Meredith’s Musings | A Love Letter to Parisian Cafes

article by MEREDITH MCKINNIE

A  recently married couple flew to Paris yesterday for their honeymoon. They posted the quintessential plane pic before takeoff with the tagline “Je t’aime.” My mind flooded with memories of this past summer, the casual cafes on every corner throughout the City of Lights, the nonchalant pace of Parisians, the tiny tables stacked with an individual plate for each menu item. Paris loves luxury but doesn’t hoard it. The social structure extends luxury to every experience regardless of price point. This norm was most exemplified in the cafes, the gathering places that transcend social status.

Husband and I made a cafe stop in every neighborhood we strolled through. Whether it was the pink, Instagram-famous La Maison Rose on Rue de l’Abreuvoir in Montmartre or Cafe de Flore in the neighborhood of Saint Germaine, each brasserie had its own unique personality, free from the threat of restaurant chain universality. It’s one of the most fascinating things about Paris, its ability to be unabashedly itself with a distinct flair all while populated by diverse, exclusive businesses, many generations old, yet fresh and new. Back home I lament the absence of color in fast food chain remodels – as if they think, “Perhaps if we all look the same people will wander into our establishments randomly.”

One of the most beloved market streets is Rue Cler, near the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Husband and I, having just climbed down from the Eiffel Tower’s highest point, headed to Rue Cler for brunch, unsure if we would grab something from the open-air markets that sideline the street or slip into one of the noted eateries. While most cafes feature indoor seating, those tables are usually abandoned, as visitors crowd around the half-inside/half-outside tables that touch each other in single lines along the street. Parisian diners don’t seem to covet the space that we Americans feel entitled to. They are used to living on top of one another, traversing stairs as part of the everyday commute, the background neighbor noise just part of the ambiance. Being around people is the point – isolation seems almost anti-Europe.

We took a table at Le Petit Cler. Husband ordered an espresso, and I suggested we order the meat and cheese board, reasonably priced at 15 euros. The board would feed a family of 5, and we indulged, savoring each bite at the newly-accustomed Parisian pace. It felt sinful to rush this experience. We had nowhere to be, and we genuinely relaxed into each other’s company. Sadly, this too often is not our experience at home, even in the privacy of our own house. American restaurants, whether the waiters actually rushes you through a meal or not, always feel like they are. Table turnover is hard to ignore, and we hesitate to bother a waiter, all out of politeness. At home, the washer beeps, or the phone rings, or the living room needs tidying. We can’t quite escape the space that relentlessly needs our attention. In contrast, the Parisian cafes exist to serve us, as a means of rest. I noticed people would drop in and order water, free of charge, and then lounge for long periods of time. In a city where movement requires one to walk, the need for physical rest is genuine and the cafes encourage their usage for that sole purpose.

At Le Depart Saint Michele, near Notre Dame and Fontaine Saint-Michele, we witnessed a flash mob, women in sarongs dancing in harmony to an invisible boom box or cell phone. Just as quickly as they appeared, the mob dispersed, and Husband and I returned to our menus. We were there to try crepes, authentic Parisian crepes. After we made our selections, the waiter rushed over, dutifully taking our orders without a pad or pencil. When Husband mentioned wanting a chocolate crepe, the waiter vigorously shook his head, pointing to the caramel crepe and saying “the best, the best” with his heavy accent. Husband nodded and the waiter rushed away, quickly returning with coffee, water, and orange juice – the breakfast trio that seemed to accompany every Parisian breakfast – which notably runs until late afternoon. When Husband bit into the caramel crepe, his countenance shifted. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes as he chewed. We were on Paris time, a world away from reality, tucked into a little cafe in the most romantic city in the world – Je t’aime, indeed.