Some evenings are perfect.
When Benjamin and I stepped into Rosebud for our last dinner in Paris, we knew instantly that we were going to have a lovely night.
First, I should provide a little back story…
Rosebud does not have a web site. We learned about it because our landlords here in the States loved it and suggested that we go. Arnaud and Corinne know us well, and we trusted their advice. We were very excited to see a little of their Paris.
When the concierge at our hotel asked if she could make dinner reservations for us, and we answered that we wanted to dine at Rosebud, she paused. She had never heard of it. Maybe she was accustomed to tourists requesting nearby places. Maybe because we were from the States, she thought we’d want a more touristy place, more English, less French. Maybe because she was young, she knew most of the hip, new restaurants, less about the established, historical ones. She was sweet and bubbly, and throughout our stay, she did her job well, selling Paris to us as a city buzzing with energy.
But we wanted a quiet place. Arnaud and Corinne knew Rosebud to be such a place, so did we when we walked in that night, and so did novelist, Alexander Maksik, when he first visited. To quote him, we were all seeking “a place of permanence, of ritual, of detail… and [we] liked the look of it, the lamp, the blue velvet curtains, the quiet hum of conversation. The light [was] low. A photo of a young Marguerite Duras [hung] discreetly behind the bar, which [ran] the length of the room, a stack of jazz records at one end. The wood [shone] under years and years of lacquer.”
Rosebud was beautiful.
A distinguished gentleman wearing a white jacket and black tie greeted us warmly, first in French, then, seeing our apologetic expressions, in friendly English. He showed us to our table and asked if we wanted a pre-dinner drink. Of course we did. When Benjamin tried to order a framboise, our host shook his head. “No, no sir, you do not want this before dinner. After perhaps, yes, but before, no.” We both smiled. This was a man who knew the business of food and drink. So Benjamin asked, “What do you recommend?” Music to Benjamin’s ears, he responded, “Perhaps a bourbon side car?” I ordered one of my usuals, a vodka tonic, and to my relief, our maître d’hôtel approved.
The pacing of the service at Rosebud was perfect.
But another necessary side bar…
Along with the bright lights and obnoxiously loud music of too many restaurants here in the States, one of the things I can not re-adjust to about this “culture” is the constant questioning, the menus-in-your-faces-hurry-and-order mentality. “How are we doing here? Can I get you more bread? Would you like to hear the specials? Some dessert tonight?” Oy! I waited tables, so I know the up-sell training drill. But after dining, really dining in Europe, I feel like waiters here are pests. I am not proud of this statement. It feels like betrayal to my former co-workers.
It’s just that being left alone to sip and talk for a moment (or fifteen whole moments) is nice. This gives you a chance to absorb the atmosphere. At Rosebud, we were treated not only to the luscious sounds of quietly spoken French but to Chet Baker. Ahh… now this whets the appetite. After the appropriate acclimation, our waiter returned with the menus, and we ordered what he recommended. The menus were gracefully whisked away and we were left alone again to listen, chat, and view the other patrons.
We were the only English-speaking people in the restaurant. Regulars strolled in to be greeted with hugs and kisses. Their drinks were in front of them as quickly as they could nod to the bartender. One woman, dining alone, sipped a red wine and read her book. A couple came in holding motorcycle helmets. The waiter scooped up the helmets and tucked them on a shelf behind what had to be the riders’ customary bar stools. Another very young couple kissed between sips of their cocktails. When I say they kissed, I mean they were ‘making out’ unashamedly, or ‘necking’ I think, perhaps as only Parisians couples can. Honestly, everyone seemed perfectly at home in Rosebud, perfectly Romantic. If I lived in Paris, oh if I lived in Paris, I would aspire to have my signature drink here. I would write here.
Once again, an informative anecdote…
I learned from reading Maksik’s article that several artists lived on rue Delambre–namely Man Ray, André Breton, Paul Gauguin, Sartre, and Henry Miller. Hemmingway and Fitzgerald also met on this street. I knew those spirits lingered! I could feel them watching us in Rosebud.
Our food was fantastic and traditionally French–steak, frites, salad, truffles, and of course, a chocolate soufflé for dessert.
We did not want to leave, not Rosebud, and not Paris. But this was a fitting farewell. We complimented and thanked both the waiter and the bartender profusely. To our delight, they invited us to return the next time we were in Paris. And there will definitely be a next time.
