No. 10 “Saint Sulpice”
We never go to Paris without seeing Place Saint Sulpice. It’s a square in the sixth arrondissement, just a few blocks from the Jardin du Luxembourg. The square, of course like most places in Paris, is named after its church. The Church of Saint Sulpice, it should be noted, is second in size, out of all the churches in Paris, only to Notre Dame. But alas, you only have to casually examine it's rather unfortunate facade to see why being the second largest church in Paris is it’s only accolade.
I first stumbled upon that little square in the summer of 1999 when I was studying abroad my junior year of college. To be 21, with your two best friends, and in Paris without a map, is a glorious thing. Dustin, Dalia and I spent spent a balmy afternoon drinking beers and eating baguettes at Cafe de la Mairie, the one cafe on the square, in the shadow of the Saint Sulpice’s towers.
But then, twenty years prior to our lovely afternoon, in the mid 1980’s, when my husband was studying abroad - at the Sorbonne, no less - he lived at the ever so fashionable address of No. 1, Place Saint Sulpice, which is tucked into a corner of the square adjacent to the church, across Rue Palatine.
His only responsibility was to take care of the family’s 12 year old son, which shows you how much the French care for their children - parents leave the city for their country house, a month at a time, while their pubescent son is left in the care of an unsuspecting American teenager. They were lucky it was my husband, whose conscience, and housekeeping skills, are ironclad.
On nights in the winter when the weather was too bad to go out, he and the boy would play French Trivial Pursuit, and my husband would roundly slaughter him. In our twenty years of marriage, it’s been fun to see the French prickle when he corrects them on their medieval history.
The best part, he told me, was every morning at 7:00AM. The bells of Saint Sulpice would begin to ring. They would ring three times, three times, pausing briefly in between each set of three. Then, there would be a pause, a gentle fermata, like a cat stealthily crouching before he pounces. And then a huge cacophony would set forth - a thrilling, mounting, chaotic craziness of bells. And it wasn’t just at Saint Sulpice, it was at every church that had a bell tower in all of Paris. You could hear them echo, calling to one another, an utter ecstasy of noise, a great breaking loose - though it was not hell.
This time he walked me to the window where is bedroom was. It was just another window with white shutters, only at the corner. I just imagined him there, so much younger than he is now, a little Francophile from Richmond, Virginia, living the childhood dream of a year in Paris.
We were standing at the corner of Rue Palatine and Rue Servandoni, about at the church’s transept, when I remarked on the latter street’s name. “Servandoni,” I said, “that’s Italian, isn’t it?”
Servandoni, he told me, was the name of the architect of Saint Sulpice. He didn’t know what was with the Italian name, but he did know that the reason why the towers were not finished. Apparently there was an architecture critic who was quite severe, and panned Servandoni’s design. Servandoni was so distraught that he committed suicide by throwing himself from one of the towers. They left the church unfinished in a memorial to him.
How wonderfully dramatic, I thought. I mean, wasn’t there once a chef who lost his Michelin star and comitted suicide? And he was French, and from a place where these things are taken so seriously. Why not an architect? What a great story.
If only it were true.
***
We walked around the church, back to the main square. There was a Saint Laurent boutique, and Lululemon. Before, he told me, in the 80’s, those were little religious shops that sold icons of the Virgin Mary and the saints, rosaries and other Catholic paraphernalia. I guessed the rise of secularism hadn’t just been in the US.
And, what used to be the bakery, is now The Kooples, a fast casual clothier - sort of like a more stylish, upscale French Gap with outlets all over Europe. The word is that none of the young people care to have a baker’s life, having to get up at three in the morning to proof their bread. And that is not to mention the perpetually plummeting price of a baguette, due to the fact that prices are fixed for bread, all the bakers have switched to pastries, where they can charge as much as they want. That is not to mention the ubiquity of Monoprix - the French Safeway - and their frozen alternatives.
He then pointed out Catherine Deneuve’s apartment, in an classic Hausmann style building on the Rue Bonaparte. Catherine Deneuve being the doyenne of French film in the 1960’s, and in 1985, when my husband was there, her face was used for “Marianne” the embodiment of the French State that graced the postage stamps at the time. Incidentally, the tradition of facing “Marianne” with a living women started in 1969 with Brigitte Bardot.
We then walked down Rue des Cannettes, where there were lots of little places to eat. I decided that for this trip, when we would be out walking during the day, and I would find a place that looked good, we would come back and eat there that evening. This one place was just one room, a hallway really with tables lining either side. It had a beautiful white facade and tea candles in the windows and on the tables. It was called Boucherie Roulière, which translates to “The Butcher Shop.” A chalkboard sign next to the door said, in the classic French script - most likely France is the only country in the world that still teaches handwriting - agneau braisé de sept heures, lamb braised for seven hours. Oh yes, that is what I would have.
***
When we got back to La Boucherie Rouliere, at around 8:30PM, it was packed, all except one table. Clearly they were waiting for us.
The host met us at the door and brought us to the table. He was youngish, maybe in his thirties. Dark brown curly hair, swarthy with a bit of black stubble and thin, but not slight. He wore a red apron around his waist.
