CROQUE MONSIEUR

The trip to Paris did not start well.

Before the plane even took off, a three-year-old in the cabin began having a meltdown.

“Calm down, honey,” the child’s mother pleaded.

She asked a flight attendant to turn on the wi-fi so her kid could be appeased with an iPad. It didn’t work.

Eleanor and Brian Cooper looked at each other like, “This is going to be a long flight.”

An eight-hour overnight flight from Louisville via Detroit, to be precise. Something Brian did not want in the first place. He was only doing it for Eleanor. He hated the expense, and he hated everything about flying, from the fear of being killed in a crash to the TSA’s Gestapo checking-in tactics, the sometimes hours-long lines, interrogation, prodding, x-raying his private parts, rummaging through his luggage. He hated being nickel and dimed at every turn by the ruthless airlines, and being forced to cram into a tiny seat with no legroom. And the person he despised the most was the passenger sitting directly in front of him who immediately put his seat rest into reclining position, eliminating what meager space Brian had to begin with.

Soon the three-year-old was climbing the chairs, running up and down the aisles, and there was nothing his mother could do to control him.

“Jesus, will somebody do something about this kid?” Brian groused.

Nobody did.

“His mother should have been better prepared, brought his favorite book, snacks, and toys.” Eleanor sounded reasonable, as always. And right now he hated that. But he certainly agreed. The screaming meemie was elevating his stress level well beyond its usual heights when flying.

“Try to relax, Brian,” Eleanor advised.

Brian did—with a little help from the flight attendant and his credit card.

Not exactly what Eleanor had in mind. She was concerned about his drinking anyway, and here he was starting right off on the airplane. She cautioned him that it was easy to get drunk on a plane.

“How do you know?”

“I read,” she said, tapping her Kindle to bring up a new screen. “At higher altitudes, the cabin pressure makes you feel like you’re on Machu Picchu. It’s harder to get enough oxygen. Drinking alcohol can dehydrate you, which makes it even worse. You’ll feel good for a while, but crummy later.”

Brian didn’t care about oxygen or dehydration or any other damn thing, except whatever it took to blot out the discomforts of the moment. And Eleanor was right. After several drinks, he began feeling tired and queasy. It became hard to concentrate or think clearly, and he realized that he had a slight headache. All were symptoms of the way the human body reacted to being miles above the ground.

Eleanor did not escape from the general ickiness, either, even though she limited herself to a single glass of wine. Sitting for long periods made blood pool in your legs, interfering with circulation. She tried to take comfort in understanding why she felt the way she did, from long practice. Life had been difficult of late, from her increasingly strained relationship with her husband to her grief over losing her father.

Ever since being downsized, Brian had been a mess. He was too old to find another decent job and had reacted badly to his change in circumstances. When Eleanor had gotten her inheritance, he’d wanted her to use it to open a bar and grille, where he could bartend. It seemed like a bad idea to her, but she hated seeing him this way. And he’d touched her heart by saying she should make her dream of a lifetime come true by taking a trip to Paris. Here they were, prisoners on a plane, with Eleanor hoping they survived the flight and found the city of love worth all the trouble and expense.

The kid never stopped being disruptive entirely, but they managed to tune him out sufficiently to restrain themselves from throttling the little bastard. They arrived in Paris at eight in the morning. From gigantic Charles De Gaul airport, they caught a bus to the famous opera house downtown, The Palais Garnier, which Eleanor pointed out had served as the setting for The Phantom of the Opera.

“Cool,” said Brian, who’d loved the musical.

Even though exhausted from their long flight and laden with luggage, Eleanor would’ve gone right inside immediately, if it were up to her. Brian was anxious to get to their hotel, though, which supposedly was only a ten-minute walk. They dragged their suitcases across wide boulevards and along congested sidewalks until they reached the covered shopping arcade where the Hotel Chopin was located.

The 1846 establishment had a choice central location on the Grands-Boulevards and was reasonable priced. But that wasn’t why Eleanor had chosen it. The four-story, thirty-six room building was charming in a way that only anything French can be, and it was beautiful and romantic, and Eleanor had loved it at first sight online. As their room was not ready yet, they opted to leave their bags with the concierge and went out to explore the neighborhood. Eleanor wanted to shop, but Brian was fatigued and needed to rest his ailing back. He offered to find a café while she explored the shops.

