Sitting at a tiny corner table with a view of the cobbled street enveloping us on each side, I looked across at my mother’s downturned face. She was fussing with the perfectly pressed cloth napkin in her lap, cleaning her glasses in preparation for reading the French menu in front of her for the last time. Tomorrow we would fly back to reality; my 40th birthday trip to Paris in the books. I felt comfortably frozen in time; not wanting to break the silence or the feeling of gratitude. She looked up and inquired about my dinner choice. Stuck in my own musings, I hadn’t thought about it yet. Something with a decadent French sauce?

The intimate Parisian cafe’s lights were dimmed in the late evening light so the candles on the table became a more vibrant focal point by the minute. This, our last evening in Paris, found me grateful that most of the stress of being in survival mode the last 6 months had dissipated. The hellscape of the 9-11 aftermath was fading; the holiday chaos over, and turning forty in February 2002 was a reality as well. The April trip to Paris had been just what we both needed, but it had been a whirlwind. Whatever “regret mongering” I had been experiencing from leaving my kids and my business for ten days had been replaced by the sheer delight of the City of Light. What a wonderful way to end an absolutely perfect birthday trip – dinner with my mom just off the Avenue des Champs Elysées . 

Maman sait mieux

My mom had insisted we keep our planned trip to Paris to celebrate my 40th birthday in spite of the global chaos. I would have preferred to pretend it wasn’t happening – the birthday or the chaos. But whatever. I loved my mom. Loved all things French and truth be told, she knew it was my dream vacation. She was a perfect travel companion – experienced, enthusiastic and well prepared. I was, in contrast an enthusiastic travel novice. She meant for me to have a delightful time in spite of the uncertainty all around us. And so that was exactly what we did. 

Being met at Charles DeGaul airport by guards with machine guns, and having our luggage rifled through was not the French welcome I had expected. But we soon settled in to our Parisian adventure with enthusiasm and relief. We both loved arts and culture, history and travel. Mom knew we would race around Paris with our cameras and our journals, never tiring of the sights, sounds and smells. Gastronomically and artistically speaking – we devoured it all. 

Bon appétit 

On this one last evening in paradise, an intimate mother/daughter dinner on some back street, in an obscure cafe close to our hotel seemed the right way to say “au revoir” to Paris. A handsome French waiter instantly poured us a warm, flat water and delivered a divine crusty bread – canapé as an l’aperitif. The herbed butter served on the side was not so much a condiment but an experience. I thought of licking my knife in approval but decided against the rude gesture. The house wine was poured without asking as well. With a nod of approval, the waiter said he would “de retour dans un instant”. Back in a moment.

We did not need the beautifully printed menu my mom had been studying. The waiter simply brought us the next course: our hors d’oeuvre – a salmon mousse, followed by some sort of light fleshy fish with a creamy sauce drizzled over sprigs of broccolini gracing the plate. He read our minds? Was this the special? I didn’t care; I was in heaven. A delicate lime sorbet came next to cleanse our palates? I thought we were fini, mais j’avais tort – but, I was wrong!

There was more! Le plat principal – the main course, a hearty looking roasted meat sitting in another hearty sauce with rustic garden vegetables on the side, followed by a tiny salad drizzled with a hint of olive oil and what tasted like lemon liqueur. So much food! And of course more wine was secretly poured by our attentive waiter. 

Next, a small board of cheese appeared in the middle of our table and another smaller glass of wine to accompany. They paired so well together that I felt it took the place of dessert. But I would be wrong. The best part of this memory was yet to arrive – a very special dessert surprise. I have always wondered if my mom secretly requested this meal in advance for us . I didn’t think to ask at the time and never wanted to spoil the moment by asking over the years. But even she wouldn’t have known how delightful the ending to the story would be without experiencing it with me. Such delight. 

The waiter again checked on us. Nodded his approval at our hearty appetites (?) and disappeared once again. But this time he literally walked briskly to the door of the small restaurant and left! We watched him disappear as he walked down the street and around the corner. Since we were only two of six patrons, we felt a bit abandoned. 

A few minutes ticked by as we enjoyed the last of our wine and cheese. A few more as we quizzically watched the door of the cafe for our waiter’s return. Concerned that we had said or done something wrong, we began to fidget in our seats. Whispering our concerns to each other across the tiny table; giggling a bit from the wine and the anticipation, we lost ourselves in the momentary confusion. 

Au revoir

Just as we were discussing should we get up and inquire in the kitchen about our bill or a dessert, around the corner came our waiter, two delicately plated crème brûlées in tow, each balanced precariously on his arm. The plates were white with a golden border and the desserts looked like something fit for Marie Antoinette. 

He opened the door with his foot, placing the desserts immediately in front of us. Nodded again his approval to us and glided away into the kitchen. He returned once to freshen our tiny cafés au lait (that we hadn’t noticed had appeared) and another to discreetly bring the check. The crème brûlées were divine. French cream, eggs and sugar; so simple and yet so luxuriously decadent. Whether it was the atmosphere or the actual dessert, I will never know or care. I had just experienced the best dessert of my life. The lingering effect of the anticipation or simply delayed gratification enhancing the experience made no difference. We each agreed to each other that it was the single best crème brûlée we had ever had – including my mom’s Christmas brûlée every year. “Veuillez féliciter le chef!”  Please congratulate the chef. 

A singularly exquisite meal. Impeccable service. Parisian perfection. A simple memory forever etched in my mind of a dream french dinner shared with my mom in a tiny cafe in Paris. It was as if I knew at the time, like watching a movie, that I would relive this moment over and over again for a lifetime. And now that she is gone, it stays as fresh in my mind and my heart as if it happened yesterday. Her face, her hands, her cleaning her glasses. Her voice, her delighted countenance, her smile of approval to me, to our waiter and a cheer to the moment. What a treasure that trip, that experience. What a lucky woman am I to have had a mother that knew I would someday revisit this memory like a long lost friend as one of the best of my life.