Le Cafe

[paulonleave]

Second most popular choice on my poll. 

Not long after I moved to Paris last September, I notice Le Café, a little establishment around the corner from me on rue Tiquetonne, right where that little street meets rue Etienne Marcel.  Each time I went by it, I would say to myself, "That is a place that bobalone would love."  [Except, of course, in my mind I would say "Bob" rather than "bobalone."]  So I decided that I would save it for him, and as a result I didn't go into it until after he arrived just before Christmas. 

Now, Le Café is officially our favourite hangout in Paris.  We frequently have lunch there, or just a coffee.  When I met satarnion for the first time, it was at Le Café.  I had lunch there with 2fruition and Jeff, and, just last week, dropped in for coffee with my friends Johanna and Bob, who are spending a month in Paris.

Naturally, I like the lame sauciness of the name, in a city with tens of thousands of cafés.  But that isn't really enough to warrant adopting it as an official hangout.  No, we adopted it because of the decor, the food, the staff, and most especially, because of the clientele. 

The photo doesn't show the interior at all, and I am too conscious of the mawkishness of pulling out a camera inside to satisfy my desire for a picture. so I am reduced to verbal description:  the café is long and narrow, with lots of dark wood panelling and dark wooden tables and chairs.  The ceiling is very high, and the upper parts of the walls are lined with narrow shelves containing a couple of dozen globes, some of which are illuminated from within, so they glow like the planet they represent.  There is lots of old bric-a-brac, giving Le Café a homey, comfortable atmosphere.  It is one of the least chic places in Paris.  If it were in Toronto, it might comfortably fit into Kensington Market, or maybe find a home on Roncesvalles.  Because Le Café is long and narrow, on nice days there is a hierarchy of tables: best are the wooden ones directly in front, on the sidewalk; second best, the interior tables that are right at the front, looking out to the street; when none of these are available, one is reduced to sitting at the green metal tables across the sidewalk.  Only in an emergency would you sit in the depths of the dark interior.  Le Café is the only place I have ever noticed people "working their way up."  Patrons in the less desirable seats will simply get up and move to a better table as soon as one becomes available, taking their coffee or quiche with them.  I have actually seen one couple progress during a single meal from the middle of the restaurant, to the window, to a sidewalk table.  Bob and I have only table jumped once, moving into the window when we were waiting for satarnion.

The food at Le Café is simple and delicious.  Most often, I will have a huge piece of quiche du jour and a mound of salad, or the "assiette bacon", which is a plate piled high with home fried potatoes, salad, warm chevre on toast, poached egg, tomato, and of course, two different cuts of bacon.  Last time we were there, Bob had the Le Café Burger:  huge, thick, almost raw, topped by a fried egg and accompanied by a stack of galettes de pomme (aka waffle fries).  Le Café is the kind of place that brings you a carafe d'eau without you having to ask for it, and otherwise leaves you alone. 

The staff are not particularly friendly.  In fact, they can seem rather cold.  But once they get to recognize you, they warm up a bit, although you could never accuse them of being "familiar."  For example, one of the waiters is a very beautiful and muscular gay man who always wears a black teeshirt and tight jeans.  He has a tattoo on his right biceps that seems to sum up his attitude:  neat black letters spell out the words "FUCK OFF."  [bobalone thinks he is the manager or even the owner.]  Fortunately, we almost always get served by the same woman, a purposeful and efficient server with shortish grey hair and a reluctant smile.  She looks like she is about 50 years old, although I never noticed until Bob pointed it out to me that she has an incredible body.  If we were straight men we would be in the thrall of her narrow waist, large breasts and shapely bum.  When you ask her for the bill, she does what all of her colleagues do as well:  pulls out her pen, furrows her brow and says, "You had the burger and a coffee?, you had the special?"  Once you confirm that that is indeed what you consumed, she writes a series of figures on the paper tablecloth, adds them up and says, "23 euros."  I use that as an example, but our bill is usual around 23 euros.  This practice strikes me as odd, since when you actually place your order, she always writes it down on a little order pad, complete with carbon duplicate, which she then thrusts into the pocket of her apron and apparently never looks at again.

Despite all of the charms of  Le Café, though, I think it is fair to say that the clientele are the reason we keep going back.  Even when they are not table jumping, they continue to charm and amaze us.  On the whole, they are funky and beautiful, with that casual elegance that Parisians wield so seductively and so frustratingly.  Their clothes are not high fashion (usually) or even particularly expensive, but I find myself studying the men and the women alike, trying to figure out how they have made a simple tank top or a plain skirt seem so fresh and perfect. 

As is common in Paris restaurants, tables are extremely close together, so that you are usually as close to your neighbours as you are to your dining companions.  One day at lunch, two young woman sat next to us just after our food arrived.  One of them studied my plate carefully, and then asked me what I was eating, and if it was as good as it looked.  Satisfied, she announced to our waitress that she wanted the same thing.  She had squeezed a huge shopping back under the table, and while waiting for her lunch she rummaged in the bag for a minute and then pulled out a single shoe.  It was purple suede, open-toed with the thinnest, highest spike heel I have ever seen.  Ballet toe shoes would provide a more natural and comfortable shape to the human foot.  Then she pulled out a second shoe, this one similar to the first, but in a more subdued black leather, and augmented by a narrow ankle strap.  Soon, both shoes were sitting in the middle of the tiny table and the two women were engaged in an animated debate over the relative merits of each.  The woman trying to decide even tacitly sought Bob's view.  When she noticed that we were fascinated, she picked up the purple shoe and displayed it to him, turning it gracefully from side to side and raising her eyebrows quizzically.  He nodded, as if to say, "Yes, pick that one."  She smiled knowingly and put both shoes back in her bag.  When we left, this woman was scanning what looked like a catalogue of upcoming fashion shows, approvingly drawing circles around some photos with a badly chewed ballpoint pen, and snarling at others as if she were deeply offended by the dress in the picture.

Now that we are regulars at Le Café, we can see that there is a real community that uses the restaurant as a meeting point.  Often there will be a couple, one of whom will leave.  The remaining person will be alone for five or ten minutes, and then a new person will come along and join him or her.  Like a biological organism, parties will grow and shrink.  Sometimes, a table of two will gradually expand until six or seven people are jammed together.  People walking by will frequently recognize someone and pause long enough to kiss both cheeks and say "ca va?"  It is lots of fun.

Le Café
62, rue Tiquetonne
PARIS 75002
01 40 34 81 50