I have no memory whatsoever of my first view of Paris -- what I must have seen of it on a cab ride from the airport to my Left Bank hotel in the winter of 1983. I have a vague memory of the view from the hotel room, a charming chamber up under the eaves of a small, venerable and recently refurbished establishment near the École des Beaux Arts. I looked out over the rooftops of Paris, which reminded me of Paris in the movies, but I'm not sure what else I saw, besides possibilities.
I arrived at the hotel late at night but my companion, who'd been to Paris before, knew a restaurant that was open 24/7, one she was fond of, and we went there. It was at the edge of Les Halles, the site of the legendary produce market. The market had long since been moved to the outskirts of Paris and was then just a ghost of itself, but the restaurant, Au Pied de Cochon, which had been there in the glory days of Les Halles, remained. It opened in 1946 and has not closed its doors since. Once, obviously, it served the all-night workers and truckers of Les Halles when it was a functioning market but people still made their way to it at all hours of the night. There was a small crowd there when we arrived sometime after midnight. I had a sense that many of them were musicians grabbing some food after an evening's gig, though I'm not sure at this remove what made me think so. Perhaps one of them was carrying an instrument in a case. Perhaps one of them pulled out a guitar and sang some snatches of a song.
The restaurant was rather plain in those days, even shabby, reflecting its original working-class milieu. It has been remodeled at least a couple of times since then -- it has an unfortunate faux-Belle Époque décor now (see above) but still isn't particularly fancy. It specializes, as its name suggests, in pig's feet and other rustic fare, and also in shellfish, which seems to be de rigeur for all-night restaurants in Paris.
It had a wide selection of raw oysters, and I ordered a dozen Belons, the small, tangy oysters of the Breton coast that have a considerable reputation. When the round tray of them arrived at the table, they created my first intense visual memory of Paris. The opened oysters and some cut lemons were nestled on a bed of ice decorated with sprigs of seaweed. The tray was placed on a wire rack directly in front of me, giving me a good view of and easy access to the oysters. On a plate in a holder built into the wire rack beneath the tray was a small bowl of red wine vinegar and finely chopped onions, some slices of brown bread and some butter. The oysters in the picture below are not Belons -- I offer it just to show the general set-up.
I revere oysters extravagantly. To see them served in such an exalted way stirred my deepest admiration. (I had never seen such a presentation in an American restaurant, though now it's fairly common in upscale French eateries.) They were the tastiest, most mysterious oysters I had ever eaten. I ordered twelve more.
Several times in the preceding few hours I had thought to myself, "I'm in Paris!" But I didn't quite believe it. Halfway through the second tray of oysters, I believed it.
Next February, it will no longer be possible to smoke in Parisian restaurants, so I will most likely never go back to Au Pied de Cochon. This is not altogether a bad thing. The places you love that you can never return to are also places you can never leave. They become part of your own small portion of eternity.