As promised, I went back to check this place out. This time I was armed with my laptop. The same handsome waiters were in attendance. It looked as though sunlight had painted the walls, but it was simply a clever paint job using burnt yellow paint. You can see the brushstrokes. The tables are dark wood; there's a tablecloth near the entrance with one of those typical Provencal patterns (olives I think, on a yellow background). Lovely.
I couldn't decide what to order. Should I try a sandwich? Or a salad? Or should I just go with a quiche? The waiter walks towards me. But then he immediately says, "Prenez votre temps Madame (Take your time Madame)," because he reads the indecision on my face. Nice.
He has brought me a glass bottle filled with water. Slices of lemons are at the bottom. The bottle has a heft that's comforting. The water tastes good. I munch on ratatouille on "toasts" as I mull over my food choices.
All kinds of people come in: a woman with a baby, who gurgles.
The baby has the chubbiest cheeks, dark hair and extremely blue eyes. Next on the scene is a businessman with a badge around his neck, the kind that you see at conventions or film festivals. While waiting for his takeout roast chicken salad, he reads the newspaper provided by the cafe. It's on a dowel, which seems kind of fancy, in a good attention-to-detail kind of way.
Two hepster women are the next ones to join the party. One wears her bleached blond hair in a mullet. She's doing an 80s thing. Her polo top is striped black and pink, her bermuda shorts are black or maybe dark gray. I love that her gym shoes (Chucks, by the way) are black and that the shoelaces are pink. Her companion is less zippy, but still has one of those modified geometric 80s cuts spiked with gel. Someone comes in from a run, wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt.
In the meantime, I've ordered the lunch special (choice of quiche and salad). The salad has frisee, radicchio, pine nuts, tomatoes, and fantastic roasted mushrooms, zucchini and eggplant. The quiche Lorraine has the right combination of Gruyere and bits of ham.
It's like being in a regular cafe in France -- it's good, solid food. Except that the waiters are engaging with all customers, not just the regulars from the neighborhood. I can speak with authority on this point: I spent quite some time in Paris, in the Marais. It took awhile (in fact, going virtually every day for breakfast, sometimes lunch, for at least a month) before the waiter unbent and started treating me non-grumpily.
But back to the present moment. Salades de Provence waiters are both warm and unflappable. I heard one customer ask, for example, "Can I have more regular salad?" Without skipping a beat, the waiter said, "Of course." Can you imagine that happening in France? Anyway, I think it's pretty funny. Most of the time, you're dying for a restaurant to do less padding of the salad by using the cheaper, flavorless, pale lettuce with fewer nutrients. But that's what makes a horse race, I guess.
Salades de Provence does feel a little bit like an inn at a crossroads. It's at a busy intersection and the big windows on 2 sides facilitate world watching. You see more people than you would ever imagine walking down the street. This is Los Angeles, after all, but I guess no one mentioned that to these pedestrians. And the cars do go by. In the midst of all this activity, you are tranquilly eating or drinking or working on your computer. And the waiters aren't rushing you.
The music is great and eclectic. At first it sounded big -- kind of like Johnny Halladay (though it probably wasn't). Click here to listen to a Johnny Halladay song. Then it went into warm and sunny. I asked, and it was Pink Martini. Click here for "Una Notte a Napoli."
There was a guy in my sight line, another patron, who I'd put down as an incredible crab. He just seemed very gruff. He turns his head, but before he can say anything articulate, one of the waiters says "Yes?" and comes right over."2 eggs. Medium bacon," the customer says. "But 2 eggs. And the bacon medium. No yar, yar, yar." At this point he's miming a wild wolf trying to tear apart a piece of meat. And at this point, I'm thinking to myself, 'What in the world?'
He continues, "I have problems with my gums right now. It's the change of seasons."
"Me too," says the waiter. "It's the humidity."
And the formerly crabby guy smiled, went back to his work, and moved to the music.
I could stay here all day long, eating and watching the world go by. I've just seen a milk chocolate-colored Mercedes from the 60s (one of my favorite cars) make the turn onto Holloway. The music goes into a jazzy riff on Ravel's "Bolero" and then to "Charade."
I have a last sip of my second espresso. "See you soon," I say to one of the waiters. "Madame, it would be a pleasure to see you every day." The French really know how to do it, I'll tell you that.Back into the wide world.
Oh -- ample free parking next door. Free wi-fi.
Comments