July 30th,
If ever you have been to the Belleville neighborhood in Paris, and if you have not, I suggest you do (as who doesn't want to witness the grand experiment of Maghreb and Chinese culture co existing in delightful awkwardness) ....
I digress.
Perhaps you have noticed an exotic structure resting strategically at the corner of the Rue Belleville and the Boulevard Belleville. This building, that looks like a headquarters of an important secret organization is actually a reasonably priced but delightfully over the top Chinese restuarant known as "Le President".
It holds a prominent and mysterious place in all local hearts. Indeed if people are lost in Belleville they usually give "Le President" as a meeting point. Most locals have never been inside. For years, I did not even know there was an inside. But I was wrong. There is an inside. What secrets did it hold?
At first glance, "Le President" resturant looks like it lives up to its name. If one ventures through the glass doors, one finds oneself at a strange vacated Hollywood premiere where red carpets and giant fish tanks await the brave of heart. The fish, large and yellow and orange, good luck charms, float depressed in their suspended states. One has the impression that the whole place is just a facade and that this is a movie set. Or a fake lobby meant to confuse and distract. But do not let this fool you. Even though there is no one in the lobby and no indication of menus or directions, there are people working here. They are all gathered above waiting for you. And someone has to come down to feed the fish.
In front of you is a grand staircase that rises in two directions. It has a gilded and ornate bannister fixed with dragons and oriental good luck charms. I have heard that many Chinese couples have posed for their wedding photos in front of it. I have also heard that no one really eats there afterwards. It is because of these impressions that I have described that one cannot be blamed for thinking that the place doesn't seem quite real. Indeed, if you are a James Bond villain visiting Paris and you have a small white cat that you pet religiously, this is definitely the restaurant for you.
As one makes ones way up the staircase, one has the sensation of being watched by secret people in the walls. One can hear whispering from the first floor as Chinese waiters in white serving jackets prepare to seat you amidst the sea of empty tables. You are big news when you come to "Le President" and no one can say that the service is not top notch as you are the curious center of attention. You are not served as much as stalked. In fact, I would not be surprised if they have clandestine residences in the kitchen where waiters can live out the rest of their days in blissfull ignorance of time and space.
I suppose the impression that the owners want is that the place is hallowed, that it has a long history of international big wigs, diplomats, and VIP's who have engaged in stimulating conversation. But is hard for me to imagine Bill Clinton eating beef ball soup in any era here. The most you can usually hope for in the streets of Belleville is perhaps running into a guy taxing you for a smoke, if you are lucky, maybe some delivery man hoping to play the lotto at the local Tabac.
And that is why the whole thing is so delightful. There is one picture in the display window of François Mitterand visiting the place in the mid seventies. I think he was lost.
But I think that "Le President" might be experiencing some sagging sales in recent times for the place is never full. The fact that the dining area on the first floor is so opulent and empty only drives this point home. I must say that one reason might be due to the food, which is pretty terrible. I ordered a beef broccoli wherein I had to chew each bite for an average of a minute a mouthful. I had the distinct sensation that perhaps this was to be my last beef broccoli. Then I drank a beer and the sensation went away. I left through the double doors with only half of my mysteries resolved. And when I woke the next day, I was still not convinced that my dining experience within "Le President" had been real. I grew obsessed with the notion that it had all been in my head.
So I ventured back to the fabled neighborhood once again. I passed the heavily made up middle aged women selling themselves from the entrances of garment shops. I passed the guy unloading way too many cabbages out of a white van and finally came to the bottom of that famous hill, to the cross roads where that famous building holds vigil onto the Boulevard. And there it was still, beguiling to all that come across it: "Le President", palace of mystery.
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