On the Road is a weekday feature spotlighting reader photo submissions.
From the exotic to the familiar, whether you’re traveling or in your own backyard, we would love to see the world through your eyes.
Steve from Mendocino
On my first day back in France, I arrived alone for some reason. I suspect Anne-Marie hadn’t yet finished the school year, or alternatively, she’d arrived before me. I forget. I came with my luggage to the restaurant owned and operated by her aunt and uncle, who concocted a joke for Anne-Marie’s sister. The restaurant was full at lunch as usual, and they put me alone at a table for two. When Monique arrived for her usual weekday lunch at the restaurant, they sat her with me on the pretext that they needed the other tables for service. Monique knew of my scheduled arrival and asked me at one point during the meal whether I was “Steve.” I denied it, and we all had a good chuckle later at Monique’s expense.
Anne-Marie and I stayed for a week in a spare bedroom in the apartment over the restaurant. It sat on a side street off l’Avenue de l’Opera, opposite a premium horse butcher shop and a few doors down from a fire department. Trash collection was loud and took place every weekday at 5:00 a.m. right outside our second story window. Not something I was used to. The bar opened every day at 6:00 am and workers came in for coffee, not infrequently accompanied by a shot or a glass of wine. The work day for Anne-Marie’s aunt and uncle began at 5:00 a.m. and ended at 11:00 p.m. Saturdays were slower and more relaxed for them, and Sundays were for cleaning. The restaurant closed every year for the month of August.
The food was a reasonably high level of Dijonais and Lyonais cuisine. The menu changed daily and included half a dozen main courses. Andre, chef and half owner, produced 60 full meals every weekday lunch and about half that for dinner, with nobody helping him in the kitchen. His wife ran the bar and handled the front end with the help of a server. Every Sunday she took down every bottle behind the bar and dusted it, as well as scrubbing all surfaces and laundering napkins and towels. Andre spent Sundays in the small cellar refilling bottles of Morgon and Côtes du Rhône from barrels. About once a month he would prepare family meals for relatives who lived and worked around Paris. At one of these he served a Grand Marnier soufflé. I asked him how he made those. He replied “with a bicycle pump.”
This was my introduction to the acceptance and generosity and love that Anne-Marie’s family extended to me for as long as they lived. This is why I wanted to move to France.
Anne-Marie at 19 years old while we were at UCSD. She will be turning 77 soon and I will be turning 76. It’s been a nice ride. No, we’re not together, but we’re both around.
Andre seated in his tiny kitchen toward the end of service after things have quieted down in the restaurant. He would explain that the small size of the kitchen placed all his tools immediately at hand. That space also contained a small commercial stove and a dishwasher. Note the reading material – the French equivalent of the Post. Andre was a bit of a fascist and referred to all the Asians who had moved to Paris as “the yellows.” I loved him dearly, nevertheless. He grew up in the Beaujolais country.
Anne-Marie’s aunt, wife of Andre and one of the four siblings of Anne-Marie’s mother. I have no idea how to write her name. It’s a Basque version of Marie which I can say but not write. She had a heart of gold while being tough and always working.
Anne-Marie’s parents, our hosts in the Basque country for roughly one month every summer. We traveled to Italy together and to Burgundy. Anne-Marie’s father was stationed by his corporation for a year or two in the suburbs of Paris. They hosted me there for the two months I was at Cordon Bleu cooking school. I called them Mamie and Papi.
Bonne-Maman, the mother of the five Basque siblings who were Anne-Marie’s mother and aunt and uncles. She herself was one of fifteen kids, three of whom did not survive. She had a stroke about fifteen years after I first met her, and she lost her ability to speak French. She subsequently spoke to her kids only in Basque. Her grandkids never learned Basque.
Bonne-Maman’s brother, referred to by all as Oncle.
Oncle and Monique, Anne-Marie’s sister.
There’s a tiny village in the Basque country, Sauguis, where the five siblings of Anne-Marie’s mother’s generation grew up. This photo shows the typical three crosses that one sees on Basque churches, this one being the very modest church (Catholic) in Sauguis.
The graveyard in the front of the Sauguis church.
Me at one of my favorite activities during my visits to the Basque country.
Lapassionara
Lovely post and photos. Thanks, Steve. We have friends in Elko, Nevada, and used to attend the annual Basque festival there. A lot of food, featuring grilled lamb chops, and some displays of Basque culture, including a form of handball with a name I can’t remember.
Meyerman
Thanks for these photos and the story with them. I loved being in France when I was young. I have lost touch with my friends there, but the memories are indelible, 36 years later. Such good people.
OzarkHillbilly
Good food, good people, good times.
Layer8Problem
Thank you for sharing this with us. Damn, I would love to wander through this place and meet people like these. How did Anne-Marie react to San Diego?
Chief Oshkosh
Steve, thanks for the story and photos.
dp
Excellent.
Donatellonerd
i came to paris in 84 (age 33) on a sabbatical from being a lawyer to take cooking classes. discovered i only liked cooking for people i love. haven’t left yet. became a (mostly) medical translator/editor. great pictures. lovely looking family.
zhena gogolia
Gorgeous photographs!
twbrandt (formerly tom)
Those are gorgeous, Steve; and the narrative touching. Thanks!
Paul in KY
Beautiful photos & commentary, Steve
I lived with my parents in Chateau Roux for a couple of years (1963 – 1964). Dad was stationed at Chateau Roux AFB. I was very young and did not get to savour France. My parents loved it.
The Castle
With a bicycle pump! Quel humour!
I’ve spent some time in France, but these are some magnificent stories; I can see why you wanted to stay. I’m really glad you shared them and the photographs. A precious time capsule for those of us not around to experience that specific era. But man, those hours in the restaurant are just grinding.
I had to do a double take – Anne Marie looks just like my mother did at that age.
Steve from Mendocino
@Layer8Problem: Anne-Marie stayed with a host family in La Jolla for the year and could walk the half mile or so to the campus. She had spent her undergraduate work at the University of Bordeaux, but this was her first time out of France and only her second stay outside of Oloron Ste. Marie. It was a fun adventure for her, and then she came back to Los Angeles. Neither she nor I really spent any time in San Diego. We were in La Jolla.
Steve from Mendocino
@Donatellonerd: Wow. I had wanted to retire to Paris after selling my business, but my current wife (of more than 30 years) didn’t want to be an ex-pat. We settled on Mendocino, and I bought a restaurant which I owned for 7 years.
oldster
Thanks for the story, Steve. Very moving.
When humans are good, we’re a damned fine species.
Layer8Problem
@Steve from Mendocino: I had family out there for a time, at Scripps. I had to mentally wrench myself from pronouncing La Jolla the way Bugs Bunny did when I was visiting.
Origuy
Very evocative photos. You feel like you want to know what stories those people have to tell.
I was into Basque music for a while. It’s a lot like Celtic in some ways. I saw a band called Kepa Junkera at Stanford. They had an instrument called a txalaparta that looks like a big wooden xylophone and and is played by two people with sticks.
grandmaBear
I think I was at UCSD about the same time as you, probably ran into you. It was a small place then. On the other hand my memories of that era are a little fuzzy.
Steve from Mendocino
@grandmaBear: Undergrad student body was about 2,000. Only Ravel was open. I didn’t know any of the women, though. Pretty tight with Anne-Marie.
stinger
Thank you for these images and stories.