Allard was a friendly place. Once I watched a young American couple order half a bottle of Sancerre and then protest when the waiter brought a full bottle. "We only serve full bottles," the waiter said. "Just drink half." At the end of the meal, the couple admitted sheepishly that they'd finished the entire bottle. "Good for you," said the waiter. "A full bottle for half price." Allard is still there on the Rue St.—André-des-Arts, but after Madame Allard sold the place, all the old waiters, who knew everybody in Paris by name or face, quit.
Those were thrilling times for wine lovers in Paris. On the Rue du Marché St.-Honoré, old Léon Gouin was serving such good Beaujolais at Le Rubis that the lunchtime throngs—bankers, firemen, saleswomen—clustered around upturned barrels on the sidewalk outside the café to enjoy a plate of charcuterie and a ballon of Juliénas. Gouin would survey the crowd. An imperceptible nod to the bartender meant that a regular was up for a refill on the house.
I remember in 1976 when a young Englishman named Steven Spurrier startled the wine world with his famous Académie du Vin tasting, at which a group of prominent French wine figures judged several California wines to be superior to some of the most famous Bordeaux names. The Académie du Vin, along with Spurrier's wine shop, Les Caves de la Madeleine, and his delightful restaurant, Le Moulin du Village, was in a little street called the Cité Berryer, just off the Place de la Madeleine. With its outdoor market and absence of motor traffic, the Cité Berryer was an astonishing bit of old Paris that managed to survive almost into the 21st century. Almost, but not quite. Developers found it, stole its soul, and rendered it banal at great expense.
To savor each day and still revel in the past is a rare talent. Except in Paris. Sitting at one of my favorite cafés, like Le Viaduc, on the Avenue Daumesnil, or even back at Le Rubis—still there, even if it's not the same without Gouin—I can pull it off with ease. Every time.
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