Chapter Six
They arrived in Paris by midafternoon and headed straight to the H?tel Plaza Athénée, a luxury establishment on Avenue Montaigne in the 8th arrondissement near the Champs-élysées, Patrick thinking about love languages the whole way. They were not just a form of expression, but rather ways to reveal yourself that others found meaningful. The key was not so much for the kids to understand their own languages (that would be the job of their future partners one day), but for Patrick to open their eyes to ways in which Greg and Livia might be a good match, and ways in which Livia might be expressing love for the two of them that they were currently missing. Guncle Love Languages. Were they as practical as his Guncle Rules? Maybe not in the short run. But his mission was clear nonetheless. He would teach these kids about love, how to love others, and how to be loved in return. Was he the best conduit for this lesson in the wake of his own breakup? He hoped the kids wouldn’t ask. But the best teachers were also students, as learning was never done.
As they stepped out of their taxi, both Maisie and Grant looked up with wonder at the red awnings that hung outside the hotel’s every room and at the window boxes, which were positively spilling with geraniums. Maisie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Patrick smiled knowingly. Paris was to be taken in with all five senses. Even the air felt different here; it sparkled with romance and possibility. His plan was already working.
“Why are we staying here?” Maisie asked. She didn’t sound judgmental as much as she did curious.
“Because it’s the H?tel Plaza Athénée, that’s why. It’s classically French. You’d prefer a Courtyard by Marriott?”
“It looks familiar.” Grant scratched his head as he waited for recognition to set in.
“Of course it’s familiar, just like the Empire State Building is familiar, or Julia Roberts is familiar—it’s world-famous.” Their driver handed Patrick their luggage from the taxi’s trunk as Patrick handed him a generous tip in return. “We probably shouldn’t stay here, in all honesty, as it was bought by the sultan of Brunei. It’s illegal to be gay in Brunei. Damn the Bruneians for ruining all the best hotels. Well, not ruining them, ruining them, look at this place, it’s gorgeous. Just morally ruining them. They could probably take away my gay card simply for staying here.”
“You have a card?” Grant asked. “Like Costco?”
“Costco? Bite your tongue.”
“They could take it away? Who’s they?” Maisie wondered, looking around as if they might be jumped by the team from Queer Eye.
“I mean, they wouldn’t dare. The first time I came to Paris I had a brief affair with a Parisian street mime—that ought to earn me residual gay goodwill. By the way, stay away from the mimes, they’re all hands.” Grant opened his notebook, but Patrick snatched his pen before he could write. “That’s not going in your report. You let me worry about keeping my gay card, okay? But you probably shouldn’t call me GUP while we’re here. They might hang me up by my thumbs.”
“The G in GUP could mean anything,” Maisie dissented. “You could be our Great-Uncle Patrick.”
“Good lord, I’m not old enough to be your Great-Uncle Patrick.” He took three steps toward the door, wondering why he was burdened with all the luggage. “Unless you mean great as in magnificent, formidable, preeminent. Then we can have that discussion.” Patrick’s face soured as he imagined them calling him MUP or FUP. “But even then, we should probably come up with something else.” Patrick handed each kid a suitcase and saluted the doorman, who welcomed them inside.
“Gargantuan?” Grant asked as they entered the lobby.
“No.”
“Grumpy? Grimy?” They were both having too much fun with this game. “I know. Ghastly.”
“Grotesque,” Grant giggled, and Maisie doubled over laughing. Patrick turned to chide them, but didn’t; he was a sucker for seeing them laugh. Both kids stumbled around like little drunks trying to find their footing, their faces turning a beet red. No doubt many guests visiting Paris had staggered through their hotel lobbies a similar shade after imbibing too much wine.
The lobby of the H?tel Plaza Athénée was bathed in ivory, and majestic pillars stood like circular guards protecting an extravagant crystal chandelier. Strapped to each pillar was an ornate vase holding opulent arrangements with irises and crocuses and tall leafy greens.
