VACATION MEMORIES : Over the Moon About One Paris Cafe’s ‘A’ List

The Hotel Charlemagne at 1 Rue Charcot was not exactly a world-class hostelry. Nor was the Cafe De Longchamp, just across the street, ever likely to appear among the Guide Michelin recommendations for Neuilly-sur-Seine, a suburb of Paris.

Neuilly is to the French capital what Beverly Hills is to Los Angeles, an enclave of the very wealthy. But it also has a small working-class district near the Pont de Neuilly Metro station.

That’s where we found ourselves in July, 1969--long on enthusiasm and short on money. Our “economy package” gave us three weeks to explore Paris, and it was our intent to hold the cost of non-essentials, such as sleep and food, to a minimum.

The price at the Charlemagne was right--$19 a night for both of us, with private bath and continental breakfast. Nor was the menu at the Cafe De Longchamp much of a drain on our scant resources.

The tab for two for a hearty, if not gourmet, three-course dinner and a half-liter of vin ordinaire was never more than $8.

Our delight in finding the cafe was almost offset, however, by the dour manner of la patronne, a Madame Brunet, and of her menacing German shepherd, Duc, who always lay athwart the entrance, growling at strangers.

But once safely inside, it was a scene straight out of Irma La Douce. On most evenings, prostitutes would drop in for a drink before walking their beat--and, more often than not, would be chatting with police officers on the way home from walking their beats.

Even the stern Madame Brunet, pouring Ricard behind the copper bar, with its omnipresent vase of gladiolus, was respectful of the prostitutes and had a handshake for them as she did for all the regulars.

The oldest customer, who came every night and who had to be at least in his 90s, was barely able to maneuver himself through the doorway and over the prostrate German shepherd. But the two waitresses--on the far side of 50 themselves--always sped to his rescue, relieving him of his cane, taking his coat and hat and guiding him to his table.

His wine would be waiting and he would reach for it with a trembling hand. After one sip, the pallor would start to leave his face and his eyes would gleam.

When his food came and the waitresses had cut the meat into small bits for him, he would attack it, sans dentures, but with a bon appetit. From time to time, a waitress would come by the table to wipe the drippings from his chin with his cloth napkin.

It was the napkins that made us aware, very quickly, that we were second-class citizens at the Cafe De Longchamp. Although every other table had cloth napkins in a wooden ring waiting for the regulars, Madame Brunet had apparently issued orders that the American couple was to have only paper serviettes . . . and skimpy ones at that.

One evening, a man eating alone at the next table heard us grumbling over the establishment’s arrant anti-Americanism, and spoke to us in French.

“Excuse me,” he said, “you are receiving the same treatment as all the rest of us. You will receive your cloth napkin only after Madame Brunet decides that she likes you and wants you to come here regularly.”

Our fellow diner, with whom we spent much time during the balance of our stay, had the unlikely name of Serge Paris, and was a night watchman in the factory district across the Seine from Neuilly. He was also a student of American comedians of an earlier time and gave masterful imitations of Charlie Chaplin, Stan Laurel and Buster Keaton. A jaunty sprite of a man, Serge became our unpaid guide to “his” Paris.

When there were only three days left of our stay in Paris, we had given up hope that we would ever find ourselves in Madame Brunet’s good graces. But we were wrong--thanks to two Americans, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, who had set foot on the moon at 3 a.m. Paris time, that day.

Of all nationalities, none has greater admiration for technological achievement or human daring than the French. Most Parisians, and certainly everyone in our hotel, spent the night watching the moon walk on television. All over the city, the lights were still blazing at dawn.

The next day, strangers came up to us on the street--why is it that Europeans can always spot Americans at a glance?--and shook our hands or threw their arms around us. “Formidable! Formidable!”

And that evening, on entering the Cafe De Longchamp, Duc gave us an almost imperceptible wag of the tail, and Madame Brunet actually broke into a smile and came from behind the bar to greet us. “Fantastique! Incroyable!”

And there, waiting for us at our table, were two pristine white napkins in wooden rings.

What we didn’t know, however, is that we and all other patrons, sauce stains or no, had to use the cloth napkin for a full week.

The paper serviette, at least, came fresh daily.

But that took nothing away from our pride in finally having made the “A” List at the Cafe De Longchamp.