with Delon, Belmondo, Gainsbourg, nobody like me or
you). That’s how it is. The old bags linger and then shuffle off,
gradually, leaning on canes. The young beauties are quicksilver. I watch
as she hurries. Methinks (with Herrick) how sweetly, sweetly flows the
liquefaction of her clothes.
Drinking my coffee, I have a good
view of the street. The sun is struggling to appear, which decides my
afternoon. I’ll keep walking with my camera. I’ve already shot the Métro
sign at Muette, a red rectangle framed in cast-iron filigree. These
signs — in a dozen different styles from Hector Guimard’s
turn-of-the-century Art Nouveau triffids that to the Fifties-style
Mobilgas “M” — are a favorite motif. Alas, most of them post-date Atget.
He would have shot every station.
Outside, I steer a course
toward rue de la Pompe. One building’s facade is bright with mosaic
panels and a pre-Raphaelite woman’s face is etched in limestone. I don’t
count her, though. She’s not alive and she’s only a head.
Final tally for the day: Ten.
Friday, September 30, 2016
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