Paris 1951: The First Step

I found an e-mail address for Le Bistrot (it says "Bistro" on the awning out front but, apparently, the name is really "Bistrot") the cafe that currently lives in the space formerly occupied by Au Port d'Attache. In addition to some nice pictures, their web page lists several menus of traditional French cafe fare and if/when I can get to Paris they definitely seem worth checking out.

In the meantime, I sent an e-mail explaining the business card which came into my possession and asking if they knew anything at all about the history of their location. To date, I have heard nothing back. So, they either know nothing but are intrigued by my message and are researching whatever they can and will get back to  me soon--or--they know something but are too busy during the holiday season right now and will get back to me when they can--or--they know something but are unable or unwilling to reveal what it is--or--they can't be bothered to respond to some stranger out of the blue with a sixty+ year old slip of paper that has nothing to do with their business. While the last possibility is the most likely, the third makes for a better story so that's the one I'll go with if they never get back to me.

After the first of the year, I will contact the real estate office that now occupies the former location of Morgan of Oregon. At the very least, they should know how to go about obtaining historical property records if they don't know the history themselves.

Hardly a Creature Stirred

This was the most low-key . . . and enjoyable . . . Christmas ever.

The tree went up the week before along with the large Santa atop the bookcase, two penguins under the tree and a couple of large stockings on the front door, one inside and one outside. That was it. No creche, no exterior lights, no carol-wielding circus train. My brother did scatter some Christmas balloon figures across the lawn but never got around to inflating them.

We limited ourselves on the presents, too. Since my niece was the only one who sent a wish list, and since half her list consisted of books, I was happy to oblige her. My brother and I agreed to limit ourselves to only "stocking stuffers" which meant he gave me three small jars of flavored honey, a bottle of orange flavored syrup and a box of fudge while I gave him a case of beer and a bottle of honey roasted peanuts. We were both happy.

The cats, being natural born heathens and not, as we, lapsed communicants, received nothing. They were content to nest in the boxes and nibble on wrapping paper. Despite occasional manic bursts of running about chasing each other around and under the tree, they were (generally) very careful to avoid touching it and only a couple of the lowest ornaments ended up on the rug.

We had Christmas dinner mid-afternoon and in the evening I made about a gallon of split pea soup with a portion of the leftover ham. The cats turned down ham samples although I did catch one of them later gnawing on a piece of gristle she stole from somewhere. I now have pea soup, bean soup and turkey soup taking up space in the refrigerator and freezer and kind of wish the weather would cool off again. It feels weird eating hot soup when the temperature is pushing 80F.

If we can maintain this same level of concentrated placidity, 2015 could start off well.

Planning Ahead

Well, at least I now know what (some) of the lumber is for.

My brother treated himself to a firepit. He intends to build what he calls a patio by the front door, set up the firepit there, sit back and drink beer and use the wood for fuel. He doesn't want to put it out back because of some obnoxious nearby dogs who are happy to bark at anything they see (or think they see) all night long. He's much happier with it being visible from the road which, in all honesty, is a better view, anyway.

No idea when the construction on this "patio" might begin. No idea, either, on his intentions for the plywood. Or the crutches.

The funny thing is, we already have a couple of woodpiles on the property that have been aging for literally years. Of course, by the time he's ready to start burning, the new sticks could also be well-seasoned despite being pine.

In the meantime, city code enforcement stopped by and left a note on our door. Apparently, the carrotwood tree is visible from the road and so was all the new lumber which is a violation of the city's "No Outdoor Storage" rule. My brother moved a small section of fencing to hide the 4x6 stumpy bits and carefully rearranged the pallets to lie flat behind a decorative wall of railroad ties (still around the carrotwood) and: voila! No more code violation. (At least, nothing that can be seen from the street.)

On the plus side, he did just bring home a large bag of blood oranges from somewhere, so there's that.

More Sh*t My Brother Drags Home

Continuing the kleptomaniacal tale. This past week:

• More industrial size wooden pallets. We now have three complete plus pieces for a couple more. They're stacking up beside the carrotwood tree.
• A pair of wooden crutches with one missing rubberized foot. If he's planning on having a debilitating accident it's going to have to involve ending up with one leg shorter than the other.
• A short (maybe 2.5 feet tall) open metal frame on casters with closely spaced metal flanges facing inward on parallel sides suitable for holding food trays. Except for the inconvenient lack of height, something that might be seen on an airline or in a hospital for delivering meals.

On a slightly saner note: He went and got the Christmas decorations out of storage over the weekend. They were all piled up in cardboard boxes at the top of the driveway until it started to rain last night forcing us to run outside and chuck everything into the garage except the Christmas tree which resides in a waterproof plastic coffin that is now sitting just at the edge of the living room attracting the attention of the cats. My brother has moved his dead bicycle from the corner where the tree is supposed to go so we can probably expect assembly this weekend.

Paris 1951: The Investigation Begins

There are two business cards in the "Paris 1951" envelope my brother brought home. They're both oversize, closer to index cards than modern business cards.

The first one is for "Au Port d'Attache," 79 rue Blanche. The name is printed on a half ship's wheel and includes not only the probably unnecessary explanatory "Bar" on the hub but the invitation to "Venez Chanter." The telephone number is given as : Tri.: 64-89. "Paris 1951" is handwritten across the bottom in ink. The back contains the following note in penciled cursive:

M Presse,

108 Rue du Theatre

Hotel Metropole

chambre 48

Paris 15e

and vertically up the left side: metro Commerce.

The second card is for "Morgan of Oregon, American Bar." The upper left corner brags, "The only yank in Montmartre." The lower left corner touts "Hamburgers, Chile con Carne, Hot Dogs -- Bacon & Eggs." In the lower right corner are the address: 36, rue Pigalle, Paris 9e, the phone: Tel. Tri. 77-78, and the notice: "open all night from 17 hours" under which is handwritten in ink "1951." On the back are two calculations, in pencil, in a different hand from the first card. One is a multiplication, the other an addition (with the wrong answer). There is also the name "georges," and the words "Pont (or Port, the card was folded at one point and the crease runs right through the middle of the word) Royal."

It turns out 79 rue Blanche is still a cafe/restaurant, although now just "le Bistro," and not Au Port d'Attache. It sits in a rather seedy side street right around the corner from the Moulin Rouge which was also there in 1951.

108 rue du Theatre is no longer the Hotel Metropole, although it might have been at one point. It's a standard, anonymous six-story Parisian apartment building with a podiatrist's office on one side and a kitchen supply shop on the other. The Avenue Emile Zola metro stop is actually closer than Commerce but maybe didn't exist in 1951.

36 rue Pigalle is now a real estate agency.

As far as Pont/Port Royal is concerned: Pont Royal is both a bridge (which was obviously there in 1951) and a restaurant/cafe on the rue de Bac just off the bridge (which was probably not there then). Port Royal is a hotel on the boulevard of the same name. The hotel looks as if it could have been there then. At this point, there's no telling which interpretation of Port/Pont is correct.

Time for some historical digging.