Every Saturday for the last two years I have wandered into a little bistro in my neighbourhood. I walk in, kiss the owners on the cheeks (in France we kiss everyone to say hello, it is French Kissing but with no tongue), sit at the same table, just next to the bar and within seconds, there is a glass of wine in front of me. I’ve written about Le Miroir before. Matt is a sommelier, his wife Charlotte is the waitress and they’ve decided to sell up their share so that they can spend more time with their kids.
I am absolutely traumatised.
Chef is staying so the food will still be as fantastic as it always has been, but it just won’t be the same. Matt won’t be there to take the piss out of me when I make mistakes in French. Charlotte and I won’t be able to chat about clothes and shoes when she isn’t running around doing all the work that Matt lazily avoids. I don’t go there every week for the food as much as for the company. And they have never spilled anything on my computer, a handy skill given I eat and write at the same time.
When you are so very far away from home, familiarity is important. The little things count. Knowing your butcher, a local grocer or even knowing the names of the people in your building become critical comforts given you have no family, only a few friends and a great gaping hole in the bed beside you.
Just as the song in Cheers reminded us every time Ted Danson stepped behind the bar, “sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name”, I’ll happily eat at the same place over and over again if the people are friendly and do indeed know my name.
They not only know my name, they know my life story, and I know theirs. They intently followed my sister’s pregnancy and the subsequent birth of the Squeal. Every week I show off photos of her growing little self, photos of my travels, photos of their food, photos of anything really. They ask me how to use, buy or repair their iThings, I taught them how to use Foursquare and Instagram. We talked about The Election, The Rugby and The Madonna Concert.
Spending my Saturdays with them has been the highlight of my week. I write, I eat, they work, we laugh and I’ve never, ever had to ask for a glass of wine.
I’m not always alone, with only a Macbook to keep me company. I’ve shared many a meal at Le Miroir with friends, Braveheart and I laughing at each other with a mouth full of exploding popping candy, and enemies, the F-Word and I celebrating our ill-fated engagement with a glass of Champagne on the front window table. Although, it was two weeks ago, dining with The Body, that I realised just how lucky I am. She, resident of Paris for most of her life remarked that I was so very lucky to have achieved what so few Parisians have; I have “a local”.
Since moving out of home after university, almost everywhere I’ve ever lived, I’ve been lucky enough to have a local restaurant. Sharing a rooftop, huntsman spider infested flat with the Art-sist-ologer, we lived above a restaurant that served breakfast, lunch and dinner. It is so very convenient when you crawl out of bed on a Saturday morning with a hangover to have someone below already crisping up the bacon and poaching the eggs. It is even better when you can walk in without a scrap of makeup and half a pyjama which I often did.
I’ve shown up at Le Miroir on many a Saturday morning more than a little the worse for wear. They’ve seen me at my best, and after half a bottle of Calvados, at my very worst. With them, I’ve celebrated Birthdays, Christmases, New Years and even pretend engagements.
I feel like I did when Friends ended; Ross got Rachel and Monica got a baby and then you never heard from them again. I feel like I did when I worked my last day at Starbucks; every day for five years had been saturated with coffee and now I would have to pay full price for my addiction. I feel like this is the latest in a long line of people who have voluntarily or involuntarily left me behind. Can people please stop leaving me?
But they really did save the best for last. Last night was The Last Supper. We dined with visiting Australians, New Girl, the White Russian and The Sister. We stayed quite late, we drank more than a little, I didn’t get home until after midnight and for reasons unknown to man, I slept on the couch. This morning, as I wandered the streets in search of nourishment, my phone lit up, I got a text.
"Wake Up!"
I challenge you to find a local where the owner sends you a text to wake you up in time for lunch.
…and now that Matt and Charlotte are heading off in search of new adventures, I am open to suggestions for a replacement.
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