Sundays Chez Moi

What a typical February Sunday feels like

Not even the pigeons are awake

It’s 9am on this rainy Sunday morning. My bathroom window is open to the courtyard where the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom windows of 54 apartments all face, and you could hear a pin drop. This scene repeats itself in building after building across town. The volets (shutters) are all still closed, there is not a sign of life; Paris is sleeping.

Walking the 4 blocks to my local marché (open until 2pm) the streets are pretty much empty except the line at the boulangerie (croissants? baguettes?) and the butcher shop (open until 1pm) where they are selling rotisserie chickens and those delicious little roast potatoes like hot cakes. Most everyone looks like they just rolled out from under their duvet; bed head is the rule, roomy coats and jackets thrown over clothes hastily pulled on. This is Sunday morning Paris and these rare sightings are reserved for those who get up “early” to frequent the marchés or pick up their own Vienoiseries (breakfast pasteries), Tradition (baguette) or poulet (chicken).

Walking home from the Marché, my trolly is filled with essentials and goodies for the week ahead, it’s 1ish and the local brasserie is bursting at the seams with couples, multi generational families, single women with books and older gentlemen holding court. Here, people are put together: showered, clothes ironed, coiffed, made up, and (subtly) smelling good. Some families have crossed the street from the neighborhood church, after mass, to have lunch together. Except for cafes, restaurants and chain markets, everything is closing up or closed; Sunday afternoons are for family, museums and home. Mostly home.

Pushing open the heavy iron and glass door of my building I am greeted with an entirely different world than the one I left only a few hours before. People are cooking. Kitchen windows are open, the sound of knives on cutting boards can be heard, the sizzling of skillets, and smells that promise something delicious will be on the table shortly. It pleases me that the time honored ritual of Sunday lunch is alive and well.

Years ago, when my aunt and uncle lived in the building, Sunday lunch was often had at their place. My mother and my aunt would be in the kitchen, my uncle peeling something, while my cousins, my sister and I played games upstairs. Eventually it was time to sit at the table and the ceremony of Sunday lunch would begin. Mostly we had a roast of some sort. Leg of lamb was my favorite, served on the rare side with flagolets, a delicate bean with a green hue that could, when mashed with a fork, hold sauce as well as any potato - maybe better. There were always perfectly cooked vegetables and after the meal, before dessert, a green salad tossed in a vinaigrette sharp with raw garlic and lemon juice, served with a plate of cheese from which to choose. My family being from the north, I could count on there being Pont Leveque; a light brown, square cheese that was soft and slightly stinky. Dessert would vary between seasonal fruit, homemade fruit tarts, creme carmel or a commercial sized bar of dark chocolate that my aunt would ceremoniously cut into pieces with a very large knife. The adults would have coffee while my sister and I, the older kids, cleared the table. The rest of the afternoon unfolded slowly, often with a game of cards we all could play (given that my cousins were 5 and 7, that usually meant some version of Old Maid) and maybe a walk. Cozy and simple.

Today my plans are simple: Put the groceries away, put on a little mascara, blush and cologne, then pop down the street to the bustling Brasserie where I’ll be meeting my son, his wife and my grandson for Sunday lunch. We have a 1:30 reservation and leg of lamb with flagolets is on the menu!

Bon Dimanche!

Marie