DEAR GRAYDON CARTER, Let me tell you a story about France. A few years ago, Claude La Badarian found himself in Paris, the foremost city of the good-looking nation of France. Unaware that Paris cabs waited at "stands," Claude, in France, sporting a first-edition gut and an ass you could land a plane on (both developed in motel-locused typhoons of pizza boxes and tariffy bottles during the well-compensated writing of an unproduced film about revenants–still in Spanish "development hell"), spent about two hours in a fierce downpour, attempting, springtime in Parisly, to flag cabs as if he were on Hudson Street. Claude was not only miserable but ridiculous. No cabs stopped, obviously. The drivers of many cabs and many civilian cars blew their French horns as it were, and made gestures (some rude, some possibly intended to be helpful) at the bewildered, miserable, rain-soaked prodigy. All Claude wanted to do, if he did nothing else in his life, was to get to the Gare de Lyon and go to Italy. Finally Claude gave up and staggered a few blocks, entering, finally, a tourist trap called the Café Arc de Triomphe–for some reason filled with midges–it is still there–so are the midges–I am in Paris now, at the George V, waiting for Elizabeth Jagger to come out of the bathroom–where he ignited a cigarette, dragged open his "bicycle bag" and examined his wet, condition-unknown laptop.
"I don’t speak French," said Claude, not looking at the waiter, forgetting for the moment that he knew all modern languages.
"I don’t speak English!" said the waiter, but, to his credit, not as if it were a recommendation.
"Good," said Claude, "let me have a coffee then."
"With cream?"
"Certainly," said Claude.
That is how you deal with fucking waiters in France. The Senator, desperate for two eggs, used to order "dix oeuvres" (which sounds like half of what his grandson serves in Café La Badarian) in the morning and finally gave up and took his meals over at American Legion Post Number One. The coffee was brought, in a Frog micro-mug, and when that was demolished like a shot of tequila on Cuervo night at a North Shore bar owned jointly by the Mafia and a DWI’d Boston Bruin, ca. 1980 (that was the great era of child-slaughtering right-wingers, Graydon, and, face it, for drunk driving generally: there was no "recovery" in those days, it being before Jonathan Edwards again took the pulpit and the congregation shrieked as the Archfiend flew away with its more cosmopolitan members), Claude had another one, this one accompanied by a large brandy, little bits of paper recording the purchase of these items being stuck under the ashtray in the famous French way.
It was while Claude was feebly gesturing for a second novel, I mean brandy, that the only other customer in the establishment, a fucking gorgeous–knock-down gorgeous–blonde about 24 years of age, sitting in front of a smudged parfait glass with a spoon sticking out of it, interceded on Claude’s behalf, saying, in French, something, warmheartedly, like, Hey, that very wet fat guy who can’t speak French needs an effing drink. Then she smiled at Claude, biting her lower lip, as if something really good was happening between her and the baffled genius. The waiter came: Claude smiled and nodded gratefully at his savior. Unbelievably, she (the savioress) came instantly over to his table and sat down eagerly. Claude still does get women, but this was totally out of control and Claude, homard de tout le monde if nothing else, realized he was probably dealing with a case of professionalism, or psychosis.
You are American? she asked. Got that right, answered Claude, though the term "American" is a fiction for simpletons, foreigners and federals: the USA is a lot of countries unnaturally related. Claude is a member of the New England civilization. Poor Claude, literate little boy, fond of drawing, diffidence, solitude, beans on toast, "r" unknown in the La Badarian household, never saw himself on tv–not on Gilligan, not in cowboy films–until he saw David Hemmings in the cheapo early-60s seaside musical comedy Be My Guest. Don’t fucking tell me about America. And don’t tell me I’m an Anglophile either or I’ll kick your ass. Anyway, the French girl said that she had been two years in New York one year previously, where she "had her studies" at FIT.
"Coals to Newcastle" was not the thing to say, but Claude, after dismissing "coals to Newcastle," which was utterly wrong, algebraically, in a way he couldn’t put his finger on, but he had to say something, so he finally opted for, "Surely, you’re not serious." She assured him, nodding solemnly, that she was very serious indeed about having gone from France to study at FIT, which raised obvious questions about her intelligence. Yet there is only one thing to do with women, as Oscar Wilde, of all people, noticed: make love to them if they are pretty and ignore them if they are plain. In Claude’s case one could say that his general rule of thumb is say something stupid to them if they are nice and go home with them if they are completely fucking psychotic.
Being at the time incompletely made of money Claude waved for the waiter to bring the girl something, the something turning out to be a glass of vino. One thing led to another, some features of Paris were inspected, and 745 minutes later Claude, having missed the last Milan train, was in a different district of Paris (as far away from, and it wasn’t just the alcohol, where he had been as Bar Harbor is from 5th Ave.), sitting in a peeling apartment dating from the St. Bartholomew’s massacre and resembling D’Artagnan’s first digs in the French Big Apple, being shown pastel sketches of…pocketbooks. That’s right, pocketbooks. The woman was a French pocketbook designer, and evidently employed in this unimaginable profession. Someone has to design pocketbooks–Christ, there are even probably turbulent pocketbook freelancers–but you never think you’ll meet them. Claude admired the drawings and then (having long since admitted to being a famous American writer) tackled her in the lounge. In the morning, Claude loaned his new friend some money to cover emergency household expenses of the kind that pop up suddenly after consensual intercourse in the Frog metropolis, and departed for Milan, where he panicked and went to Holland. In the Gelderland, Claude realized he had the clap, and after some sort of revolting, semi-explosive discharge while pissing in the shower retired crying to his bed. It seemed so cliched to have caught a dose in Paris; and it seemed hideous to have gonorrhea in godly rural Holland. Claude probably wasn’t the first man to look at a tidy Dutch church, with children coming out of it, and think, Yes but I have gonorrhea, but he felt like it.
Ah well. What are you going to do.
Anyway, Graydon, si Claude n’existait pas, il faudrait l’inventer. About Wolcott’s job, yes, he’s very good, and yes, he’s more "reliable" than me, and yes, I fucking "attacked" Elizabeth Hurley when sent to do a profile, and YES, I never paid you back the advance against expenses, but
Fuck. Hang on. Oh shit.
Sincerely,
Claude La Badarian
Restaurant Critic
The Aristocrat Magazine
Next
Week: A Police Report on the Dreadful Demise of Claude La Badarian