The tables were so close together that he had to pull it out for me so that I could sit at the banquette. It felt like everyone in the restaurant was sitting together. Our roving eyes glossed over the plates of those next to us and made us ask one another, “oh, what is that?” “That looks so good!”
The menu was in French. My husband translated for me. It was nothing fancy. Though I already knew what I wanted.
I realized that there were only two people running the restaurant, which was amazing. One guy in the kitchen, which was open at the back, and one guy that functioned as host, waiter, server and busboy. I thought that in a place like this in America, there would be three times the staff.
The waiter brought us water - no ice, in tall glasses - and bread with butter. The bread was not the quality that I had that morning for breakfast at the Crillon. It was chewy, not crusty. But I was done with that pretense.
It was dusk outside and there was a warm breeze that came into the restaurant through the huge open windows that faced the street. The street outside was busy with lots of people and no cars. I just settled in to enjoy the fading sunlight against the red walls, and the flicker of the tea candle on the table.
The swarthy curly haired waiter came by to take our order. He did not speak English. In French, my husband ordered the agneau braisè for me, and for him the roasted chicken. To start, it was French onion soup.
The wine list was conservative, small, unassuming. There was Burgundy and Bordeaux, and some Rhone. Nothing too expensive. We settled on a 2014 Gevrey-Chambertin, pinot noir from Burgundy, which, we figured, conservatively would be absolutely delicious with the lamb and chicken, and generously, would be sublime.
As we sat there, we realized that most people in the restaurant were speaking English. The couple to my right had British accents, the couple to my left were American. One of the Brits had a bowl full of a French obsession - mussels - something I find disgusting. The other had a steak with what looked like caramelized onions and root vegetables. Their eyes seemed glossy with contentment.
We struck up a conversation with the Americans. They were from Michigan. He worked for a consulting firm that specializes in Employee Assistance Programs - which are companies to whom other companies outsource the depression the employees suffer which is caused by their jobs. He was here for a conference - quite the coup he told me. His wife was an elementary school teacher. The children, two and five, were back home with her parents. They were only here for the weekend. When they asked us what we were doing here, we told them about the Grand Bal Masque at Versailles. Their envy was palpable.
The French onion soup came. It was the platonic ideal of French onion soup. Julia Child would’ve swooned. It was piping hot, and there was so much gruyere cheese on the top that it melted over the sides of the bowl. There was a toasted slice of baguette engrossed in the cheese.
We didn’t have the wine yet, which is a huge faux pas. They should never bring your food before the wine, because wine is intrinsic to the meal. What do they expect you to do? Wait while your food gets cold? But it was only him, we thought, give him a break.
He brought the wine, and did that ceremony they do in France, regardless of the caliber of the restaurant. My husband tasted it, and it was corked, which is why you taste it in the first place. The curly haired swarthy guy winced. We winced too because we knew he would have to go down to the cellar to get another bottle, and he had a whole restaurant to wait on. But you gotta do what you gotta do.
He brought up the second bottle, poured it, and it was deemed drinkable, but I could see a faint smile on my husband’s face, hinting at maybe we have a thing of beauty on our hands.
I dipped my spoon through the cheese. It was gooey and thick. I tried to at least get some of the soup on my spoon, but ended up with just the cheese with a hint of rich onion. There was a bit of crunch from the baguette, which is so satisfying. With the wine, it was superb.
This, I thought, yes, this, is France. A pairing of wine and food that no other place in the world has created, or will ever create. This dish is hundreds of years old, and just as good, maybe even better, here at The Butchery Shop, than at any place with a Michelin star. We all look to France for this, and it is what France has given the world.
Once the French onion soup was, not exactly devoured, but savored to the point of total consumption, my lamb and his chicken came. His was a half chicken - breast, thigh, drumstick and wing. The skin was golden and flecked with herbs. It was served, simply with boiled red potatoes.
My lamb, the agneau braisé sept heure, came in a big bowl. It was a lamb shank, the ball of the joint centered on the plate, nested in a bed of potatoes mousseline - very refined mashed potatoes - braising jus, mushrooms and carmelized onions. I shivered. Is this really happening? Am I about to eat the best lamb of my entire life? You could smell how for seven hours, all the ingredients had melded into one thick odor. It was heady, rich, tantalizing. I poured myself some more wine.
That is when I noticed something about the label. It was scratched. I picked the bottle up and could barely make out the vintage. I held it up to the candle and confirmed my suspicion. This was not the 2014 Gevrey-Chambertin. It was the 2004 Gevrey-Chambertin, which should fetch a much higher price.
What does one do in this situation? Flag down the incredibly busy waiter in the prime of his night to let him know there was a mistake on the wine list? Make a fuss?
I looked at him across the table. My husband said, “I think he knows and just doesn’t care.”
And so we relaxed. We finished the meal, paid the bill and walked out into the balmy night. The street had quieted down some, but people were still out.
“How far away are we from the hotel?” I asked.
“About half an hour,” he said.
“Lets walk,” I said.
And we did.