Summer is around the corner and we are about to say goodbye to the chill of Winter and Spring. Here is one last ode to chilly days, tea and beer.
What is it about a French cafe that brings to mind feelings of spring day, love in the air and delicious beverages and food? As Americans we see the cafe as a quaint location cozily sandwiched beneath and between old city buildings. Small round tables dressed in white table cloths strategically placed on the sidewalk to garner the best views of the Parisian street spectacle. But the true Parisienne cafe takes many forms; from a quiet place to relieve the stress of the day and drink a beer, to a meeting place for neighbors to have a bite or un cafe, a miniature cup of coffee with the strength of a full size American cup of coffee.
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This was my idea of the French cafe until one very cold winter I found myself in the streets of Paris that were almost completely snowed under. I was out walking with my chosen one. My destiny and I were moving with purpose. Underneath all the layers of clothes, my muscles were warm and toned and I was sweating into my underlayer of a t-shirt. It was a foray into distraction that was also a good way to relieve stress and get more exercise to keep in shape for my nightly show. I was working as a dancer in a cabaret six nights a week, with two shows a night and walking was a good way to stay limber.The sidewalks were coated with a layer of frost and a slim path peeked through the high banks of snow. The air was icy and snowflakes swirled about my head festooned with furry ear muffs and knit cap, my neck swathed in a thick scarf. Only my face was visible.
The streets were quiet and few ventured outside. Cars were garaged for the days as the streets were impassable. The streets of our quarter had not been cleared. It was the weekend and everyone sat cozily inside. If we were in London I would say the people were drinking tea and watching the tele. But France was different. The French didn’t seem to sit much. They seemed to like to be out and socializing, but not on this day so I was stumped.
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After trudging along for sometime, the best part was at hand. It was time to nestle into a warm cafe; with something refreshing for my companion and something warming for me. The cafe was large and mostly empty, with the bar at the back. My partner went to the bar to order a beer and the waiter took my order of tea and a biscuit. The ceilings in the cafe were high and the whole interior was in shades of a warm honey and brown. The windows to the street were large and let in ample light near the front of the interior which became darker as one moved further into the space. We sat along a wall on a bench that was the length of the wall about 30 to 40 feet long. The bench was a cool maple leather. It was not so cozy, but it was a place to rest. My partner came back and waited for his beer. I didn’t see how a beer could be warming on this freezing day and it perplexed me. Soon the waiter arrived with beer and tea. We sat silent and drank. I ate my cookie feeling guilty, knowing that I would heavier and harder to lift when we went to work that night.
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He didn’t say anything. He drank and his skin began to blush and turn bright pink and his blue eyes sparkled and came alive as the beer hit his circulation, he relaxed and the blood flowed. He launched into the history of the Belgian beer he had chose and why it was the best. I listened attentively and dutifully and tried to absorb the details of beer making and the countries of origin. I learned that Belgian brewers made beer that was on the dry side and spicy. There were over 500 different types of Belgian beer. Different beers were served for various occasions and different glasses and syrups and flavorings could be added. To try and know the beers of Belgium, was a journey into the Belge psyche. The waiter eventually drifted over to our table and began to expound on what seemed a serious topic. Their voices were deep and serious as they conversed in French about things that were important to men on an icy winter day. I spoke some French, but not enough to really understand what was being discussed. Later on I would find out it was to do with the competition between the beers of France and Belgium and then later morphed into a discourse on bar fights.
We sat for hours and the wintery day played out it’s icy performance. As the tea and biscuit warmed my soul, I relaxed. The conversation that swirled around me was a comfort against the cold. Eventually, as our bodies warmed, we took off our hats, earmuffs, scarves and coats to reveal sweaters and wooly pants underneath. Nary a soul passed that window that afternoon. It was just us and the waiter on that white frost-bound day.