There are so many restaurants
and cafes in Paris. I know people who read various magazines and guides to
deduce the best places to eat and drink while staying in the City of Lights,
and I have benefited often from their research. Inevitably, the highly rated
establishment are chock full of tourists clamoring to try the best of Parisian
culinary cuisine. But for me, I am struck by the sheer volume of cafes,
restaurants, and bars in the city. There are so many that how they manage to be
viable is mysterious. Each arrondissement has its own set of little places,
often wedged into a confined place, or hidden down a winding passage. Some
cafes are more expensive than others, but each offers a different experience.
It is difficult to walk through
Paris and not think about George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London.
His description of Paris of the 1920s not only give us an insight to the Paris
that he found fascinating, but also about crushing poverty and deprivation. Intermixed
with the fascinating stories of individuals and circumstances, the book explains
why poverty and deprivation rob people of the identification and dignity.
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| A late spring evening in Paris |
At first, this seems to set up a
depressing narrative, and to be sure, there are depressing and horrifying
incidents recounted in the book. Yet, Orwell’s account of a local cafe on
a Saturday evening, when people gather for friendship and fun, continues
to be repeated across the city today. The cafes in the 11th Arrondissement are
a place of conversation and conviviality. Of course, there is
overindulgence by some, but it is generally good natured.
Many people in developed parts
of the world today will have started their working careers in the service sector,
as a server, bartender, or kitchen help often. Orwell survived in Paris as
working as a plongeur (dishwasher) in a famous hotel that catered to
American tourists. Later, he moved to a newly opened restaurant that attracted
a certain clientele. The key to a successful Parisian restaurant, according to
Orwell, was “very sharp table knives” to easily cut through tough meat and give
the illusion that the meat was high quality. He noted that understanding this
destroyed his illusion that the French were appreciative of great food. Yet,
today, Paris and France are generally known for the perpetuation of an
excellent cuisine. I sometimes wonder if the excitement of travel, our
belief that the food must be good, that we become inattentive to the actual
quality.
The narrator takes up with the
Irishman Paddy when he makes his way to London. Paddy habitually scans the sidewalks
for discarded cigarette butts with trace amounts of tobacco. He gathers tobacco
together to fashion his own cigarettes for consumption. Orwell often laments
the lack of tobacco in his life when he is desperately poor. Smoking, while
still common in Europe, has declined dramatically since the 1920s. Yet, while
walking early one morning on Rue du Faubourg du Temple, I observed a similar
practice. It was very early in the morning of Ascension Thursday, a national
holiday in many European countries. Morning revelers continued their party at
half past eight in the morning; I watched a group of young people order another
round of beers at an hour when most people would normally be fight traffic on
the way to work. An older man was scanning window ledges and posts for discarded
cups to see if any had any remaining beer. He would pick up the discarded beer,
and after a brief inspection, would marry the newly discovered cup with his
own. He celebrated by taking a bug swig of the newly created concoction for
himself.
Towards the end of his stay in
Paris, the narrator was working so many hours, and was so broke, that he slept
on a park bench rather than spending money on a Metro ticket and facing his
landlord without his rent. While we think that life has gotten better, societies
are still confronted with the reality of poverty and mental health remain
problems today. During my walk in the Place de la République and surrounding
area one morning, I saw a person sleeping on a bench, their sleeping bag
completely concealing their body and using a canvas grocery tote as a
pillow. I thought of Orwell doing the same, perhaps just a few kilometers
away, some ninety years ago.