“I read that there are 7,000 cafes in Paris,” Eleanor said.

“I believe Hemingway liked Harry’s New York Bar,” Brian said.

They found several more cafés near their hotel. The one they chose seemed so perfectly French. Red awning. Rows of flimsy chairs and round bistro tables jammed together, leaving barely enough sidewalk for pedestrians to pass by, but no one seemed to mind. With about half the seats occupied, Brian and Eleanor squeezed into two at the end of the row.

“Oh, Brian, it’s so cute,” she beamed.

He gave her a cynical smile.

Cafés were not coffee shops, though coffee could be had. A menu was tacked on the wall beside the front door, in French, naturally, which the Coopers could not read. But it was obvious from what others were eating and drinking that the café had a full bar and a complete kitchen with meals for any time of the day.

As they waited for a server to appear, all of Brian’s anxieties about not speaking the native tongue surfaced. As a former professional journalist, he considered himself a master of the English language and realized now that he felt somehow defined by it. He’d failed French in school and detested being underestimated, especially by ignorant foreigners. Then it hit him—here, he was the ignorant foreigner. The Coopers had read that the French were notorious for expecting tourists to at least try to speak their language. Moreover, while Parisians were reputedly Avant Garde in many ways, they were also said to be much more formal than Americans. A double whammy for Brian to cope with.

When a server came to take their order, Brian politely greeted the young man, “Bonjour, monsieur.”

He’d been told it was best to begin each new conversation in this manner, and he thought he’d pulled it off rather well. To Brian’s ears, even his accent (which he’d been practicing on the plane) sounded authentic. After responding in kind, the server not only addressed the Americans in flawless English but seemed delighted to accommodate them. So much for the stereotypical insolent French waiter.

Although Eleanor spoke no more French than her husband, she seemed untroubled by this. Perhaps because the handsome young waiter in the skinny jeans reminded her of images of James Dean. She ordered a glass of the house red. Brian asked about the draught beer. The helpful server brought him a glass of 1664, a pale French lager brewed for over 350 years at the Kronenbourg brewery in Strasbourg. Brian liked to get the details about his beer.

“We come all the way to France, the home of great wine, and you order beer?” Eleanor lamented.

“I like beer better.” The taste reminded him of Heineken, which was okay.

“Sometimes I just don’t understand you, Brian.”

Wanting to please her, he made a mental note to order wine next time.

Eleanor was too thrilled to be in Paris, in a café, the center of conversation and social life, sipping an excellent wine to be upset by anything for long. After this first experience, she wanted to try out every café she saw. She loved people watching and imagining she was part of the scene. She loved the way Parisians were so well-dressed.

After their drink, the somewhat jet-lagged Coopers returned to the Hotel Chopin and took a nap. Eleanor had heard about the hotel from her sister, who had stayed there several years ago, and said it was the most romantic place she’d ever stayed. That was all Eleanor had to hear. The reality came close enough to satisfy her. Their compact room overlooked the back sides of the rooftops of Paris, which were inhabited by cooing pigeons. Their room was decorated in bright colors and the Romantic décor evoked the memory of Chopin, the Polish composer and virtuoso pianist, who she’d read once roamed the neighborhood.

            Brian liked the Hotel Chopin, as well, although during the tiny elevator ride they had to stand face-to-face in order to fit into the cube-shaped compartment, which on reflection was not so bad. In fact, they immediately made love in their smallish double bed—for the first time in a while—before Brian even brought up their luggage. The miniaturization theme continued with their dark room, which Brian felt didn’t have much personality. The bathroom was even more cramped than the elevator, especially the microscopic shower. Brian smiled nevertheless as he stood under the spray: his campaign to win Eleanor’s heart and mind was working.

The Coopers went out for dinner that night at Bouillon Chartier, an 1896 brasserie located inside a railway station concourse, also recommended by Eleanor’s sister. It was supposedly where “real” Parisians ate because of its inexpensive, traditional dishes and the sheer loveliness of its art deco interior. Eleanor had been told it offered a great atmosphere, old school Pris menus, and a real taste of yesteryear.

