Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé.
Contre nous, de la tyrannie,
L'étandard sanglant est levé,
l'étandard sanglant est levé,
Entendez-vous, dans la compagnes.
Mugir ces farouches soldats
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras
Egorger vos fils,
vos compagnes.
Aux armes citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons,
Marchons, marchons!
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons
And for those of you whose French is as bad as my own...
Let us go, children of the fatherland
Our day of Glory has arrived.
Against us stands tyranny,
The bloody flag is raised,
The bloody flag is raised.
Do you hear in the countryside
The roar of these savage soldiers
They come right into our arms
To cut the throats of your sons,
your country
To arms, citizens!
Form up your battalions
Let us march, Let us march!
That their impure blood
Should water our fields...
I like making fun of the French. The silly little cheese eating surrender monkeys. I really do. But, at heart I'm a Francophile. I love the culture, the language, the hospitality, the literature, the food. Almost all of that came together in one special location. Le Classic in Coorparoo.
*sigh*
I wasn't sure if I was going to give this particular cluster of memories a part under all the places I have worked, but Liv convinced me that it needs its very own special entry. It was a glorious six week romance, a summer fling, one of those little moments that you just get back to fondly reminisce about for all the following years. Le Classic doesn't sit in the fore front of my memory, but when a certain aroma or musical phrase trips, it all comes rushing back at once.
Liv brought up today that she missed the place and how we enjoyed taking everyone we knew there. I knew what she was referring to, it was a happy moment in our history. One we were able to share together and with as many others as we could. The staff at it were as welcoming on your first visit as on your one thousandth.
I first started working at Le Classic in the winter of 2005, I'd just finished at FUDE and had just left Hog's Breath (god that was a nightmare). Liv was getting justifiably worried about money running out and I was looking through the classifieds when I found one about a fifteen minute walk away. Casual waiters wanted.
Awesome.
When I walked in, through the woman's clothing boutique, I stopped and had to laugh.
It was wonderful.
A hodge podge of decors and motifs that had been added to as the place grew. There was an outdoor area that was enclosed in marquee material so that you didn't feel you were actually outside. There was wood everywhere. Adorned with musical instruments. The coffee counter was cluttered with wine bottles, liqueur bottles and water carafes. I was greeted by a ....smiling (I'm always nervous when a Germanic person smiles), brutally efficient Dutchman wearing a black beret, burgundy shirt, and the Tricolore bow tie. I was escorted over to a table where a good looking slight Frenchman was sitting, given a cup of coffee (black with lemon) and interviewed by the entire establishment that was there at the time: the owner Alex, his father the head chef, his sous-chef Jean-Marc, the Dutch waiter and the chef du partie.
Oddly enough, it wasn't at all intimidating.
We dispensed with the interview resume necessities, and then moved onto the real interview.
A love of France.
Turns out, our good looking slight young Alex and his family hail from Provence.
I've had a love affair with Provence ever since reading Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence. I just had to go as soon as I could and find if he was full of shit or not. Surely no place is that idyllic.
It is.
So, we chatted about food and family run restaurants, wine, coffee, simple foods, the heritage of culinary traditions that are passed down from generation to generation.
It was bliss.
These people got me.
I was finally home in Australia.
As you can guess I got the job.
Which, truthfully wasn't hard, they actually only had three or four servers on staff, the rest were all casuals. It seems they loved to hire backpackers that would breeze through for a few shifts and then be on their merry backpacking way.
"Hey need a job?"
"Oui."
"Go see Alex at Classic, he'll fix you up."
Fortunately, the backpackers were always very good and never interfered in the amounts of shifts available for the rest of us. Which was fantastic, it established a competition within the servers for the most tips, which were pooled amongst everyone at the end of the night. This competitiveness would have always been a sight watching a bunch of people running around in burgundy or blue shirts, black pants, white aprons, berets, tams for the ladies and the ever present tri-colore. I, sadly, was always second in the tips pool. Which was always heartily laughed at by all the staff when we sat down after shift for plates of food, bread and wine. It was tradition to eat together, we were family. I hadn't felt this way since the days of the Arrow and the Loon. To be honest, it felt even more of a family in some respects.
Then came the Christmas in July and Bastille day festivities.
Classic took on a whole new atmosphere. But live music played on violin by the owners wife and accompanied by an accordion will do that.
So will Can Can dancers.
It was alive, it was energetic, it was bawdy.
Everyone had a grand time.
I continued to want to work for free just to keep that magic alive.
Now, the food.
The food was very traditional southern French and Provencal fare that bursts with deep flavours. Most of what was available was stews, lots of pate and terrines, soups, breads and potatoes. There was nothing at all fancy. The food was what it was, traditional meals that Alex's dad learnt from his grandparents, who learnt them from theirs and so on. A pompous TV host would call it authentic, of course its authentic who do you think is cooking? It was so much more than authentic, it was a time machine. It whisked, not just me, but whoever ate it back to their travels, or childhoods in France.
God I loved that place.
I eventually had to quit, when a head chef job came along. But I was always welcomed back whenever I was available and I did go back and fill in whenever I could. Always welcomed with the same hospitality and enthusiasm. That's the key word when describing Classic, hospitality. You were always, always made to feel welcome. You were always right as the customer and the customers knew it, as such I think I only EVER took back one or two plates. Of course I had to deal with an angry chef, but the problem was always immediately resolved.
I finally brought Olivia in for dinner.
She blushed at the flirting from Jean-Marc, and had eye orgasms over the food with ear orgasms over his thick MontMarte accent. After the surprise amuse bouche and various courses with extraordinary attentive service, she declared it her favourite restaurant ever.
We quipped about celebrating our 50th anniversary there.
Well, sadly that won't happen.
Classic closed in 2009, I have no idea why, sometimes good places just close.
Everyone I've ever spoken to that knew Classic has the same fond memories, the same happiness. I am so glad that I was welcomed into their family and that I was able to bring my family to it as well.
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