“I know!” Grant exclaimed.
“What do you know?” Patrick asked, bracing himself, thinking the kid had found the ultimate insult beginning with g.
“Why I recognize this place.”
Patrick exhaled, relieved. Maybe his nephew had some taste after all.
Grant turned in a complete circle to consider the rest of the lobby. “Yup. Just as I suspected. It was in the movie Smurfs 2.”
Patrick turned to bang his head against one of the pillars.
Grant looked up at his uncle. “Have you not seen it?”
“Do I look like I’ve seen Smurfs 2?”
Grant studied his uncle’s face. “Well, that’s understandable. If you haven’t seen the first one, it probably wouldn’t make sense.”
Patrick knocked his head against the pillar a second time. An agitated red spot marked the center of his forehead. “Smurfs 2?! This is where Big found Carrie at the end of Sex and the City. Where he finally told her she was the one.”
Dubious, Maisie put her hands on her hips. “There was a person named Big?”
“Yes! Well, Mr. Big. Big was his last name. He rescued Carrie after she was kidnapped by Mikhail Baryshnikov.”
“Was he a pirate?” Grant asked.
Patrick took in their blank faces. How would he get them to understand love if he couldn’t get them to appreciate Carrie and Big? “No, a Russian sculptor. Never mind. Just wait here, the both of you. Grotesque Uncle Patrick needs to check us in. And then we have a busy afternoon planned.”
Patrick nudged their luggage off to the side and proceeded to the hotel’s elaborately carved front desk. “Smurfs 2,” he muttered, reaching for his ID.
Paris was known for many things, world-class museums, towering monuments and cathedrals from every era that were renowned the world over. The highest-class gastronomy in dimly lit restaurants and robust coffee on the sun-dappled terraces of the city’s many cafés. History and architecture, not to mention fashion: Chanel, Saint Laurent, Vuitton, Dior, Hermès. The city was famous for its pastry and macarons in sumptuous colors and the mellifluous sound of street buskers with big instruments and even bigger dreams. Catacombs, parks, bridges, romance, greenery, strolls along the River Seine—Paris had it all, including the richest hot chocolate a kid could ever dream of drinking. Which was where Patrick decided they should start.
Perhaps the city’s finest chocolat chaud was at the renowned Angelina’s. Patrick marched the kids into the tearoom at 226 rue de Rivoli, and after a short wait they were seated at a table for three. It was summer, yes, but inside, the room had a warm glow that was a welcome embrace and despite the muggy afternoon it was easy to imagine they had just stepped in from the cold. Steam rose from ornate tea sets, and towers of pastry welcomed guests with hearty appetites. It was a bit touristy for Patrick’s taste, the place was overflowing with Americans—if he didn’t have an agenda he would have chosen anyplace else—but the kids seemed unbothered and in fact were subdued by their surroundings.
“I can’t read the menu,” Grant confessed after a moment of study, and he sent it sailing across the table at Patrick.
“That’s because it’s in French.”
“Why is it in French?”
“Because we’re in France. Are you going to be like this the whole trip?”
Grant considered his answer carefully while Maisie acquainted herself with her newly downloaded SayHi app, looking for an option to scan the specials.
“Forget the menu. I’m ordering for all three of us.”
Maisie glared at him skeptically. “You’re ordering?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Ordering what? There are a lot of things we don’t like,” she reminded him, but she was too distracted by her app to list them.
“I saw a McDonald’s, we passed it on the way,” Grant offered helpfully, never one to miss the Golden Arches, but Patrick shushed him.
“You want pomme frites?”
“No,” Grant replied firmly. “But I could go for some fries.”
“I told you, I’m here to teach you about love. No one is going to fall in love at McDonald’s. Not in Paris, certainly.”
