15 February 2003  
Frontpage
Cover Story
Features
Editorial
Only On The Web
Columnists
Cartoons
Books
Lives
Your Problems Solved
Classified


HIGH LIFE

 Superior living
 Taki
 Paris

‘ Why do the French have to be so bloody-minded?’ asked a Daily Telegraph headline last week. Well, sitting in Café Flore, sipping a very good white wine early in the day while waiting for friends to lunch across at Chez Lipp, the answer seems obvious. When the quality of life is as good as it is in France, it tends to make people feel superior. It’s also because the Frogs are the most intellectual of races, because they are stylish and charming when they want to be, because Paris is the most beautiful city in the whole wide world, and because they view the British as philistines and the Americans as barbarians. Zut alors!

‘March? A bit militaristic, isn’t it?’

It takes me less than an hour once in Paris to become pro-French, just as it takes me less than an hour once in London to become anti-British. Ergo, why I have moved to neutral Switzerland. Having grown up disliking the French and liking the English, I’d like to keep it that way, but how? In France, prime ministers have been known to cheat on their wives, a good thing, whereas in Cool Britannia the premier cheats by plagiarising a 12-year-old thesis written by an American student. Quel con!

In France the TGV trains are on time and speed along at close to 150 mph; in grubby old England the Eurostar traps people in airless agony ten minutes out of Waterloo. C’est le bordel! In Paris even the rain is good. It makes the place feel romantic; in London just more depressing. Merde! France has great writers like Michel Deon; England has midgets like Martin Amis. Pauvre type! France has St Tropez; England Blackpool. Zut, flute!

But back to Café Flore (two pretty girls deep into their books, chain-smoking and sipping endless cups of coffee, now that’s what I call a civilised morning) and Chez Lipp.

The reason for the Parisian visit was a sad one: the memorial service for my ex-brother-in-law, Le Marquis François de Caraman, a wonderful friend who died much too young in Guatemala on 11 November. L’eglise Saint-Thomas d’Aquin, between Boulevard Saint-Germain and la rue du Bac, was a perfect setting. François, after all, as I said in my speech, was a Left-Bank type of man, sweet, artistic, sensitive and spiritual. He also loved pussy and chased it non-stop all of his life. Bravo! His beautiful daughter and ex-wife were there, as was his father, le Duc de Caraman, looking extremely ducal in black, but with all the pain of his son’s death written over his face. Many of François’s friends were present, starting with Peter Bemberg, the Argentinian heir of oligarchs, to Nicola Anouilh, son of the great playwright Jean.

When Peter, Nicola, Vladimir and François were in their late teens, I was about ten years older, and could get them into New Jimmy’s, the chicest club of the period. The first time Porfirio Rubirosa set eyes on François, he called him the spitting image of Johnny de Caraman. ‘Well,’ said someone, ‘who do you expect him to look like, the milkman?’ ‘You’d be surprised how many sons of aristocrats look like the milkman,’ answered the wise Rubi.

After the service we walked to Brasserie Lipp, an historic old place full of wonderful memories. The Bembergs were the hosts and we did lotsa drinking and reminiscing. God, those were good days to have fun. We were young, rich and right-wing, quite an accomplishment back then as it was extremely untrendy. Afterwards, I walked from Lipp to the Gare de Lyon, a 50-minute hike through history. Down rue Bonaparte, right turn on the quai, past l’Odéon, la Conciergerie, cross over the bridge to Quai des Celestins, rue du Fauconnier...it’s like walking though an outdoor museum. L’Hotel Fieubet, so baroque it baroques you out of your jockstrap. Finally, Place de la Bastille, Austerlitz and on to Lyon. The French name their streets after brainy and artistic types, and victorious battles. Imagine if the Saudis did likewise. You’d need Dr Livingstone and then some to get around.

John Adams called Paris the ‘capital of dissipation and nonsense’. Adams was a New Englander who fretted that French culture would pollute the new country called the United States. The French 18th-century diplomat, Charles Gravier de Vergennes, opined that republics have no manners. Two hundred and fifty years later America and France are once again shadow boxing. Republics do not have manners, I agree, but the French have hardly polluted America with their culture. And monarchies, too, no longer have manners. Look at Cool Blairtannia. For the moment, I’ll take Frogland. Vive la France. Vive Paris. Vive le Café Flore. Vive Chez Lipp. Vive François de Caraman.

© 2003 The Spectator.co.uk