sure of it,â he said, and we toasted each other, almost silently.
The dining room was brightly illuminated, but white curtains covered the lower half of the windows, blocking the view. Mark and I, my family, my friendsâwe were safely contained on an island in the middle of Paris. All that was visible from our table was the sky, the green tops of the linden trees, and the limestone columns that have framed the gardens for over two centuries.
Within a few weeks, after our honeymoon, I was back in Paris, sorting through gifts of crystal and china, and I read in the paper about Guy Martin, the thirty-three-year-old chef who had taken over at Le Grand Véfour. Such things made headlines in France.
Two decades later, while planning the trip to Paris to commemorate our anniversary, I remembered that news story and was stunned to learn that not only was Martin still there, but in 2010 heâd bought the restaurant outright. Whether it was fate or choice or some kind of compromise that had carried him to this point, Guy Martinâlike Mark and Iâhad remained devoted to the decision he made all those years ago. I was intrigued. I wanted to meet him and hear what he might have to say on the subject.
As I left for Paris, I was uncertain what awaited me. I suppose I wanted to recall the promise of my wedding day, to experience anew the splendid room, and to peer back on my less-weary self with eyes that were now two decades older and two decades more married. It was a sensation I sought, an assurance that longevity, whether in a restaurant or a relationship, does not have to equal decrepitude. I wondered whether my marriage had measured up to the place where it began, or vice-versa.
I hadnât expected to make it this far. Three years earlier, my relationship and all my beliefs had been shattered when I fell, briefly, for another man. Had the object of my obsession wished it, I would have walked across the ocean to Africa, where he lived, to start a new life with him. But he didnât, and my heart splintered in the aftermath. Agonized, I broke down, unable to move from my bed for weeks and then months as I stared out the window and flooded my pillow with tears for another man.
I reached to Mark to rescue me, and incredibly, he did. My husband saw me as more deserving of pityâor at least compassionâthan punishment and forgave me for what was certainly a betrayal, but also, in his eyes, a most human transgression. In retrospect, I chock it up to midlife and hormones and the insane need to try and stop the mirthless passage of years. We were quite roughed up by the episode, but once I emerged on the other sideâalive, first of all, and strongerâthere were no more doubts that we would stay together. Forget about people changing, moving apart, growing in opposite directions. For Mark, to fail would have been to acknowledge a twenty-year mistake, and he couldnât brook such a waste of his time and judgment. Plus, we had never stopped loving each other.
But Mark and I would have to celebrate that victoryâand our milestoneâtogether, later, at home. He was stuck stateside with a pressing deadline, and besides, we were broke again and couldnât justify two tickets to France. So I would be dining solo at Le Grand Véfour. It wasnât at all what Iâd hoped, but I was curious nonetheless and even excited, for both that transcendent realm of my six-course lunch and the fact-finding mission with Guy Martin that would accompany it.
The day before my reservation at Le Grand Véfour, I retraced the path I took on my wedding day. I visited the palatial
mairie
off the rue de Bretagne where, after the ceremony, the mayor of the 3rd arrondissement handed us our official
livre de famille
, with blank pages for up to eight kids. Had the playground across the street been there on our wedding day? If so, I never noticed. Before I had my children, now fourteen and seventeen, a
The dining room was brightly illuminated, but white curtains covered the lower half of the windows, blocking the view. Mark and I, my family, my friendsâwe were safely contained on an island in the middle of Paris. All that was visible from our table was the sky, the green tops of the linden trees, and the limestone columns that have framed the gardens for over two centuries.
Within a few weeks, after our honeymoon, I was back in Paris, sorting through gifts of crystal and china, and I read in the paper about Guy Martin, the thirty-three-year-old chef who had taken over at Le Grand Véfour. Such things made headlines in France.
Two decades later, while planning the trip to Paris to commemorate our anniversary, I remembered that news story and was stunned to learn that not only was Martin still there, but in 2010 heâd bought the restaurant outright. Whether it was fate or choice or some kind of compromise that had carried him to this point, Guy Martinâlike Mark and Iâhad remained devoted to the decision he made all those years ago. I was intrigued. I wanted to meet him and hear what he might have to say on the subject.
As I left for Paris, I was uncertain what awaited me. I suppose I wanted to recall the promise of my wedding day, to experience anew the splendid room, and to peer back on my less-weary self with eyes that were now two decades older and two decades more married. It was a sensation I sought, an assurance that longevity, whether in a restaurant or a relationship, does not have to equal decrepitude. I wondered whether my marriage had measured up to the place where it began, or vice-versa.
I hadnât expected to make it this far. Three years earlier, my relationship and all my beliefs had been shattered when I fell, briefly, for another man. Had the object of my obsession wished it, I would have walked across the ocean to Africa, where he lived, to start a new life with him. But he didnât, and my heart splintered in the aftermath. Agonized, I broke down, unable to move from my bed for weeks and then months as I stared out the window and flooded my pillow with tears for another man.
I reached to Mark to rescue me, and incredibly, he did. My husband saw me as more deserving of pityâor at least compassionâthan punishment and forgave me for what was certainly a betrayal, but also, in his eyes, a most human transgression. In retrospect, I chock it up to midlife and hormones and the insane need to try and stop the mirthless passage of years. We were quite roughed up by the episode, but once I emerged on the other sideâalive, first of all, and strongerâthere were no more doubts that we would stay together. Forget about people changing, moving apart, growing in opposite directions. For Mark, to fail would have been to acknowledge a twenty-year mistake, and he couldnât brook such a waste of his time and judgment. Plus, we had never stopped loving each other.
But Mark and I would have to celebrate that victoryâand our milestoneâtogether, later, at home. He was stuck stateside with a pressing deadline, and besides, we were broke again and couldnât justify two tickets to France. So I would be dining solo at Le Grand Véfour. It wasnât at all what Iâd hoped, but I was curious nonetheless and even excited, for both that transcendent realm of my six-course lunch and the fact-finding mission with Guy Martin that would accompany it.
The day before my reservation at Le Grand Véfour, I retraced the path I took on my wedding day. I visited the palatial
mairie
off the rue de Bretagne where, after the ceremony, the mayor of the 3rd arrondissement handed us our official
livre de famille
, with blank pages for up to eight kids. Had the playground across the street been there on our wedding day? If so, I never noticed. Before I had my children, now fourteen and seventeen, a
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