Europe 2001: A Travelogue
Our Dinner with ... Max (no, not Andre)
Based on events from 22 September 2001, as recalled by Adam
The Internet is a great thing. Monica and I had originally wanted to find a restaurant in Paris that I had visited with my family in the past. Although we did not find this restaurant for reasons I still don't understand, I did find a number of other interesting options on the Michelin Guide's online site www.viamichelin.com. Nevertheless, we picked from Frommer's. One of the options under "eclectic, less expensive" was a little place called Café Max.
We had no idea what we were in for.
So, one Friday evening, Monica and I set off for a street some ten minutes walk from our hotel. We arrived at the appropriate location at 7:45 to find that the café, as with many places in Paris, was not open until 8:00 p.m. We waited on the rickety metal chairs outside and pondered the menu of the day until an older gentleman came to open the French doors and let us in.
As Frommers had accurately described, the interior of Max's little establishment is a bizarre mix which can best be described as belle epoque meets TGIFriday's meets grandpa's garage meets old-time steakhouse. Just in from the French doors, one faces a small standard bar on the left and tables on the right. A rickety coathanger was squeezed in next to the door between the bar and a leather bench jammed with various sized boxes. To complete this Café Max style, the following design elements were incorporated into the restaurant: neon, gnomes, historic beer posters, dried flowers, Renaissance-style mirrors, model trains, wooden ducks, dried flowers, postcards, Asian sculptures of gods, 1920's-era fashion posters, candles, brass fixtures, cut glass vases, wooden barriers, a plastic squeeze doll, license plates from various U.S. states and European nations, a real potato mounted on the wall in a small glass container, and (in the bathroom) a giant fly on the ceiling. Everything was covered with a thin layer of dust except the neon, which was covered with a thick layer of dust.
Monica and I sat down, and the same man who opened the door and seated us brought out bread which he cut and served to us. He then brought menus. It turned out that the menu outside was the entire menu for the restaurant (two appetizers, three main dishes, one dessert). The reason for the limited selection became abundantly clear later.
One of these reasons became clear on my way to the bathroom. First, the older man appeared to be the only employee, the evidence of which was that there was nobody else in the kitchen (Monica and I later confirmed this fact by asking the man, who also turned out to be Max). It was clear that for certain dinner elements such as the potatoes that Max had cooked them all ahead of time and then reheated them when needed. Indeed, the entire grubby little kitchen consisted as far as I could tell of a cast iron stove and oven, a few pans, and a knife or two. This would not be the last time I questioned whether Max had been bribing the health inspector.
Soon, Max came with the first course, the terrine. Monica had not known exactly what a terrine was, but neither of us could have been prepared for its form. It was simply a huge souffle dish half-filled with pate which had clearly been partially eaten already, with a tremendous, slightly grubby knife with which we were to cut off pieces for ourselves. Neither of us found the terrine particularly tasty, but the presentation was certainly original. Of course, he later served the same bowl with the same (probably uncleaned) knife to the next table.
I suppose I should take a moment to describe Max himself. The restaurant guidebook that recommended this "eclectic" place described him as an aging Bella Lugosi, a description that seems perfectly apt. He had a warm, casual way about him that suggested humility but pride in fine restaurant ownership. Looking back at what I have written might suggest that this was a horrible experience, but in fact Max made for quite a fun ride. His gruff but endearing demeanor made the place a find rather than a nightmare.
Next was the "salad" course, an overly dressed seafood concoction on a bed of torn-up butter lettuce. It was huge. Fortunately, it gave Monica something to eat given that she did not like the terrine as much as I.
Following the salad was the dinner course. Monica had a mixed grill of chicken, lamb, sausage, potatoes and cabbage, a local peasant dish I had seen before. I had the duck. They were quite tasty if a little odd. Of course, they arrived in their own little clay pots because Max had (I assumed) put them in the oven with everything else between serving tables.
Somewhere towards the middle of our dinner, a loud but funny middle-aged Brit with his equally funny young French companion and the Frenchman's Asian girlfriend sat down at a table next to ours. Max greeted them as if he knew the Brit quite well, and over the next hour or so we struck up a conversation. Notable bits from the discussion: at some point, the young French man commented that he was not wearing a tie but the Brit was. The Brit said, "Well, I can fix that" and promptly whipped off his tie with a flourish. The French fellow commented, "In France, that is a way of saying, 'Let's all get naked in the name of God.'"
It was in the middle of enjoying the ice cream dessert that we discovered another way Max economizes. He asked if we were done with our bread, and we indicated that we were. He then dumped our uneaten bread in with another few slices and served it up to the folks two tables away.
We bid Max's a sad goodbye. When he found out that we were from Los Angeles, he gave us a parting gift of Parisian postcards. I noted that Max had on his cash register postcards sent back to him from all around the world, from Thailand to Seattle. I suppose others had found Max as charming and strange as we had.