When she was new to Paris, Theadora headed to the bathroom to make new pals.
“Let me tell you a true story,” Edith says. I’m sitting on the edge of her tub with a notebook on my knees and she’s classe by the sink, waving her cigare emboîture as she conjures up the scene.
“This was in 1879, and down in Pigalle, Le Rat Mort buvette was jumping. A well-dressed man walked in and ordered a drink, and asked to stash his bag behind the bar counter. The bartender agreed. After a few drinks the man left, forgetting his bag. That evening went on as usual, until a strange smell began hitting the ceiling fan. Soon mutters from the other customers became complaints, loud and clear.
“A diligent search got under way. Following their noses, the hunters came upon the respectable person’s black bag. All at once a horrible suspicion seized every mind. No doubt, they thought, the bag contained human remains in an advanced stage of decomposition. After all, this was Pigalle, a rough place back then. One and all refused to touch it. ‘Call the police!” someone said.
“Holding their noses on arrival, les flics gathered round the pièce d’accusation. The fastenings were quickly undone, and the eager hands of the Commissary exposed to view not a severed head, but a somewhat ripened Livarot, one of the ancient cheeses of Normandy!”
At first I laughed, until she said, “I saved you some, from my last trip back home. Come try it.” As she unwrapped the barnyard-stinky essence, I felt more like crying.
Source: francetoday.com
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