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was in Paris,” he said. “The first time I pushed in the door of the restaurant, I gasped. It was just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “It was a
coup de coeur
, like when you meet someone—you aren’t certain, but you know something happened. You just know. I knew I belonged here.”
    In other words, I needed to envision the young man I’d fallen in love with and trust that I would feel the same way about him if we met today. I needed always to remind myself why it was Mark I’d chosen to marry. And I needed to recall the much younger woman I had been—the one who was never going to settle—and believe that even if I tended to be guided somewhat by passion, I also possessed a good dose of sense to harness the free will required for a sound decision.
    I closed my eyes and saw Mark and me with our limbs entwined, never imagining that I could one day be middle- aged and scarred by an episode of doubt, looking to a Paris restaurateur to shine a light on my future while illuminating my past.
    For twenty years, Martin had setbacks and dark times, and when Michelin took away his third star, it was his own version of the infidelity that nearly destroyed my marriage—and certainly my faith in the institution. But as guardian of Le Grand Véfour’s culinary legacy, he also led it into the twenty-first century with the same devotion that motivates those too optimistic, or hopeful, to entertain the idea of failure: hard work, flexibility, creativity, love.
    â€œI never thought I’d be here for twenty years,” he says.
    â€œTell me about it,” I said.
    â€œSometimes I’m still surprised.”
    â€œYes, me too,” I said.
    â€œBut as long as I feel good here, and as long as I have faith in what I do, I’ll stay,” he said. “Life is very short.”
    That, I realized, could also mean, why bother? Other adventures and other paths constantly tempt every man and woman in this life, forever posing the question of whether it takes more courage to stay put or move on. After all, in marriage—and in food—twenty years is already no small achievement.
    This time I sat in Jean Cocteau’s chair with my old friend, who had been here with us two decades ago. It was a strange thrill to now feel my own history in this room. The chilled bottle of pink Champagne we drank was the same kind Mark and I had served at our wedding, probably the same kind I’d shared with Nicolas, and the same I’ll drink with my husband on our fortieth anniversary. Even the food managed to be revelatory: Martin’s modern turn on Le Grand Véfour’s classic ravioli, now prepared with the finest foie gras in the land, seemed to prove that the best use of the past is to chart the course for the path ahead.
    Still, I missed Mark. He had alluded to his tenacity all those years ago, and because of it, I had something to celebrate. We had weathered what for many couples would have been insurmountable. And if I could learn anything from a restaurant that had withstood centuries and wars and misfortune—and a chef who taught me that fidelity does not have to mean compromise—then we too would last forever.
    I knew that just outside in the gardens, lovers kissed, babies tumbled, and a work crew trimmed the lawn, leaving the smell of cut grass. We could see none of it above the newly etched windows, just the sky over Paris—eternal, faithful, delicious.

    Marcia DeSanctis is a journalist and writer whose work has appeared in many publications, including
Vogue, Departures, The New York Times Magazine, Recce, Best Women’s Travel Writing 2011, Best Travel Writing 2011
and
Town & Country.
Her story
Masha
won the Solas Grand Prize Silver Award for Travel Writing in 2011. Formerly, she was a network news producer for ABC, NBC, CBS and Dow Jones. You can visit her at www.marciadesanctis.com .

ANGIE CHUANG

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