Dinner(s) at Le Felteu
Multiple meals across the years bringing people together.
Many years ago, while researching a trip to Paris, my husband came across a recommendation for Le Felteu bistro. It was a little tricky to find, the article warned, but well worth the trouble.
And so, armed with a sturdy map and much determination, we set off.
It was down a very quiet side street and didn’t look like much from the outside.
It didn’t look like much from the inside, either, with its Formica tables and peeling wallpaper. But Alan trusted his source, so we sat down.
We were the first diners in the place, not realizing that everyone in Paris eats a good couple of hours later than they do in Canada. This did not win us any points with Gerry, the leather-clad owner. Nor did the fact that we were speaking English to each other.
We did our best speaking French to him, but for someone fluent in the language, it must have been painful.
As we were settling with our first glass of very good wine (and we’d gone up a tiny notch in Gerry’s estimation by taking the advice of the chalkboard menu and ordering the vin de la semaine) a table of American and Dutch tourists arrived.
When it came time to order, they tried to ask for substitutions on the menu.
In English.
Gerry explained, in French, that substitutions were not possible, that the chef had planned the menu carefully and well.
It was a small dining room, and one of the women at the table heard us speaking English.
“Can you ask him if I could have the chicken with the béarnaise sauce?” she called over to me.
By this point, I was pretty happy and relaxed with the good wine and some fresh baguette.
“You did ask him,” I told her. “He said no.”
She looked disappointed.
“Just order what’s on the menu,” I advised. “You won’t be unhappy.”
It was then we realized that, while Gerry spoke not a word of it, he understood English perfectly well. He became a little more attentive to us, and a little more gracious.
And the food was excellent.
So good, in fact, that a couple of nights later, we brought the rest of the group we were traveling with back to Le Felteu.
“You’ll love it,” we promised. “Just don’t look at the wallpaper.”
On the way, I insisted that they practice saying hello in French. “Bon soir!” I coached. “Say it with me!” And reluctantly, they did.
When we got in, Alan and I said a cheery “Bon soir!” and then I nudged each of them in turn to repeat it.
Alan’s Dad was one of the group with us and not an adventurous eater.
We explained what everything was, as best we could. None of it seemed to appeal.
“How about the Rognons de Veau?” Alan asked. “Veau is veal.”
“Sure,” said Dad. “I like veal.”
Gerry took our orders to the kitchen. And returned to the dining room, followed by the chef.
“Rognons de Veau?” he asked. Were we sure?
Not understanding his concern, we nodded. Dad had his heart set on veal, and that was what he was going to get.
Once again, the food was gorgeous. I had the duck confit and floated on a cloud of tasty loveliness.
“This is the strangest veal I’ve ever had,” Dad muttered.
I took a look. It looked like mushrooms and bits of meat in a thick gravy.
“Don’t you like it?” I asked, concerned. “We could trade if you like?”
Dad was recently widowed. We wanted him to have a good time.
“No, it’s OK. It’s just not what I was expecting…”
After dinner, back at the apartment, Alan looked up the translation for Rognons de Veau.
“Oh,” he said. “Kidneys.”
“We won’t be telling Dad that, will we?”
And we never did.
A few years later, we went back to Paris with a friend of ours, a retired teacher who had grown up in Scotland and had never been to Paris.
Just before we went, we found out that Dad’s new lady friend would be there with her daughter. Mary knew our friend Fiona, so we decided to get both groups together for dinner.
“Wouldn’t it be cool to go to Le Felteu?” I asked Alan. “Then Dad and Mary could say they had dinner at the same restaurant in Paris.”
It seemed quite romantic, so we made the booking.
This time it was Fiona who ordered the Rognons de Veau. We had told her the story.
“I love kidneys!” she told us. Her mother used to make them for her all the time.
Once again Gerry took our order. Once again, the chef followed him out of the kitchen to be sure.
I smiled at him, assuring him it was OK. “Elle est Écossaise!”
“Ahhhh!” He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up before returning to the kitchen to dazzle us.
“What did you say to him?” Fiona wanted to know, not speaking any French.
“I told him you were Scottish.”
She laughed. “And that’s all it took? I guess we’ll eat anything.”
“And the whole world knows it!”
Mary quite liked the thought that we were having dinner in a restaurant that Dad had been to, were sitting, in fact, at the same table. We had her sit across from where Dad had sat so that if time travel ever becomes a thing, they’ll be all set.
Le Felteu is closed now, which seems appropriate. Alan’s Dad died five years ago, and so did Fiona.
It’s a place of dreams now. And of ghosts.
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This story is published in Writers on the Run. If you’re interested in submitting your travel stories please visit our submission guidelines.