Their server was dressed in a tie and white apron meticulously tied at his waist. His clothes were tailored and he stood with great pride, as if he were serving nobility. He twitched a thin mustache that made him look like John Waters had been animated to be in the film Ratatouille. “Bonjour messieurs et mademoiselle.” Grant was too panic-stricken to respond, but Patrick didn’t hesitate. Maisie held up her phone to capture the exchange.
“Bonjour. Nous voudrions vos chocolats chauds célèbres pour trois.”
“Trés bien, monsieur. Tout de suite.” The server disappeared to place their order.
“Famous hot chocolate?” Maisie asked, tapping her phone on the table three times as if her app had grossly misfired. People could be famous, she knew that. Places, too. But hot cocoa?
“Guncle Love Language number one. ‘The Finer Things.’ I believe it was the great philosopher Steve Winwood who said that finer things keep shining through. But don’t be a snob about it, not everyone can come to Paris. I’m saying if you have good dishes, use the good dishes for a meal with someone you care about. If you have nice shoes, but you’re afraid to get them dirty, wear the good shoes and complete your outfit. Finer things. Don’t save them for a day that may never come, enjoy them with someone you love now. And if you’re going to have simple things like a hot beverage, you might as well have the world’s best.”
“I thought number one was silence,” Maisie challenged.
“Oh, blessed silence, that’s right. Let’s observe that as we wait on Love Language deux.”
“Duh,” Grant repeated, but, except for another inquiry as to why they spoke French in France, said nothing more and instead took in his surroundings.
Angelina’s was founded by Anton Rumpelmayer as a gourmet temple to the French way of life. Among other things (like its Mont-Blanc pastry, which appealed to the keenest of palates), Angelina’s was known for its hot chocolate, which was created using three carefully collected cocoas from Niger, Ghana, and C?te d’Ivoire; its recipe had been kept a closely guarded secret for more than a century.
“How did you know about this place?” Maisie asked, eventually breaking their silence.
“I’m a citizen of the world.”
“No you’re not. Your passport is the same as ours.”
Patrick ignored her. There was no passport stamp for emotional destinations.
Their hot chocolate arrived in two ceramic pitchers, which made it seem all very French, and was presented to them alongside three delicate cups with matching saucers. Their server graciously poured, expertly not spilling a drop. The chocolate was unlike its American cousin. It was not runny, or tepid, or bland, needing marshmallows or Cool Whip or other such nonsense to make it palatable. No, this drink was rich, molten, and looked like an actual flood of melted chocolate might, mixed with a just a hint of milk. It wasn’t difficult to imagine a gluttonous German kid drowning in a stream of it in Willy Wonka’s whimsical factory. Their dessert came with a small bowl of whipped, unsweetened cream.
“This is hot chocolate?” Grant asked doubtfully, concerned it might be some kind of gravy or fine consommé made with something from the long list of things they abhorred.
“Yes. I’m sorry it wasn’t delivered by a cloying Swiss miss in a dirndl.”
Maisie held her phone up to Patrick’s face. “A what?” she asked in an effort to get him to repeat it.
“What are you doing?” Patrick pushed the phone away from his face.
“SayHi,” she explained.
Patrick waved his finger. “I’m not falling for that again.”
Grant inhaled deeply and married an expression of relief with actual delight as Patrick spooned a dollop of cream into his own mug and gave it a gentle stir. “Maisie?” he offered, and she consented to have cream added to hers as well. Grant, however, saw no need to mar a perfectly delectable treat and he hoisted his cup with both hands. “Careful, your mug might be hot.”
But to Grant, scalding his tongue was only a mild deterrent. He took a small sip to test the beverage’s temperature, blew on his mug twice, then knocked back the whole thing.
“Hey hey hey,” Patrick cautioned as he tasted his with a spoon. “This hot chocolate is for sipping, not gulping like a pelican.”
“I wish I was a pelican,” came Grant’s reply. “Then I could store more of this in my throat pouch.”
Patrick shuddered. “Don’t say ‘throat pouch’ in a chocolaterie.”
