Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,88

himself into the adventure, gleefully seeking out bargains everywhere we went. He discovered that entrance fees were waived if we waited to visit museums late in the day. He found free concerts in small churches and free food samples in department stores. And now every ride on the metro was another opportunity to meet strangers.

I kept wishing Michael was with me—he’d never seen this side of Paris—and I longed to share it with Nick. Bill missed his family too; each time he came upon some quaint architectural detail, he lamented that his partner wasn’t there to see it. But we also understood that in some strange way we’d each found the perfect companion for this particular adventure. We’d both traveled light when we were young, and relearning how to live on very little was like flexing old, underused muscles.

Bill, more outgoing than I, had no qualms about stopping people on the street to ask for advice. Everyone was eager to tell us about a great shop, to point out a painting in the parish church, or to lead us to a local wine shop where generous tastes were poured. And every Frenchman had a secret restaurant we simply should not miss. We were rarely disappointed.

Our only failure was hotels. We slept all over the city, moving every night, but the cheap hotels were pretty awful. I’d been happy with my first hotel, but when Bill insisted on staying there himself one night, he was disappointed. “Gourmet readers,” he said, “require more charm.”

We did, finally, find one great bargain. The Hôtel des Grandes Écoles was so charming and so cheap it was complet—every room reserved for the foreseeable future. When I managed to snag a last-minute cancellation, Sertl was overjoyed. Mission accomplished. For me it was something else.

“The room was lovely,” I conceded the next morning as we meandered along the Seine, “but I wish you’d been the one who stayed there. You would have appreciated all the amenities, and I realized I just don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, a swell room means you end up spending too much time there, and I’d rather be out in the streets.”

But Sertl wasn’t listening. He had stopped before an ornately gilded window, and his nose was pressed against the thick leaded glass.

“We can’t eat here!” I protested. “It’s way beyond our means. This is the oldest restaurant in Paris.”

“I know it is.” He pointed to the menu tacked next to the window. “But they have a thirty-five-euro lunch special—and it includes wine. I’ve always longed to see the inside of Lapérouse. Haven’t you?”

He had me there. The restaurant has been in the same place since 1766, and through all those years it has remained unchanged. Of course I wanted to see the inside. “But…” I was hesitant. “The food’s going to be dreadful. When I first came to Paris, Lapérouse had three Michelin stars, and over the years they’ve lost every one.”

Sertl, however, was already inside the door.

The maître d’ did not betray by the flicker of an eyelash that we were not dressed for such a formal establishment. “Une de nos salles privées, peut-être?” he murmured, leading us up a narrow set of stairs into one of the restaurant’s famous private rooms.

Charmingly antique and extremely intimate, the small chamber was clearly intended for trysts. I sank onto the velvet sofa that lounged along one wall, staring up at an antique chandelier. Behind me an old mirror reflected the Seine, filling the room with shifting watery light. “I read somewhere”—Sertl was touching the scarred old mirror—“that the courtesans used to test the quality of the diamonds their patrons gave them by running them across the surface of the glass.”

I was just reaching up to feel the mirror when a waiter appeared. I quickly snatched my hand away. “Is this a special occasion?” he asked. “An anniversary perhaps?”

“Indeed,” Bill replied without a moment of hesitation. When the waiter inquired how many years of wedded bliss we had enjoyed, Bill shamelessly replied, “Thirty.”

“Trente ans!” The waiter refilled our glasses. And refilled them again. And again.

Mushroom bisque arrived in a porcelain dish; in the center, an island of foie gras slowly melted into a sensuous puddle. Veal came surrounded by a garland of interwoven vegetables as delicate as a filigree necklace; tiny gnocchi were scattered through it like little pearls. “But this food is wonderful!” I cried. It was the last thing I’d expected.

Hours later, as the meal rolled to a