From Mademoiselle to Madame at the Café de Cluny in Paris

How a French barman made me feel just fine about getting older.

A French cafe in winter. I loved the way even though no one was going to sit at these table, candles were lit for both beauty and a sense of warmth.

It was December, 1984; I was traveling around France with my former French instructor, Richard, un québecois I’d met and befriended three years before when I studied in Québec. Sadly, a day after I arrived in Paris, I came down with laryngitis. I wasn’t running a fever, but my throat was sore and my voice was shot.

Still. I was in Paris. The last thing I was going to do was to convalesce in my hotel, alone.

So there we were, drifting from café to café, as one does when young, flush, and in Paris (the exchange rate was an unheard-of 10 francs to the dollar—like 2 Euros to the dollar today). While we were standing at the bar at the Café de Cluny, the barman heard my raspy attempts at speaking.

“Ah! Mademoiselle! Je vous ferai un grog!” (I’ll make you a grog!) he said. He stirred together a lemony-rum concoction and lovingly placed it in front of me. It was just what I needed. Although I still couldn’t talk, I felt infinitely better.

After a few nights, we got to be chummy with this barman, a chatty and rotund middle-aged bonhomme named (of course) Jacques. The Café de Cluny was near our hotel on the Rue des Ecoles, so it became our last stop for a nightcap before turning in. Jacques seemed to enjoy talking to us late into the evening; we’d keep him company as he wiped dry the glasses for the night.

And then, our trip came to an end, as all trips do.

Fast forward to the 90s: On a trip to Paris with my husband and brother- and sister-in-law, I remember remarking to myself that this was the first year that I had been called “madame” in France. In previous years, I was always called mademoiselle, whether I was traveling with a monsieur or not.

Wandering around Paris those few days, I kept catching glimpses of the landmarks of earlier trips and experiencing that sense of time passing, of growing old—a feeling that comes into sharpest focus when you venture to faraway places you had visited in your youth.

I kept experiencing that sense of time passing, of growing old—a feeling that comes into sharpest focus when you venture to faraway places you had visited in your youth.

While strolling through the Latin Quarter, we stumbled upon the Café de Cluny. Curious, I steered everyone inside for a drink at the bar.

Sure enough, Jacques was still the barman, though now he had a little more salt in his salt-and-pepper hair. When he served us our drinks, I smiled, looked him in the eye, and said, “Bonsoir, Jacques.”

Jacques did an ever-so-slight double take, but immediately composed himself. He came out from behind the bar, embraced me, kissed me on both cheeks and asked how I had been.

Of course, I don’t think for one moment that he recognized me after ten-odd years; he was just being gracious, that’s all.

I told him that I didn’t expect him to remember me, but I had been here with my Québecois friend many years before, and he had made me a grog one night when I was suffering from laryngitis.

“But of course I remember you,” he kept saying.

“Impossible!” I kept answering.

Finally, he conceded that, yes, it might have taken him a moment to recognize me after all these years. But if so, it was “parce que autrefois, vous étiez une fille, et maintenant, vous êtes une femme.” (Back then, you were a girl. Now, you are a woman).

Best of all, he said this as if I had somehow, over the years, transformed from something elementary and unformed … and into a marvel.

Yes. The French have a way of doing this, when they want to. And when they do, it’s one of those moments that makes you glad to be alive—and in France.

May this little story lift your spirits—as Jacques the barman lifted mine, first as a fille, then as a femme.

If you enjoyed this post:

If you enjoyed this post, something tells me you’d enjoy my new memoir, Love Is My Favorite Flavor: A Midwestern Dining Critic Tells All. The book brims with these kinds of stories—of love and solace generously given by those who’ve cared for me at their tables (or in Jacques’ case, at his bar!). France appears often in this book!