Hour au Champagne, s’il Vous Plaît!
‘In victory, you deserve champagne, in defeat, you need it.’
Napoleon, 1769–1821,
French leader
‘Chocolate is a perfect food, as wholesome as it is delicious, a beneficient of exhausted power.’
Baron Justus von Liebig, 1803–1873,
German chemist
Another very cold winter day … February: the time of year when people can be so depressed. There were only a few clients at the Zenith Bar that night … You couldn’t blame people for not wanting to venture forth in such weather. Also, it was 14 February, and couples probably preferred a romantic dinner in the restaurant downstairs to celebrate Valentine’s Day in style to sitting in the bar. I looked around and saw only two or three couples having pre-dinner cocktails, and a sprinkling of melancholy businessmen or -women looking all the more lonely for not having consoling cell phones in their hands, phones not being allowed up here.
I checked my watch. Strange … Anne-Sophie should have been here by now. She was always on time. She loved happy hour: two flutes of champagne for the price of one, and those delicious bar snacks! Since we’d met a few years ago, our Tuesday meetings had become a ritual not to be missed – even on Valentine’s Day. We talked about this and that, we laughed, sometimes we cried. We had a great time.
Rather than worry, I decided just to relax in the comfortable warmth. I loved looking out at the lights of metropolitan Boston from up there, sipping my champagne, and listening to Pierre Hurel, who, to my complete delight, was playing the piano that evening …
Anne-Sophie’s arrival put an abrupt end to my reverie. She plonked herself down in a chair and let out a deep sigh. She looked odd.
I couldn’t help smiling, seeing her wrapped up in several layers of clothing. I might almost have said that she’d suddenly put on weight. She was holding a beautiful box of Coeurs Noirs chocolates – she knew I just couldn’t resist them. A card that said ‘Be my Valentine’ was still attached to the box.
‘Want them? They’re yours!’ she snapped angrily.
‘Thanks, and happy Valentine’s Day to you as well,’ I responded, frowning. I was feeling a little confused here. ‘But I don’t have a gift for you, since you told me you think that Valentine’s Day is only for couples.’
‘I know, I know,’ she replied impatiently, standing up.
I studied her as she sighed loudly again while laboriously removing her hat, gloves, scarf, heavy coat and wool cardigan, like an Egyptian mummy shedding its wrappings.
I wanted to laugh but didn’t really dare, since Anne-Sophie seemed to be in one of her rages.
‘And look at my hair. Awful! The air here is so cold and dry it won’t stay in place! Mon Dieu, this dreadful climate! I can’t stop shivering all the time; it’s absolutely freezing!’
I didn’t want to talk about the cold. I’d heard enough complaints about it lately.
Anne-Sophie sat down heavily, turned to look out of the huge bay window, and said nothing.
‘Thanks again for the chocolates, but usually you reserve them for your Valentine,’ I said eventually.
‘I know, I know. Don’t worry, I’ve prepared him some sweet treats for later tonight.’
A smiling and very attractive waitress approached. I’d never seen her before and decided she must be new.
‘A glass of champagne, pleeease!’ begged Anne-Sophie desperately.
She looked over the little folded menus to my side of the table. ‘Oh, good, you’ve already got some appetisers!’
She had suddenly brightened upon seeing the food. She helped herself, chewing slowly, and contentment lit up her face.
Food is a comfort when you’re upset, isn’t it? For a while Anne-Sophie could forget her troubles while sipping her champagne and taking pleasure in eating. Neither of us spoke. We simply wanted to appreciate what we had on our plates and in our glasses, whilst listening to the piano music, and gazing out of the bay window. In the dry, clear air the view of the city lights was breathtaking.
At last Anne-Sophie was ready to tell me what had put her in such a rage.
‘Guess who followed me up here with his stupid little I’m really trying to learn about your rich and fascinating culture expression on his face to wish me a happy Valentine’s Day with this box of chocolates.’
‘Spaulding?’
Anne-Sophie raised her eyebrows. ‘How did you know?’
‘Well, I didn’t say anything, but I got the feeling that he wasn’t completely insensitive to your charms when we saw him at your company Christmas party.’
‘Really? It was that obvious? Anyhow, he just told me that he’s crazy about me … the nerve.’
‘I guess the magical atmosphere of Valentine’s Day gave him the courage to offer you some aphrodisiac food—’
‘I’m married, and so is he,’ Anne-Sophie cut in sharply. ‘And you know that I think Valentine’s Day should only be for couples.’
‘Like it is in France.’
‘Exactly. How I despise this profit-making, ultra-sweet and syrupy celebration where anybody can be a Valentine to anyone. It’s so hypocritical.’
I wasn’t going to argue. Having grown up across the pond, she would never understand how fun and special this day was for us in the States. I didn’t tell her that I gave many Valentine cards to my co-workers, and that I received plenty in return. However, she might have had a point about the intense commercialisation of the occasion.
‘If it’s not true love, maybe Spaulding’s just ready to have an affair,’ I added. ‘You know, a torrid adventure with a gorgeous Frenchwoman like you? How exciting!’
I giggled. But Anne-Sophie didn’t.
Her scowl made me laugh even more. Finally, used to being teased by me, she shrugged and continued her story. She told me that she’d informed Spaulding right there and then that he would be hugely disappointed; that she wasn’t a sex addict, like most of the Frenchwomen he’d seen in movies. She’d also told him that he should be ashamed of wanting to cheat on his wife, the mother of his four children, and that in any case she wasn’t going to leave a smart, gorgeous husband for a fling with a guy who looked stupid and had absolutely no taste in clothes (referring to Spaulding’s habit of wearing blindingly white sneakers to travel home in after work with his bland, poorly cut grey pinstripe suit), and no idea about food. These two negative qualities always stopped Anne-Sophie from wanting to know anyone better.
She took a large sip of her champagne, then wolfed down two caramelised ginger garlic shrimps.
‘Hmm, these are so good!’
Taking some more shrimps, she continued her story, which was really starting to amuse me.
‘When I think that I used to feel sorry for him for his terrible clothes and dreary food habits, and I even thought he was a nice guy! Well, I was just trying to educate him in a way …’
‘Sure, with your wonderful French savoir-vivre,’ I replied in a mocking tone.
‘Exactement, ma chère! He could look rather fine with the right clothes on … Anyhow, I took the chocolates for you – flavoured Coeurs Noirs, 75 per cent pure cocoa. You love them, don’t you? And they’re good for you, too.’
I knew about the aphrodisiac power of chocolate but I was a little doubtful about the health benefits. I told