Saturday I took a Buzz Off Day. Sometimes you just need to tell everyone, particularly those you love and look after the most, to buzz off. It really isn’t as mean-spirited as it sounds. It is an honest response to finding your tank running on empty. A Buzz Off Day allows you to recharge so that you don’t transmogrify into Baby Jane.
How did I spend my Buzz Off Day? Mostly roaming Paris looking for a chandelier. To be honest, I doubted I would find the kind of chandelier I had in mind very easily. It had to be delicate, on the simple side with crystal pampilles (pronounced pam pee for the non-francophones).
I quite like the baby blue pampille on this one.
The chandelier search worked, in fact, more fruitfully as an alibi than as a goal. If I returned home with empty hands, I would not despair, but if my perambulations failed to help me unwind, if they, on the contrary, added to the accumulation of stresses, even a chandelier with a fantasia of pearly purple pampilles would do me little good. “Oh hang it!” I would then say upon return. And ten months later, my husband might just help me do that.
I set off in high spirits, undaunted by the forty-five minute RER + tramway trip to the flea market at the Porte de Vanves. I’ve always found this particular antique market more amenable to the amateur than Clingnancourt’s sprawling expanse of market stands and shops. For some Vanves may be too small, but for me the dose is about right. I got there by nine, before the crowds. The vendors seemed to be either hastily setting up or already on coffee break catered by a woman in thick woolies pushing a cart of coffee and tea thermoses; she also had homemade cakes — the traditional quatre-quarts (a cake of quarters: weigh four eggs, then add their weight of butter, flour, and sugar – mix and voilà) and another with apples and chocolate swirls. I must have spent an hour or so in the market. It was enjoyable; nobody rushed me and I didn’t have to tell anyone to buzz off. But no pretty pampilles in sight.
I decided to head back into town as I had a hazy recollection of a furniture store with lighting fixtures on the rue Jacob near Saint Germain des Près. Coming up the stairs out of the metro station, I passed a pretty young woman, a Germanopratine judging from her chic apparel, bawling and shrieking into an iphone. From what I could make of it, she was having a lovers’ quarrel. Oh my poor dear, I wanted to say to her. You’re feeling far too much anguish for a Saturday morning. But it’s all in your power to turn things around. Just tell him to buzz off.
I went then straight to the Eglise de Saint Germain des Près and lit a votive candle to my homegirl, the V. Marie. “Chère Marie,” I prayed, “please help that darling Germanopratine get her gumption up.” And I put in some other requests too, the nature of which shall remain between Marie and me.
Continuing toward the Place von Furstenberg I got a bit preoccupied by the Pierre Frey fabrics, particularly one with a pampille design. Then I discovered the store I had in mind had moved to the Marais. Then I realized I was hungry.
I pointed myself in the direction of rue de Bucci and walked straight into L’Atlas Brasserie. I had only been there once but their onglet aux échalotes had left an impression on me. This tender, prime cut of beef came capped with caramelized shallots and a heap of thick-cut French fries. As it was merely twelve and I was the first diner, the waiter graciously let me have my pick of the tables. I chose a table-for-two in the corner banquette, facing the street.
“Ah Madame, vous avez choisi la meilleure table! Tout le monde veut cette table.”
“C’est normal,” I replied. “Cette table est vraiment parfaite.”
View from the perfect table only it was light out, not dark like this photo.
The waiter handed me the menu but I just as quickly handed it back.
“Je prendrai un onglet aux échalotes, SVP.” (I will have the steak with shallots, please.)
“Madame ne souhaiterait pas un plateau de fruit de mer plutôt?” (but wouldn’t Madame rather have a platter of sea fruits?)
“Non merci, Monsieur. Et un verre de vin rouge…” (No thank you, Sir. And a glass of red wine…)
“Bordeaux, Côte du Rhone, Chinon…?”
“Chinon,” I said, then worried a bit because you just never know these days if bistros will serve decent wine by the glass.
But I was in luck; the wine and meal were perfect, like the table, and at my beck and call were by two darling waiters, Guillaume and Fabien, who flirted with charming discretion, in the Gallic manner. They, too, were perfect and right out of one of those books about Paris that New Yorkers are just devouring. You know, like that one called Remedy…
On the wall above the seat where my lunch guest would be seated if I had had one was a photo of former President Jacques Chirac looking characteristically bon enfant posing with the Atlas’ owner and cooks. Had Jacques dropped by for a plate of veal head? Before being sentenced to two years in prison avec sursis for stealing our tax money? I asked my husband about the “sursis’ bit: this means he will only have to serve the two years if he is convicted of yet another crime. In all likelihood he’ll continue to feast on the fatted calf for quite a few more years.
I lifted my glass to France’s favourite crook– “Here’s to veal head.” Though I must admit my heart wasn’t in it.
Fabien brought me an express and then it was time to go. Onward to the Marais where I must have spent another hour or two inspecting pampilles possibilities. In the end I decided to walk back home – a good forty-minute jaunt – up to République, then down the Canal Saint Martin, crossing Stalingrad to the Canal de l’Ourcq. On the way I dropped by my favourite florist Bleuet et Coquelicot (http://www.bleuetcoquelicot.info/) on the rue Grange aux Belles and picked up some dramatic willow sprigs, just starting to sprout.
Back home, no sign of my son and husband. The day was still mine. I drew a bath and poured in a pack of special Epson and sea salts my sister Mary gave me last Christmas. Buzz Off Citrus Basil Bath Salts. Here are the instructions as written on the back:
“OMG… don’t make me repeat myself… I said it and I mean it! BUZZ OFF!!!!!! Fill your tub with warm water, add these salts and wait, I had something else to tell you, oh, I remember now, BUZZ OFF!”
If you, dear reader, feel the need to take a B.O. day, please do so, without hesitation. And don’t forget the bath salts.