Coq au Vin Read Online Free PDF

rue de Chat-Qui-Peche. The Cat Who Fishes? What the hell was the point of that? Right after finding it, I had had an even bigger disappointment. I had wandered over to the rue Mouffetard, where, I had been told, a lot of cute third world students ate cheap Middle Eastern meals. I was promptly groped and nearly kidnaped by a tobacconist with hideous b.o., and had never again set foot on that street.
    At least the movie was no disappointment. How many times had I seen Children of Paradise since my college roommate and I first caught it on campus? Too many to count. I cried again anyway.
    Lord, what a beautiful night. There was no way I was going to dinner alone again. Maybe I should turn into the first bar I saw and make a fool of myself by begging some stranger to come eat with me—or perhaps I should just pick up a sandwich someplace and call it a night.
    I went for the sandwich. I would not have been good company for anybody.
    After coffee the next morning an idea came to me. No, I hadn’t yet thought of my next move for locating Vivian. It was something a lot goofier than that.
    In fact, it was probably about the goofiest idea that had ever come my way: I decided to take my sax down into the metro and play for change. Reckless. Silly. Ill-considered. Preposterous.
    Formidable , I’d do it.
    It was the stuff of fantasy. Maybe I didn’t have the chops a lot of my fellow street musicians back in Manhattan had, but at least I’d be able to say I played in Paris. I got cleaned up and dressed in a hurry. I wanted to get out of the room and down into the metro before I had a chance to wimp out.
    I got a polite bonjour along with an indulgent smile from the old monsieur behind the reception desk as I tripped past him, my instrument case festooned with an old India print scarf I often use as a strap for the sax.
    I bought a booklet of metro tickets and passed through the turnstile. It was an act of supreme hubris to set up shop at Odéon, one of the busier stops in the city. What with the number of hip Parisians who lived in or passed through the neighborhood every day—students, intellectuals, musicians, jazzaholics of all stripes—I was betting half of them had heard better horns than mine before they’d finished their morning coffee.
    But what the hell. I wasn’t playing to pay the rent; I was living out a fantasy. I settled myself at the mouth of the passageway connecting the Clignancourt line to the Austerlitz, took a deep breath, and started to blow. I began with “How Deep Is the Ocean.” Hardly anyone took notice of me. That was okay, because my playing was a lot rustier than my French. I didn’t sound so great.
    Still, I pressed on. I chose “With a Song in My Heart” next. Not bad, if I do say so myself. And indeed, a cool-looking man in an expensive trench coat stood there attentively until I’d finished, and then began to dig into his pocket for change. The sound of the francs hitting the bottom of the case made my heart soar. I gave the guy a big shit-eating grin and immediately launched into “Lover Man.” I felt so good, anything seemed possible. Maybe even a certifiable miracle. Maybe I’d see Viv bustling along the tunnel, running to catch a train.
    The late morning crowd was replaced by the noontime one, people bustling along to lunch appointments, or going to do their shopping, or heading home for a leisurely meal and maybe some quick nooky—or vice versa—before returning to work.
    I had to chuckle at the idea I’d had earlier in the morning—that if I kept at it all day, maybe I could make enough in tips to buy Moms and Aubrey some nice perfume. Ha. I barely made enough to buy a Big Mac. It really didn’t bother me, though. I was having a good time.
    I went above ground about two o’clock and found a cart that had nice-looking crepes. I strolled along the Seine as I ate, and then turned into a beautiful old tabac on