Hello, La Coupole!
It’s been awhile. Hemmingway used to come here when he was skint so there’s no reason for me not to come to this place today. End-of-the-month Sunday blues, when the wallet, well, a red Saint Laurent cardholder in my case, is already exhausted having been flying around, but my French hero Serge Gainsbourg frequented this place, though I doubt he was ever skint. In a Lanvin black dress, though from last season, I guess no one suspects my current financial situation.
Here I am, with my moleskine and a glass of Pessac-Léognan blanc at the counter, waiting for my device to beep and tell me that my table is ready. Perfect timing for bombing instagram!
A few minutes later I am approached with care and gracefully walked to my table. Pretty central, I get the best view. They understand a peacock (read: coquettish) deserves the spotlight (insert the appropriate emoji).
As I’m browsing la carte, the lights suddenly turn off. The whole room woo. The gentlemen in bowties shush them. Me, I’m just watching – I know what’s going on. A three-tier faux cake with fireworks on top is carried to a table. It’s not my birthday – it’s November and do learn that only a Libra would spill the last dime on a luxury ambiance I snobbily (not a real word) call inspiration. In case you don’t know already – those who know, please sit pretty – I have been busy writing songs for a musician friend who happens to be my neighbour. At least those lonely nights watching the rain by the opened winter windows, occasionally in tears, are not for nothing after all.
“Et voilà, princess !” A gentleman has just brought my blanc from the counter to my table. Ah, they still remember me, from my glorious days, obviously.
“Je voudrais soupe à l’oignon, et ensuite tartare de boeuf avec un verre du Sancerre rouge, s’il vous plait”, said I in between blowing the “smoke” from my electronic cigarette.
The beef tartar arrives in a heart shape: for professional heart breakers only. No, not true. I’m an amateur; I don’t get paid for breaking hearts, or for being a heart-broken. The lights go off again – gosh don’t people come to this place when it’s not their birthday! Don’t follow my lead, anyway, unless you actually enjoy a week of plain rice and tea.
Upon my first espresso, a gentleman in grey hair approaches me and politely informs me that I’m not allowed to smoke in the restaurant. He clearly doesn’t know me, just like most people, by the way (sigh), so I argue that I always smoke in here and today I have also asked Audrey to ask the authority if I can still smoke and the answer was a polished “oui, madame.” However, this grey gentleman insists that I should be deprived of my sole joy while sitting alone at their prime table watching my metro ticket money (more like my next Hermès carré fund, actually) go down my throat – hello, fasting days! I just said “d’accord” with a charming smile and continue smoking whenever he’s not looking.
The gentleman who keeps calling me princess and always feels privileged to take my photos comes to me and whispers that the grey gentleman, who is not very gentle after all, is a straight Catholic, whatever that means. I said I’m sure the bible doesn’t mention no smoking electronic cigarette in La Coupole – that’s no way of sacred living!
Having paid the bill and left a decent tip for my friend Abdel who is just leaving, while I’m sipping my second espresso, another friend called Ahmed offers me a free glass of champagne, compliment from monsieur le directeur who claims to remember me (I don’t him, my bad). Now, let’s get it straight, I’m not a fan of neat bubbles, unless they’re in my bath, but I guess turning it down would break his heart so I say yes.
It is now 1659 and most of the customers have finished their long lunch and left. So everyone, the gentlemen in bowties, comes and say hello to me. I ask why aren’t there paintings anymore on the walls. They say “mais vous êtes le tableau !” Ah, where ever is Picasso when I need him!
We chat about Parisian life and how people today are so absorbed by the internet, I raise my pencil to show off how different I am, naturally. Ahmed invites me to a tour around the restaurant and for photographs with the old photos on the walls (damn, does everyone know I love being photographed now?) He finally calls the director who says he remembers me from last time, in May, even though I have changed my hair. “Je me souviens de l’âme,” he says. Ah, French people… They are exhausting, but I adore them anyway.
Moral of the story: when you’re skint, invest your last dime in things that will lift up your moral. Now let me strut back home, it’s already dark outside and the street lights are waiting for me, fabulously.
je t’embrasse!
d.o., le 27 novembre 2016
Imagined Paris 