Paris Sunday

Sunday, February 11th., Hotel Matignon, Paris.

When I got up the snow was falling thickly. Naturally the snow turned to rain. The chances are ten to one that snow will degenerate into rain in a large city. I took a young friend to lunch at the Tour d'Argent. No need to be coy - a rather pleasant looking young lady friend! I think I may have neglected to tell Dorothy just exactly what my plans were.

Tour d'Argent

Of course tradition compelled me to order duck, and of course the waiter gave me a slip with the ordinal number of the duck which was served to us. This piece of ritual seems to be fixed forever in the proceedings of this ancient, good, and expensive restaurant. Though I cannot imagine why a customer should be interested to know how many ducks have been eaten by previous customers, or that his particular duck is the tenth or the hundred thousandth so served! Perhaps the idea is that the ducks acquire greater dignity in not dying anonymously? Does this enhance their flavour?

In any case our duck was very flavoursome though I gave it perhaps less attention than it deserved, being engaged in a mild attempt at verbal seduction. We were the only foreigners in the place. I threw my ordinal slip on the floor. The next moment the waiter picked it up and gave it to me again. Out of regard for his emotional loyalty to the restaurant I put it in my pocket.

After the usual trouble over taxis on a wet day in Paris we drove to Notre Dame. The damp cold in the huge and gloomy interior was intense. Hundreds of girls in thin white or half white sat or stood shivering, waiting for something or other to begin. Some preposterous religious ritual I should think. The mere spectacle of them made me turn up the collar of my overcoat. We went out full of fatal germs.

Then my young friend told me that she had forgotten to bring her goloshes from London, that she could not possibly cross any more broad wet pavements in her fragile shoes, and that she must buy a pair of goloshes at once. This announcement of course necessitated a close inspection by me of her rather nicely turned ankles and calves. She asked me, as an old resident of Paris with local knowledge, to take her to a shop where she could buy galoshes notwithstanding it being Sunday. It is on such occasions that a man must keep his nerve. I remembered a department store in the Rue d'Amsterdam and we drove there. It was open. They had no galoshes! I was prepared to give up but my young friend was not. She said to the taxi driver: "Where can I buy galoshes?" The driver instantly replied: "Avenue de Clichy."

Off we went up the hill to the Avenue de Clichy where, at a certain famous retaurant, I had frequently eaten the glorious dish at which Anglo-Saxons turn up their noses: tripe. No tripe today though. Instead we entered a large, busy shop containing millions of pairs of shoes. The first thing we saw was a range of satin shoes. "Oh!" said my friend, "I like the look of those and how cheap they are. I couldn't get those in London for that price." Etc... She bought a pair of satin shoes in something less than half an hour. If there isn't a lunatic asylum in Paris for shop assistants, there ought to be. She was about to leave the shop when I said: "Galoshes?" She said: "Yes, I suppose I may as well get a pair as I'm here." She did get a pair, and put them on. My interest in her lower limbs had waned. I don't suppose the entire business took more than an hour. Soon afterwards I felt the need to sever myself from mankind and went to my hotel for a sleep. At my age I really should have known better.

Later, in recovery, I dined with other friends at that notorius establishment "The Ox on the Roof", where the excessive stridency of the orchestra lifts all conversation to a shout. Thence to a cinema to see "White Shadows", presented by the great French film firm Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer! This film has pre-recorded sound effects which is interesting. At 11.20 the show finished. Outside, wind and rain, but not a taxi. I walked to the hotel in the wind and rain. End of a Paris Sunday.

A Paris Sunday

Monday, February 11th., Hotel Matignon, Paris.

When I got up yesterday snow was falling thickly. naturally the snow turned to rain. The chances are ten to one that in a large city the snow will degenerate into rain. I took a young lady friend to lunch at the Tour d'Argent. Of course tradition compelled me to order duck, and of course the waiter gave me a slip with the ordinal number of the duck which was served to us. This piece of ritual seems to be fixed forever in the proceedings of this ancient, good and expensive restaurant. We were the only foreigners in the place. I threw my slip on the floor. The next moment the waiter picked it up and gave it to me again. Out of regard for his emotional loyalty to the restaurant I put it in my pocket.

The Tour d'Argent restaurant claims that it was founded in 1582 and frequented by Henri IV; it does not however offer any documentation for these or other claims about its history. The Quai de Tournelle, where it stands, was not paved until 1650; before that it was "a slope, often flooded and almost always made inaccessible by mud". It does not appear in a list from 1824 of "The principal restaurants, who are distinguished by the elegance of the decoration of their salons and by the number and the care taken with the dishes found there... Duck, especially the pressed duck, is the specialty (Canard à la presse, Caneton à la presse, Caneton Tour d'Argent). The restaurant raises its ducks on its own farm. Diners who order the duck receive a postcard with the bird's serial number, now well over 1 million. The restaurant's wine cellar, guarded around the clock, contains more than 450,000 bottles whose value was estimated in 2009 at 25 million euros (£22.5 million). Some 15,000 wines are offered to diners on a 400-page list. The dining room has an excellent view of the river Seine and Notre Dame.

After the usual trouble over taxis on a wet day in Paris we drove to Notre Dame. The damp cold in the huge and gloomy interior was intense. Hundreds of girls in thin white or half-white sat or stood shivering, waiting for something or other to begin. The mere spectacle of them made me turn up the collar of my overcoat. We went out full of fatal germs.

Later, in search of galoshes, we went up the hill to the Avenue de Clichy, where, at a certain famous restaurant, I had frequently eaten the glorious dish at which Anglo-Saxons turn up their noses: tripe. The Avenue de Clichy was as open as on a week-day. We entered a large busy shop containing millions of pairs of shoes. The first thing we saw was a range of satin shoes. "Oh!" said my friend. "I like the look of those, and how cheap they are! I couldn't get those in London ...." She bought a pair of satin shoes in something less than half an hour. She was about to leave the shop when I said: "Galoshes?" She thought she might as well get a pair, and did get a pair. The entire business did not take more than an hour!

Time for tea. We paid a call, on the chance of a free tea. The hostess was ill in bed. Still, we got a free tea and lots of talk. I then severed myself from mankind and went to my hotel and to bed. I dined later with other friends at that notorious establishment "The Ox on the Roof", where the excessive stridency of the orchestra lifts all conversation to a shout. Thence to a cinema to see "White Shadows", presented by the great French film firm, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer! At 11.20 the show finished. Outside, wind and rain, but not a taxi. I walked to my hotel in the wind and the rain. End of a Paris Sunday.

Le Boeuf sur le Toit (The Ox on the Roof) is the name of a celebrated Parisian cabaret-bar, founded in 1921 by Louis Moysés which was originally located at 28, rue Boissy d'Anglas in the 8th arrondissement of Paris. It was notably the gathering place for the avant garde arts scene during the period between the wars.

White Shadows in the South Seas (1928) is a silent film adventure romance produced by Cosmopolitan Productions in association with MGM and distributed by MGM. The movie was directed by W.S. Van Dyke and starred Monte Blue and Raquel Torres. Based on the novel of the same name by Frederick O'Brien, the film is known for being the first MGM picture to be released with a pre-recordedsoundtrack and having won an Academy Award for Best Cinematography for Clyde De Vinna.