Skip to main content

A Case of Mistaken Identity


A funny memory: Days before our wedding in Carcassonne, France, my husband and I were in Toulouse, playing host and hostess to guests arriving early from overseas. Some of my husband's family were joining in these festivities, but the main goal of the pre-nuptial evenings was to introduce my parents, some aunts and cousins, and some close (mostly American) friends to the pleasures of Southwest France. Toulouse, being the home of decadent, rich dishes such as cassoulet, foie gras, and the famous Toulouse sausage, is not necessarily known for seafood, but the rosy-bricked city does lie on a stunning river, the Garonne; a twilight meal on a "péniche," or houseboat, seemed just the right way to ease travel-weary guests into the local color and fine dining scene. We decided to take our party to the Bateau Restaurant La Daurade. My husband and I were running a little late that evening, coming as we were from a hellish (for me anyway) legal rendez-vous. The decision to visit La Daurade was a last-minute plan, so when we arrived at the hotel where my parents were staying, my husband asked someone at the front desk to ring the restaurant for us and verify that we could come over. I should say that this particular hotel, the Grand Hôtel de l'Opéra, on the Place du Capitole, was where my husband used to work—where he first cut his teeth as a sommelier in a restaurant of "haute gastronomie." The restaurant, Jardin de l'Opéra, was at that time the showcase for the culinary talents of Dominique Toulousy, one of the "Meilleurs Ouvriers de France" (a culinary distinction of the highest order). I believe it may have been his wife, Maryse, who called La Daurade on our behalf that evening. Or maybe not. Regardless, the message to the proprietor of La Daurade was essentially that the Grand Hôtel was calling on behalf of a former sommelier of Jardins de l'Opéra, and that we were a party of however many who wished to come at such-and-such a time, and could they reserve space for us under the name Parker? Or maybe they gave both my husband's name and my own family's both (that would make more sense). The reply was an enthusiastic "bien sûr," and after an aperitif at the hotel, we made our way down to the river. Assumptions are funny things, as is celebrity. Especially funny is to realize what passes as celebrity in different parts of the world. Here in the States, my last name is common, and generally no assumptions are made about who we are when we we make dinner reservations. Appropriate enough: we are a not a family of note, not in that sense. At best, I have been asked if my pedigree has anything to do with writing implements (the association suits my writerly self just fine, though it's untrue). At worst, during the peak in popularity of the television show Melrose Place, I was asked at a CVS pharmacy if I was joking when I said my name was Allison Parker—it took seasons for me to uncover the fact that I shared a first and last name with a character on the show (though maybe hers was spelled with one el?). But this is in America. In France, there's really no danger of anyone mistaking me or others in my family for either of those Parkers. But put together allusions to luxury hotels, sommeliers . . . I have to say the poor man who greeted us at La Daurade was completely crestfallen (though he did try not to show it, and we were ultimately treated very well during our dinner) when he realized that my father, though he cuts an impressive figure, was not Robert Parker, the international wine celebrity! It was an "only in France" moment, I have to say, and one we laughed about for a long time. As a side note, we drank a lovely white that evening: Château Tariquet. Not 100 points from Robert Parker (if you care; we didn't), but a damn nice wine.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Ships (Westport, CT)

I graduated from high school in 1987, and although I had applied to college (one only, I knew what I wanted) and gotten my acceptance, I deferred matriculation for a year. It was for the best. Teen angst and anger were peaking, I was sick of school, and really it would've been a waste for me to go straight through when all I could think of was living on my own in the "real" world. Well, I got a dose of that. A good dose of what I could expect to do with a high school diploma and—let it be said—a bunch of shifty slackers for roommates, whose only ambition was to get wasted and stay that way all day. Except that I was not a slacker; that's something I never have been. And even if I had wanted to party—illegally, mind you, I was still underage for beer let alone the rest of what was out there to be had—well, there wasn't the time or energy for it. After a somewhat lost summer following graduation, I set about getting a job, a checking account, and an apartment, tryin

Touch Club

Another experience to come out of my father's L.A. years with Playboy was involvement with a private, membership-based Beverly Hills supper club called Touch. The connections are fuzzy in my mind. I always want to say that the club was backed financially by Playboy Enterprises, but I'm not sure this is accurate. It may have just been that one of the club's owners belonged to Hefner's entourage—being one of the many who made it their business to stop by the Playboy mansion on a regular basis. Or perhaps he (I forget his name, despite having heard it regularly at one point in my life) was a salaried employee of the company, linked somehow to club/casino operations? However it came into being, the Touch Club opened in the early 1980s (perhaps it was the year 1980; it was eventually sold in 1986), and we dined there sometimes, my parents and I; this was always a special occasion I got to dress up for. I don't remember the menu, but based on the intended clientele, I'

Polly's Pies

Today I made a fresh strawberry pie. Maybe it's the wishful thinking of a transitional season: it's spring officially, but you don't quite feel it yet, at least not in New York. Making a fruit pie can't force sunny spring weather to come any quicker, but it still tastes good, and the color of the pie, glazed with a fruit/sugar/cornstarch reduction, is a cheerful anecdote for the often rainy and gray sky in early April. I used to have my paternal grandmother's recipe, but looking for it this afternoon, I couldn't find it. I ended up substituting a recipe from another trusted Southerner, Lee Bailey, whose Southern Desserts cookbook has been on my shelf from the time I first had my own kitchen. The pie came out great—actually, it was better than my grandmother's version (or my misfired attempts at her version, should I be the one at fault). But all this thinking about, making, now writing about pie has brought up another landmark of memory: Polly's Pies in