Alice B. Toklas at the Bô

Where should I have dinner? I ask Natacha.

“Bô.”

She says it so quickly it confuses me. “Is that a restaurant?”

She nods. “Tres chic.”

So I ride my bike to St.-Martin to eat at Bô, sitting at a long zinc table, by myself, in a garden decorated with enormous round candles, the size of pumpkins, colored orange or red or jade. I order a bottle of wine while looking over the menu, a Le Haut-Mesnil Sancerre rose that goes perfectly with the little plate of charcuterie my waitress brings out. She also brings me a basket of bread. It seems that the day of sliced baguette is over. Now you always get an assortment of bread. At Bô you get a wheat baguette with sesame seeds, a fennel galette, and focaccia with currants.

photo by David Lansing

While I’m sipping my wine and looking at the menu, I notice that Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas are dining at the table next to me. Ok, not the real Gertrude and Miss B, since they’re dead, but a pretty damn close representation. Gertie is large and squat and wears a plain white shift, black pants, and a florid red scarf. Alice is mousy, dour looking, and in a shapeless housedress. She cuts Gertrude’s foie gras for her (how hard can it be?) and refills her glass of red wine at an exact if invisible mark about one-third up, just where the glass begins to narrow.

Gertrude does all the talking. And eating. Alice just watches and listens. At the feet of Gertrude is a small shaved dog, his head resting on the top of Gertrude’s sandaled feet. Alice pays no attention to the dog, even when Gertrude slips him scraps of rabbit from her plate. Obviously the dog has no use for Alice. And vice versa. 

There are only three or four occupied tables, though when I called earlier to make a reservation they told me the only time I could get in was 7:30, which is a bit early in France. I have come to the conclusion that the French do not like their restaurants full. They provide more tables than diners as a relief to the eye. Or maybe so the waiters won’t have to work too hard (they never seem to work too hard). There is never anyone busting your chops to finish your coffee and throw your AX card on the table. In France, if more than half the tables are occupied just once during the evening, the restaurant is an unqualified success. That’s all there is to it. And when you make a reservation here, it means that a specific table is actually going to be held for you so that it is ready when you arrive. When I gave my name to the hostess, she immediately took me to my large zinc table, which would have been perfect for a party of eight, while seven or eight smaller tables sat empty. Obviously, this was my table. Amazing.

So I order a dozen oysters, of course, and some small clams broiled in their shells with shallots, ham, bread crumbs, and parsley, and then a lobster rissoto with shavings of parmesan and half a spear of asparagus sticking straight up at me. A Gaulic phallic.

It starts to get dark. The pumpkin-sized candles are lit. Slowly the moon rises over the garden. Gertrude and Alice finish their meal. The dog sits in Gertrude’s lap while she sips an espresso. Alice stares at the dog as if she too wishes she could sit in Gertrude’s lap.

When I have finished the Sancerre and a dish of fresh raspberries with crème fraiche, I do not stir. Why should I? It’s a beautiful balmy night and the table is mine for the evening.