Maisie’s phone dinged. “Chocolate shop,” she explained, her translation app already working overtime. Patrick glared at his niece’s phone; he did not consent to having their conversations eavesdropped on by an app, but also wondered if this could save him crucial time constantly having to explain himself. When Maisie finally deigned to sip from her cup she confessed, “This is quite... something,” with an air of delighted surprise.
“Would you look at that. I left you flummoxed on my first try.”
Maisie glanced at her phone, but there was no ding.
“Give it a rest, would you? Flummoxed is an everyday English word.” Maisie raised an eyebrow; their definitions of “everyday” were quite different. Her expression, coupled with the way she held her cup, properly, gently supporting it with her second hand, made her look uncharacteristically like a Jane Austen heroine.
“Well, I like it,” Grant said, placing his now empty cup on its saucer with a clang and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You like it, where did it go?”
Grant pointed straight down his gullet, so Patrick poured him what was left from the second pot, while urging the boy to show some restraint—and use a napkin.
“I’m not really a chocolate person,” Maisie began. “But even I have to admit this is pretty good.” She was like her father that way, she had a strange palate and preferred savory to sweet.
“Pretty good. Coco Chanel had one every day from this very spot, if you can believe tha—”
Grant didn’t hesitate. “I can.” It was clear he didn’t know who Coco Chanel was, but that was of secondary importance.
The clink of a spoon, a teacup, a saucer. The room was alive with chatter and the ringing of china in a way that filled Patrick with momentary warmth.
Maisie set her cup down. “Oh, GUP. You are so wise to teach us about love.”
Grant peered into a now empty pitcher, then tried to fit his entire fist inside. “I’d like another lesson just like this one.” He licked the chocolate off his hand, hoping Patrick would order them a second round.
“I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to disarm me with flattery, to get me to give up on this quest. But let me tell you something. I eat flattery for breakfast. Flattery fuels me, okay? So you’ll have to try another tactic.”
“Fine,” Grant said, tending to his paw like a dog.
“Food is love, don’t you see? Never more so than when you treat yourself to the very best of something. Doesn’t this make you open your eyes to the world around you? You don’t have to become gourmands, but aren’t you the least bit... epicurious?”
Maisie reached for her phone, but Patrick snatched it from her before she could grab it; SayHi was no match for his wordplay.
“Come on. Livia has great taste. Does she treat you to food?”
“She doesn’t like it when we order pizza,” Grant griped.
“She says it’s not real pizza,” Maisie added.
“She is Italian. I think she would know.” Patrick wasn’t sure how he would win this argument on Livia’s behalf with two kids who preferred Domino’s. “We’ll get you some pizza in Italy and we can see if she knows what she’s talking about.”
“She never knows what she’s talking about,” Maisie explained. Patrick knitted his brows. It was going to take much more than a language app to bridge the gap between those two.
“Oh, come on. She’s from Italy. She knows pizza and risotto and wine. You’re lucky she’s not from one of the European countries that boils potatoes and cabbage. Do you know what kohlrabi is? I don’t think anyone does.”
“It’s not just food. She thinks you’re a clown.”
Patrick tried not to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. “She said that? Clown?”
Maisie made an indecipherable face.
Grant pointed to his uncle and said, “Who’s this clown?” sounding like a little Robert De Niro. He then doubled over laughing, recalling his favorite insult.
“Your sister is just trying to start something. It could have been a difference in language. She said clown when she meant comedian.” It was true Livia traded in a currency that was very different from his. She was not seduced by his type of stardom when she herself was nobility, and her wealth seemed to dwarf his. But that didn’t mean she didn’t respect him. Did it? He nudged his niece as he tried to shake the thought from his mind. “Come on, drink up. It’s good for you.”
Maisie wasn’t convinced. “This is good for us?”
“Yes, it is.”
Even Grant voiced his skepticism. “Chocolate is good for you?”
Patrick nodded. “The New England School of Medicine did a study,” he lied. Chocolate like this was good for the soul, and the finer things good for the heart.