It lived up to its billing. There were revolving doors, a magnificent glass roof, and wooden sideboards with little numbered drawers where, it was said, in the old days regulars stored their own personal napkins. The chairs were old-fashioned bistro style, the tables polished.

Brian couldn’t help from commenting ironically on the joint’s popularity, indicated by a long line. But it was easy to feel transported back over a century ago to when the restaurant first opened. And to his relief, the line moved quickly. The order-taking was swift, and food delivery speedy, very un-French. He joined Eleanor in a glass of table red wine. She toasted to their happiness. He told her she looked beautiful tonight, and she did.

“What shall we order?”

Eleanor said French food was usually simple but with great sauces—and went completely native on him, ordering a roasted beets and Roquefort mousse, followed by a mustard crusted salmon with caramelized shallots and spinach and pommes de terre puree.

“Great God Almighty, how did they come up with that?” Brian exclaimed.

He decided on a more common-sense selection, beefsteak. Alas, it proved stringy and chewy like all the beef he would find during the rest of their week in Paris, regardless of price. Great sauces, though.

The couple retired early. Eleanor again seemed receptive to Brian’s advances and the sex proved passionate enough to bring them closer together than at any time in recent months. Brian began to think that maybe this trip might have been an even better idea than he’d thought.

In the morning, they went to another café and had the typical French breakfast. For madam, a baguette with jam and butter, café au lait, and orange juice. For monsieur, French bread sliced lengthwise, with butter and jam called a “a tartine,” un café American, and grapefruit juice. This server was a petite young woman who reminded Brian of Juliette Binoche. After breakfast, they walked to a nearby Metro station, bought passes, and went down hundreds of steps to ride the rapid transit system for the first time. It proved easy enough—language being no barrier—and crowded, but also clean and efficient. Eleanor enjoyed mingling with some of the city’s two million people, but Brian was afraid of pickpockets and held on tight to his wallet.

They exited the Metro, climbed another thousand steps, or so it seemed, up to street level, and took a hop-on hop-off, double-decker open air bus tour of Paris. As it turned out, they never got off due to the traffic and spent the entire 45-minute tour listening to audio commentary. But they got a great overview of the city, soaking in the sights from the Louvre to the River Seine, Notre-Dame Cathedral, the Eiffel Tower, the Champs-Elysees, Musee d’Orsay, Grand Palais, Trocadero, and Moulin Rouge. Eleanor was dizzy excitement and Brian loved seeing her that way. It had been a while.

Emboldened, they used the Metro everywhere while trying more cafes and restaurants over the next few days. Most of the restaurants were run by men, which surprised Eleanor. She noted how many of the eateries they visited were dark, with dark furniture, and dark walls. Seating was usually close together.

“If I owned a restaurant, I’d make it much lighter,” she said.

Brian smiled like a cream-filled cat, imagining how Louisville might take to a more cafe-like approach to his bar and grill.

One day, the underground was closed because of a general strike. There were strikes all the time apparently, and they never found out what this one was about. But the Coopers did stray almost into the middle of a conflagration. The police in their black riot gear were waiting for a mass of demonstrators marching up a wide boulevard toward them.

Afterward, Eleanor told everyone that, “It was exciting but frightening.”

They visited a number of Paris’ limitless supply of art museums. Of course, the Louvre was Eleanor’s main purpose in coming to Paris. It was the world’s largest museum. Brian didn’t get the distinctive glass pyramid structure, but kept his mouth shut about it. He couldn’t believe the sheer quantity of the artwork the museum contained.

He read that it would take 75 days, for eight hours a day, looking for 60 seconds at each object to get through the whole collection. “We don’t have that much time,” he said.

Nevertheless, Eleanor tried to see everything that she could, from the Mona Lisa to the Venus de Milo. Her museum onslaught continued through a veritable Milky Way of masterpieces by artists from Monet to Manet, Degas, Renoir, Cezanne, Seurat, Gaugin, Van Gogh, and Rodin.

