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Y M
f - H
Jewels by Hurry Winston El
'8?
. . . when I remember Paris, I see again
Weber's and Prunier's and Maxim's and all the
wondrous filling stations for the gourmet
But The Tough Steak comes first. -
That wasn't its name, of course. It was the
neighborhood restaurant closest to our hotel.
Wo ato tVioro wVipn nnr tirpd tourist fppt. urnuld
carry us no further and because The Tough
Steak was tolerant of dusty shoes and crumpled
clothes.
I have no idea what its real title was. But I
know it served the toughest meat in all Paris.
The principal vegetable was haricots beans in
any language and the principal waiter was a
congenitally exhausted Englishwoman. We
loved her. We would order steak and beans
without the Berlitz School interpreters at our
elbows.
Further, she was willing to sell a bottle of
water to slake the endless thirst of throats
unused to a steady diet of vin rouge et vin
blanc. Wine is fine but aqua is pura.
Often we took a carriage down the Champs
Elysees and flaunted our meager French in the
elegant restaurants.. Often we dined in splendor,
where even the dessert peaches were proffered
like pearls and nested in cotton. Often we
were violently ill afterward on too much
richness, too much pastry, too much of a
muchness.
The Tough Steak was always waiting. Its
clientele was plebeian. Its surroundings were
shabby. Its kitchen might have been trans
planted intact from an American truck stop.
I'm ashamed really to admit I went to Paris
and found such a sanctuary. I ought to have
accepted my lot and my vin and gone green in
the face from gorging.
I loved Paris in the Summer. I loved Paris in
the Fall. I loved all the fabled restaurants.
But The Tough Steak may be best of all.
Also available in Canada
Family Weekly, February 16, 195S