The Only Street in Paris: Life on the Rue Des Martyrs Read Online Free Page A

He promised to try to find a replacement for Marc, maybe a young couple with a love of fish and a hunger for work. He cited the protection of the rue des Martyrs under the Paris Local Urbanism Plan law of 2006, which safeguards small independent artisanal businesses. “There will be a butcher here. There will be a baker here. There will be a cheesemonger here. And maybe, just maybe, there will be a fishmonger here. I’m a marathoner. And I can always speed up at the end.”
    But he acknowledged that it was difficult to find fresh-fish sellers these days. Fish is a hard profession, with a high overhead. The trend in recent years is for fishmongers to set up stands in open-air markets that travel around to different neighborhoods.
    In its final days, the atmosphere inside the fish store became tense. The full-time employee in charge of the smoked salmon counter was Joël Vicogne, who’d started working there when he was sixteen. He also happened to be the son of the landlord, who had once run the shop himself, in partnership with an uncle. Where did Joël’s loyalties lie? Was he a spy for his father? Plotting a takeover?
    Joël, now well into middle age, had no intention of assuming the job of neighborhood fishmonger. “Fish is too tough,” he explained. “You have to be at the wholesale market at two, three in the morning. You have to be on your feet in rubber boots eight hours a day. You don’t get enough vacation.”
    I wanted to toast the Briolays on their last day, so I arrived at the store on October 31 with plastic cups and two bottles of champagne. But Marc had thwarted my plan by shutting down threedays earlier. There had been no toasts, no tears, no good-byes. Just the clang of metal shutters closing the shop for the last time.
    I took the news hard. No matter how busy the shop, how long the line stretched onto the sidewalk, there had always been time at La Poissonnerie Bleue to talk about fish. I learned there that an ugly-faced variety of ocean perch called sébaste is excellent stuffed with shallots or fennel and baked whole; that fresh cod works well with pesto; that red mullet is not too delicate to fillet and sauté. Justine, Marc’s daughter, had shared her secret recipe for linguine with shrimp, fish quenelles, and a sauce of butter, white wine, and shallots. Marc routinely threw a lemon and a bunch of fresh parsley into my bag and shaved two or three euros off the bill. I had felt like more than just a customer.
    Soon after La Poissonnerie Bleue closed, a fancy chocolate and caramel shop opened a few blocks to the north. It was a very un–rue des Martyrs event, with an invitation-only opening day, a red carpet, potted trees at the entrance, and two press agents to answer questions.
    Makoto Ishii, the young Japanese manager, dressed in designer black, offered the guests champagne and an endless supply of chocolates. He told me how much he and his wife had liked the rue des Martyrs the first time they had visited, more than a decade ago.
    “We got off the Métro and began to walk up the street,” he said. “There in front of us in the distance was the Sacré-Coeur Basilica. It was love at first sight. We never left.”
    They moved into an apartment on the street and later opened the chocolate shop next door.
    Somehow, our conversation turned to fish and we agreed that the departure of the Briolay family represented the end of an era.
    “There is a missing piece,” I said.
    “The neighborhood needs fish,” replied Makoto. “Maybe I should take over the fish store.”
    “What? I thought you were a chocolate expert,” I said. “You know fish?”
    “Of course.”
    “How do you know fish?”
    “I’m Japanese.”
    Of course.
    Months later, the old fish shop was still shuttered. The sign for La Poissonnerie Bleue still hung outside, a painful reminder of what had been lost.



 
    HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT
    . . .
Paris . . . is loath to surrender itself to people who are in a hurry; it belongs to