Burned out on art museums, Brian began waiting for Eleanor in cafes while she kept up her relentless art stalk. He’d have a few 1664s and read a crime novel or people-watch. Sightseeing occasionally included such non-art places as the Catacombs, a labyrinth 60 feet below street level in the very heart of Paris. They also visited the world’s most famous independent bookstore—Shakespeare and Company—on the Left Bank once patronized by “lost generation” writers like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner. All the while, Brian talked up the sports bar and grill he wanted to open with some of her inheritance. But Eleanor resisted.

“That’s all Louisville needs—another sports bar with pub grub. If we were going to open a restaurant, it ought to be something great. Like a French restaurant.”

“Can you cook French?” he asked.

“Who says I’m going to cook?” she retorted.

On their last morning in Paris, Brian felt wistful. He was surprised how much he had enjoyed himself. He would miss being so close to Eleanor while they explored new places together. He wished he could make it last longer.

After their petit dejeuner, Brian sat sipping coffee in yet another café while Eleanor did some last-minute shopping. When she returned, he said proudly, “You won’t believe this, but I have picked out a special restaurant for our last night in Paris.”

“How wonderful and romantic. I knew you would love Paris.” Eleanor kissed him on the cheek.

Love Paris? That might be a bit of an overstatement, Brian thought.

That evening, they strolled hand-in-hand through the narrow streets. Brian consulted his map and said their restaurant, Le Coq Rico, was on the next corner. The server showed them to the only table available, one ideally located by the window.

“Pour vous, monsieur et madame.”

They sipped a sparkling dry white wine and admired the beautiful old woodwork. While savoring the ambiance, Eleanor studied the menu and spotted the Croque Monsieur.

“This sounds good,” she said.

“It’s just a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, not an entrée,” said Brian, who had seen one served at a café.

“But a Parisian ham and cheese. And it sounds delicious.” She consulted her travel guide. “Listen. ‘Robust country bread. Light sweet ham. And sauce with the faintest hint of gorgonzola. All coated with a perfect shell of creamy nutty Gruyere cheese.” That is definitely what I want.”

In the end, Brian ordered one, too, and it was exceedingly tasty. He didn’t mind that it was the least expensive item on the menu, either. They finished off their meal with a surprise—a complimentary cognac provided by their jolly server.

“That’s really good,” Eleanor said, finishing her last drop. “You know, if we’re going to open an eatery, it should be one that serves only le Croque Monsieur.”

“What? That’s a crazy idea,” Brian said.

“Nothing crazy about it.”

“Wouldn’t we need some variety?”

“Yes, you’re right. We’ll expand our menu to all kinds of grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“That’s been tried by three or four places in Louisville, and all failed.”

“We’d succeed by doing it the right way.”

Walking back to the hotel, Brian noticed Eleanor’s contentment and attributed it to the cognac.

After riding the subway, trains, and buses, the flight home seemed more palatable than their last. Brian was about to doze off following a white wine for the road when Eleanor shook his arm.

“When you were little, didn’t your mom make grilled cheese sandwiches for you? And didn’t you love them?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Grilled cheese is not called comfort food for nothing, Brain. We all share an emotional bond with grilled cheese.”

“Is that so?” But he was delighted that this signaled increased interest in the possibility of starting their own restaurant. The discussion continued off and on for the rest of the flight, with Eleanor describing special sandwiches they’d serve with drinks made by Brian.

“You might be interested to know that the Croque Monsieur originated as a quick snack in French cafes and bars,” she said

“Grilled cheese is great but think of all the problems having such a limited menu would present.”

“I know the perfect name, too,” she continued, ignoring his comment. “‘The Big Cheese.’ It’s the perfect way to appeal to gourmet tastes at popular prices. And did you know that Americans consume more than two billion grilled cheese sandwiches a year?”

“Okay,” Brian said. “But if it doesn’t work, then we’re going to open a sports bar with normal pub grub.”

He looked over and saw she once again had that cognac smile.

© 2025 Rick Neumayer

“Croque Monsieur” will appear in the forthcoming THREE FOGGY MORNINGS: Collected Stories by Rick Neumayer. If you like this one, I’d love to hear from you.