My dad and I set out
for Paris on a little commuter flight that left from Coventry Airport. It was a short hop with just time for an
orange juice and then we were on the ground.
We took a taxi to the hotel.
Situated on the Place de la Concorde across the park to the Champs-Élysées,
Le Crillon was the best hôtel in Paris, mostly because of location, and their
service is impeccable. With profuse
apologies, the desk clerk informed me that they had over-booked and bumped us. This happens, especially in France, and I
wasn't upset. He told me that they had
taken the liberty of checking us into the Bristol. "It is only three blocks away and is
also a top-rated hotel." I
confirmed that we still had our dinner reservation. Over at the Bristol we unpacked and then
walked back for a drink and dinner.
We headed straight to
a table by the bar and watched the interesting people passing by. The maitre d' came by to tell us our table
was ready, and my father got the first inkling of a European custom that we
were sure to see more of. Hotel service
staff research their guests. They know
who you are and what you are doing.
Le Crillon Bar
What my father and I were doing was enjoying a rare adult bonding experience. The year was 1986; I was in my forties and my father in his seventies. I had been on the road for the past decade, the last four years in England, where I settled in and bought a house in Birmingham. My parents had visited me in England every year, once together and each, one other time by themselves. I had flown to France a dozen times over the prior few years. I was earning excellent money and wanted to show off to my father, specifically my new found palate for food & wine. My father enjoyed seeing his son prosper in life and here was an aspect where I might gain my father’s nod of approval.
We ate an excellent
dinner the night we arrived at Le Crillon.
Perfect French meals leave you with a feeling of euphoria, as though
drugged. I'm sure some of this was due
to the alcohol and the jet lag. When it
was time I said, "Let’s go," and I got up. "But they haven't brought us a
bill. We can't leave," said my father,
a depression-era mid-westerner who settled his debts as they occurred. "It'll be fine," I said. Up we got and out to the lobby, "Call us
a cab please." At the Bristol bar I
told him how European hotels, by custom had an obligation to provide meals with
your lodging. An unwritten rule since
Saxon times. Hôtel Crillon was responsible for our meal and they knew where we
were. I assured him, "The meal will
show up tomorrow on our Bristol hotel bill with an appropriate tip."
It did.
My father put in only one request for this trip, but it was a lifelong wish of his: Dinner at Maxim's. We arrived at 7:00 PM and it was all my father had dreamed about and hoped for, elegant people in a lively setting. Not a stuffy American place like La Tour d’Argent but bustling with an International crowd at cramped tables; men enjoying their meals, and mistresses -- the age-gap was a robust 25 years. It reminded me of Ernie’s in San Francisco. Our waiter discussed the wine with us, and we arrived at a mutually satisfactory bottle of '76 Cháteau Haut-Brion; we agreed that it was excellent value for money. The waiter was so happy that we had allowed him to participate in this selection that the other waiters around us were suddenly bombarding us with various perks: special hors-d'oeuvres, constant re-filling of bread, butter and water. The meal was perfect, not a gourmet meal, those were to follow next week. The wine was superb, heady and strong like a California Syrah, but with far more earthiness and almost meaty, mushroomy flavours. It matched the food, but overall, my father was so impressed with the wine-waiter being impressed with us, that he was ecstatic. Twenty years later, I heard parts of the story he told to his relatives back in Ohio, “My son flew me to Maxim’s in Paris and is such a bon vivant that he impressed the wine-waiter there at Maxim’s”.
[or did he slip
the waiter a $100 bill to assure an enjoyable evening? It’s something I might have done; but then
again, he taught me this.]
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