Don't Save Anything: The Uncollected Writings of James Salter(71)

For some reason, at one point we decided to expose Monique and Paul to authentic American cuisine, in this case, chili. There was, however, difficulty in obtaining one of the ingredients. In neither of the two small supermarchés was there any chili powder. Now, I have absolute confidence in my chili, which I’ve made countless times and which a friend born in Galveston and a cook himself has pronounced exceptional, but it seemed foolhardy to try and make it without the powder. We finally located a can in a specialty shop twenty-five miles away. It did not inspire confidence. It had been made in China and was being sold under an English label. Also, it was of unknown potency, as was the cayenne.

The lunch was served outside on a summer day, in a graveled courtyard, beneath the shade of a huge tree. Paul and Monique were there and a younger couple, Robert and Agnes, who it developed had only gotten to bed at five that morning after a housewarming at a friend’s, a crémaillere, as they called it.

There was salad first, then the chili. It was a slight variation of the true chili, I explained, which was ordinarily made with beef and pork chunks rather than ground beef, but apart from that it was genuine. I said this with a casual air, knowing that we were sitting down to a more powerful dish than usual—the Chinese powder had proved to be of exceptional strength. “You know, there are contests in Texas every year to judge the world’s champion chili,” I said to divert attention. “Sort of a Super Bowl of chili.”

“The bowl is super?” Agnes said.

“No. Super Bowl.”

She had taken a taste. There was a pause. “How is it?” I asked.

“It clears the voice,” she managed to say after a moment. Then, somewhat unconvincingly, “It’s wonderful.”

Her husband was tasting it. I could see him wince as he swallowed.

“Is it too hot?” I inquired offhandedly.

Fortunately Monique, who’d had it before in America, liked it. “It’s supposed to be no good unless it makes you sweat,” I said. “What’s the word for sweat?”

“Respirer.”

“Oui,” Robert breathed. I thought he said something to his wife about a ruade, which is a kick from a horse. After lunch they were supposed to attend a first communion.

“The chili will help us sing,” Agnes conceded.

To keep them from having the wrong impression, I explained that a key ingredient, the powder, had been hard to obtain and then had proven to be not what we normally employed. “There are some things that simply don’t exist in France, you can’t get them.”

“What?” Monique demanded.

“Peanut butter, for one,” I said.

“I hate it,” she said. “What else?”

“Baking soda.”

“You can get baking soda!”

“It’s not in the supermarché.”

“Of course not. You can get it at the pharmacie.”

“What, with a prescription?”

“No, no. You ask for bicarbonate de soude.”

“Of course,” I agreed.

“What is that used for?” Agnes asked.

“Cooking vegetables,” Monique said dismissively.

We never got around to sex. Their mouths must have been burning too much. The closest we came was a story of Paul and Monique’s trip to Peru. They were on a train between Cuzco and Machu Picchu. There were two trains, Monique said, one for tourists and another, slower one that made many stops which was the one they took.

“A woman got aboard with a lot of baggage—really just cartons and boxes of every description—a large woman wearing four or five skirts. When she was finally installed she took up a whole row of seats. The conductor came for the tickets. She had none, she said. Why not, he wanted to know? I don’t pay, she told him. You have to pay, he said. No, she said.

‘When they were building this railroad, I slept with every man who worked on it. I paid already,’ she said, ‘I don’t have to pay again.’”

I would have liked to call this letter The Woman from Cuzco, but I decided it would give the wrong idea about the candor of conversation at French tables.

European Travel and Life

Spring 1990





Once and Future Queen


There is a restaurant in Paris on Boulevard Montparnasse that has been there since the 1920s, the decade of myth, the decade of Josephine Baker, Picasso, Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Stravinsky, so many others. The restaurant is called La Coupole and there one saw and still sees le tout Paris, which translated roughly means “everyone.” A certain kind of everyone, that is, the kind that writes or is written about.

La Coupole is very big and has always stayed open late. Marvelous faces, some with reputations attached, others hoping to achieve them, were there at all hours, framed by the worn red material of the banquettes, eating, drinking, and deep in conversations one could not hear or even imagine. Over it all was the haze of talk and the faint aroma of Gauloise cigarettes. You might see a dozen people you knew, you might see no one. Below was a dance hall—I don’t recall ever going down to it but it lent its presence.

A few years ago the restaurant changed hands. The new owner gave it a minor facelift and much needed refurbishing. The walls were freshly painted, the banquettes recovered, the inconvenient bar relocated. The room is still huge, the service impeccable, and the prices are not much higher. There are still crowds at night and all the animation one could desire, but something is different: the place has been perfected and in the process has become a kind of replica of itself, wonderful as long as you have never seen the original.