-If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
–Ernest Hemingway to a friend, 1950
-“…Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?”
–Matthew 6: 25-26
-You got very hungry when you did not eat enough in Paris because all the bakery shops had such good things in the windows and people ate outside at tables on the sidewalk so that you saw and smelled the food…the best place to go was the Luxembourg Gardens where you saw and smelled nothing…There you could always go into the Luxembourg museum and all the paintings were sharpened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry.
–from “A Moveable Feast” by Ernest Hemingway
That’s really romantic, Ernie.
I’m still hungry.
I was living the dream, attending university in the City of Light. Yes, it was breathtakingly, achingly beautiful…the sunrise over the Seine and Notre Dame, that golden glow on the ancient edifices and chestnut trees that defied description, the music of the French language dancing through it all. You could enjoy it, until you wandered into a market street, and were reminded that you had no money.
One day I was standing transfixed before a stack of shiny red apples. I checked out the farmer hovering near the display…calculating the probability of my outrunning him if I grabbed one off the pile and took off. But, no, I concluded. He’d totally catch me, and I’d be thrown into prison like Jean Valjean.
Yeah, I’d never been “belly-empty, hollow-hungry” before, and I wasn’t dealing with it very well.
So, I commenced to praying, because, well, that was free, and He said I’m more valuable than birds, etc. etc. I even threw in Proverbs 30: 8-9, as it seemed spooky appropriate…
…give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread. Otherwise, I may have too much and disown you and say, “Who is the Lord?” Or I may become poor and steal, and so dishonor the name of my God.
Not long after, I got the idea for the “bread and water week.”
I had figured out a budget where, by scrimping and saving, I could eat fairly well on a monthly basis. The problem was, I then had money for nothing else…no movies or museums or cafes or anything that makes Paris a little more like Paris and nowhere else. But…if for one week I subsisted on a $1 baguette every day (with some meager spreads on top) and water, I could live like a queen the other three weeks.
I had taken my initial step of trust, and He could then show me exactly what happens from that place…a cascade of Godcidences in rapid succession…
I got wind of a hostel where a group of Northern Africans held a couscous potluck a couple nights a week. The admission? The aforementioned baguette or a cheap bottle of wine. All welcome. All you can eat. And it wasn’t just dinner…it was precious community.
I would be strolling with my basket, gathering ingredients for supper, and normally standoffish vendors would jump out and ply me with samples…even the fruit monger, with, yes!, an apple!
One afternoon I came home from school to find my street blocked off. “Would mademoiselle please excuse the inconvenience, a movie company is filming, but here is a table from the caterer reserved for the residents. Take as much as you like while you wait, we pray you, and carry away to your home when we break. You are all kindness in your patience…”
It was a glorious two weeks of abundance.
But the piece de resistance, the grand finale, was L’Escargot Montorgeuil.
It still seems like a dream, like something that couldn’t have happened. Impossible, one might say (subtle nod to Les Miz).
L’Escargot is one of the oldest and most venerated restaurants in Paris, specializing in, you guessed it!, snails. It sat on a corner half a block from my apartment. I would wave to the owner on my way to class as he performed the daily ritual of washing down his stoop and chunk of sidewalk out front, then again as he set out the specials board and swept one last time before dinner. We had never exchanged more than a cheery “Bonjour!” or “Bonsoir!”, so I was surprised one morning when he called out, “Mademoiselle, may I have a moment of your time?”
“But of course, monsieur.”
“You are from North America, is that not so?”
Darn, I thought, Quebecois accent gives me away again. “Oui, monsieur,” I said aloud.
“I have ‘un petit probleme’ and I hope that you can help me.”
“I am happy to help if you believe I can?”
He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Once a month I test new recipes or adjust old ones. I serve many tourists. I feel a foreign palate is needed. I would appreciate your judgment and impressions. Could I call on you as a consultant?”
“Monsieur, I have no training. I am literally a farm girl…”
“Even better.”
I smiled and shrugged, no arguments left. “Bon, alors…a votre service.”
We shook on it.
On the appointed day I approached the entry in my “student Sunday best,” heart thudding in a rather alarming fashion. Oh my gosh…what am I doing here?!…okay, Shelbo…deep breath in…step inside…
Woah.
Persian rugs, scarlet velvet draperies, gilded wallpaper, gleaming woodwork, ornate tufted seating…all illuminated in the magical shimmer of a hundred crystal chandeliers and sconces. Elegant, restrained opulence from another age.
Before I could properly close my mouth, a waiter came striding over, greeted me with a bow, then gently steered me into the dining room. My host was already seated at a table for two, and he rose to his feet for the requisite kiss on both cheeks. We then settled in, and the “degustation” began.
As we critiqued the various dishes and wines, arriving at a steady, leisurely pace, he would stop periodically to jot notes in a small Moleskin. It wasn’t all business, however; no, no, that would not be French. The conversation, like the food, poured forth without pretention or unnecessary flourishes. We were reveling in the wisdom and perspectives that we were both bringing to the moment. Looking back, our discourse was an intricate tapestry we were weaving together, using stories of the past, musings of the present, and dreams of the future.
Three hours later, a gracious “merci” and “adieu,” and I headed home, completely nourished in body, mind, and soul, and full of immense awe and gratitude.
It wasn’t until years later that I questioned how it all came about. Had he really needed “a foreign taster,” or was he just trying to provide a meal to a young girl, obviously in need, in a way that maintained her dignity?
Whatever the truth may be, it was clearly the result of a Divine Nudge.
Those Nudges just keep on coming; they appear with timely regularity, have been showing up all my life. I can only sing of all He’s done, and offer thanks and praise to my God, who hears us, helps us, provides for us, and loves us beyond all measure. A Father who, when His child asks “give me only my daily bread,” answers with a veritable team of people/angels brimming with love, friendship, and generosity…
and finally drops her into a 5-star restaurant for a once-in-a-lifetime meal.
As I meditate on His extravagant earthly provision, both then and now, I pause for a moment to thank Him for another gift, from above…
His Holy Spirit in me.
And I offer this heavily edited Hemingway declaration as my conclusion…
If you are lucky enough to be saved by Jesus, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, God stays with you, for the Spirit is a moveable Feast.