My Friend, Hugo

My husband Richard never had any desire to go to Paris. Born of Italian heritage, his favorite travel destination was Italy. “Besides,” he told me, the French are a bit too arrogant for my taste.”

Myself, having a French Canadian background and eager to practice my childhood French, I had been to Paris once with my first husband and, again, following our divorce, with my two teenage kids. I was ready to go again, but Richard was not easily convinced. Until 2002, when our very best friends invited us to join them in a time share in France for a week in Normandy and a week in Paris. The hotel would be covered; all we had to pay for was our airfare and daily expenses. I was in the moment they proposed it and it was a deal that Richard couldn’t refuse.

Since that first trip in 2002, until the time Richard became cripped with arthritis and could no longer to travel, about 6 years ago, Richard and I went to Paris 14 times. Visit by visit, Richard came to know and love the French people. He marveled at the way they’d go out of their way to be helpful—with directions on the street or on the road. “Merci,” Richard would say to thank them, or “D’accord!” to let them know he understood. Then he’d turn to me and say, in full seriousness, “They’re not arrogant; they just want us to make an effort to speak their language.” To myself I’d say, “It’s about time you realized that!

We covered all of Paris, mostly by foot and, over the years, grew to prefer the Rue Saint Honore over the Champ Elysees; Saint Chapelle over Notre Dame, the Right Bank over the Left; the 1^st arrondissement over the 6^th; the Musee d’Orsay over the Louvre; the Tuilleries over Luxemburg Gardens; baguettes over croissants; Burgundy over Chablis, and Brie over Camembert. But most of all, we had a decided preference for one French restaurant over all the others in the city.

Rather than making dinner reservations in advance, which everyone advised us to do, Richard and I enjoyed exploring the streets of Paris and finding restaurants along the way that appealed to us. One afternoon, as we walked along Rue Saint Roch, just a few blocks from our hotel, we came across LaCordonnerie (French for shoe repair shop), on the street floor of a two story building showing a sign that it had been built in the 1700’s. We peered through the front window and saw a small charming space with old, burnished wooden beams and floors, a bright open kitchen, and 10-12 tables simply covered with sparkling white table cloths and napkins. As we were reading the menu posted on the window, the front door opened. Out came a handsome, congenial-looking man, no older than his mid 30’s. “Hello,” he said, “I’m Hugo, can I help you?” Yes, Richard said. “Do you recommend we eat here?” “Yes, the young man said, without hesitation. I’m the chef; my name is Hugo.” We made a reservation with him for dinner that very moment.

I remember that evening fondly. Hugo came to our table to explain the menu he had prepared for that night. I selected a velvety tomato soup topper with a poached egg and bits of bacon, followed by Dover Sole and mushrooms en croute. Richard had an avocado and crayfish salad, filet of duck, and potatoes gratinee. We shared everything and ended the meal with chocolate fondue and sorbet de pommes. Neither of us wasted time or calories on green salad. We returned the next two nights in a row and had equally delicious meals. During our next 13 visits, we had dinner at La Cordonnerie every night except on weekends, when the restaurant, and most other French restaurants, was closed.

We came to call the restaurant “Hugo’s.” Watching him in the kitchen was our evening’s entertainment. He had learned everything, including his expert English, from his father who had owned the restaurant before him. Hugo made everything from scratch and, except for soups and stews, prepared nothing until a dish was ordered. He had a standing menu available every day but prided himself on his daily specials, and rightly so, including marinated pork with apricots, cod with cumin and cinnamon, sweetbreads with honey, rabbit with lentils, sardine mousse with dill, homemade ravioli the size of postage stamps with tarragon, chestnut pudding and bananas flambe. Steak Frites, a popular item among Americans, and always on the menu, was often ordered, much to Hugo’s dismay. “I wish they’d order something else,” he'd tell us later, “Steak Frites is so boring to make.

There was nowhere else in Paris we wanted to eat and we recommended it to all our friends who were planning a visit there. They thought we were nuts: “You go to Paris and keep eating at the same restaurant? What’s the point?” they’d ask. “The point is,” we’d say, “is that you have never eaten at Hugo’s!” Give him a try and see what you think. One by one, they returned home with rave reviews, though I don’t recall anyone who ate at Hugo’s as religiously as we did. It became our home away from home. From the minute we entered the restaurant and sat down, we felt as if we were eating in a private home, which is how Hugo wanted everyone to feel.

To be continued…..