A Few Random Observations About One Small French Town.

AZAY-LE-RIDEAU — It’s my fourth day here and I’ve pretty much learned my way around this little town. According to official records, the full-time population in 2007 was 3400, and the owner of the little restaurant where I had dinner two nights ago doubts it’s changed much since then. That doesn’t count the tourists, of course, and there are more than a few of us wandering around.

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I looked up the words comprising the name of this town and could find nothing for Azay. I did find le rideau, however, which means “the curtain” … or so I thought. The man at the front desk here at the Hôtel Le Grand Monarque says, in fact, no one knows what either word means in the context of the town’s name. Azay is a complete mystery; they don’t know its origin or what it might have once meant. And all they know for sure about le rideau is that it definitely does NOT mean “drape” or “curtain” which, I suppose, is not so strange if you live in a place that’s many centuries old.

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Little things remind you of how the French have quite a different perspective on life. Yesterday I took some clothes to a blanchisserie, a little hole-in-the-wall laundry a block from the hotel. The jovial woman running the place assured me everything would be ready anytime today. I went back there today at about 1:45 and the place was closed and locked with no sign of life. An hour later, the woman was back at work. When I mentioned I had been there earlier, she looked at me as if to say “Why does this need explaining?” and said she closes every day between noon and 2:00 (plus ou moins) for a short nap, a bite of lunch, and perhaps a small glass of wine.

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Some things are universal: a half dozen ladies having lunch at the outdoor café where I ate spent at least ten minutes arguing with great good humor over how much of the check each of them owed.

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There are several pharmacies in town and, on a rotating basis, one of them is responsible for staying open all night in case someone needs a medication. You can tell which one because the traditional green cross neon sign flashes on and off all night.

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As I’ve mentioned, the streets are very narrow and, in proportion, so are the sidewalks, some of which are perhaps just 12 inches wide, requiring one of the pedestrians coming from opposite directions to step off the curb and into the street. It’s an inflexible rule: check for cars first. 

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Sometimes there IS no sidewalk, leading one to think perhaps it’s not a street at all. But perhaps not. One learns quickly that it is best to assume that everything is a street and that a small French car is hurtling down it at that very moment. Mopeds present a different hazard: you absolutely and without any doubt HEAR them, but you tend to underestimate how FAST they’re coming. 

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Service in French restaurants is invariably brisk and efficient, with every nicety  properly and correctly observed. If your order requires a special knife, the original one is whisked away and the correct implement is brought, resting on a linen napkin on a small tray. Being a waiter or waitress in a decent French restaurant is a valued and respected profession.

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A lot of people smoke here, although not in restaurants. What you DO find in restaurants are dogs. Little dogs — there seems to be an unwritten rule as to size — that are pets of the restaurant patrons. Clearly, the mutts know the drill: if they sit patiently with leash wrapped around the leg of mama’s chair, an occasional tidbit will appear. 

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Every restaurant I’ve been in — and I’ve tried a different one almost every night — has had music playing in the background for a little ambience. Last night, it was just another nondescript collection of forgettable melodies except — suddenly — there was Gwen Verdon singing “Whatever Lola Wants” from the 1955 Broadway musical Damn Yankees. Don’t ask. I have no idea.