Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 362 The Authentic Old Parisian Way of Drinking!
The following afternoon, as agreed, Lionel accompanied Maupassant to Place Piccolo, to a café called "Dead Mouse".

It's nestled among a cluster of old buildings, its facade quite inconspicuous. The wooden signboard, weathered by wind and rain, has almost obscured the rat pattern on it.

Pushing open the door, a mixture of smells—of stale coffee grounds, old wood, wax, and a faint musty odor—was immediately noticeable.

The café was already packed with people, filled with smoke and a noisy atmosphere.

Maupassant pulled him to sit at a round table further inside and called over a waiter.

Lionel looked around and found that the layout here was indeed very different from the spacious and bright "Procop" or "Flora".

The "Dead Mouse Cafe" is a small, low-ceilinged space, with light coming mainly from a few gas lamps hanging on the walls, making it quite dim even during the day.

The wooden floorboards have been worn shiny from years of foot traffic, and the edges are somewhat uneven.

The furniture consists mostly of old-fashioned round tables and low-backed chairs, arranged very close together, seemingly so that customers can gather together to talk and debate.

A simply dressed waiter wearing an old apron slowly approached, and Maupassant familiarly ordered two cups of coffee, specifically instructing, "The usual."

When the coffee was served, Lionel was surprised to find that the two porcelain cups on the tray were a whole size larger than the coffee cups he usually used.

Lionel was about to pick up the glass to drink as usual when he discovered that the glass had no handle and was made of thin porcelain, which looked extremely hot to the touch.

He looked at Maupassant, only to see the other man do something that stunned him—

Maupassant carefully and steadily poured the scalding hot coffee from the cup into the shallow saucer underneath.

Then, Maupassant picked up the plate, blew on the steam, and began to sip along the edge of the plate, making a "slurping" sound.

The gesture and the sound made Lionel feel a little dazed, as if he had instantly returned to a small shop on a Beijing street, watching an old Beijinger drinking fried liver from the edge of a bowl.

After finishing his coffee, Maupassant wiped the coffee off his beard with the back of his hand, looked up and saw Lionel's astonished expression, and smiled smugly.

He shook the saucer: "How about it? Never seen anything like it before, have you? This is how a true old Parisian drinks coffee, my dear Leon!"

Before the French Revolution, and up until the early Empire, this was how Parisians, especially ordinary people, drank coffee.

The cup is too thin, and the coffee is too hot to drink directly from. Pouring it into a saucer cools it down quickly, and I can drink it by sipping along the edge, without wasting a single drop.

He looked at the untouched cup of coffee in front of Lionel and urged, "Give it a try? If you want to recreate history with 'The Café,' you have to pay attention to these kinds of details."

I dare say, in all of Paris, this 'Dead Rat' restaurant is probably the only one stubbornly preserving this old-fashioned way of drinking!

Lionel, somewhat skeptical, tried to imitate Maupassant by pouring coffee into a saucer, his movements clumsy and nearly spilling it.

He picked it up and tried sipping it.

This method was far from elegant, even somewhat awkward, but it instantly transported him back 100 years.

Maupassant lowered his voice: "Can you feel it? Not just the taste, but the feeling. Sitting here, drinking coffee this way—"

You could almost hear the people at the next table discussing whether or not Louis XVI should be sent to the guillotine.

Lionel nodded and began to observe the small space more closely.

The glow of the oil lamp cast flickering shadows on the mottled walls. Some old newspapers were piled up in the corner. Most of the guests were dressed plainly and looked like craftsmen or peddlers.

They gathered in twos and threes, talking in hushed tones, occasionally bursting into low laughter.

This place doesn't have the typical scenes found in the cafes of the Saint-Germain district—intellectuals giving speeches, artists lamenting their poverty, and ladies and gentlemen showing off and competing with each other…

Yes, it exists; it's the tranquility and ease of ordinary people's daily lives. Maupassant suddenly stood up and gestured for Lionel to follow him: "Come on, let me show you something more interesting."

They walked past a few tables and toward a narrow passage at the back of the café, at the end of which were two small, closed doors.

The unpleasant smell told the two that the cafe's restroom must be behind the door.

Lionel's gaze fell on the logo on the door panel, and he was stunned once again.

It wasn't written with the common "Mr./Ms." or "Sir/Madam," but rather in black paint—

"Male citizens" and "female citizens".

This word, like a ghost that walked straight out of the depths of history, carrying the aura of 1793, stood abruptly before Lionel.

Although the fact that women are allowed to enter cafes and that cafes have separate restrooms for men and women is a recent development, it reflects the owner's mindset.

Maupassant looked at the expression on Lionel's face and nodded with satisfaction: "See? 'Citizen'! This shop is said to have been passed down for five generations."

I've been here since before the French Revolution, through the Empire, the Restoration Dynasty, the July Monarchy, the Second Republic, the Second Empire, and now the Third Republic...

The outside world has been turned upside down, and Baron Haussmann has demolished and rebuilt Paris, but it remains stubbornly in the past, like a stone in the Seine.

For generations, the owners have stubbornly refused any 'modern' modifications, insisting on using these saucers to drink coffee and referring to their customers as 'citizens'.

He said this was a rule set by his great-grandfather, a staunch Jacobin, and it couldn't be changed.

He paused, then continued, "'Prokopf' has an even longer history; Voltaire, Diderot, and Napoleon all visited it—"

Oh, and Napoleon even pawned his military cap there. But now 'Procop' is too ornate!
Those who go there are now mostly members of parliament, academicians, and famous writers; it's no longer the den of philosophers and revolutionaries that it once was.

The history there has become decoration, a gimmick to attract customers. But this place is different—”

At this point, Maupassant patted the rough wooden door frame: "The history here is alive! This is the kind of place our 'Café' needs."

A stage that truly belongs to the common people, still existing in that era.

The two returned to their seats, and Lionel looked at the plate of coffee in front of him, which was no longer steaming. He was deeply moved than he appeared to be.

Maupassant was right, in these details—

The custom of drinking coffee from a saucer, the term "citizen," and the dimly lit, cramped space.
— "The Café" is no longer just dry words on a manuscript, but a series of tangible fragments of history.

Together they create a realistic historical environment in which "actors" can immerse themselves.

This is exactly what he wanted: the kind of "immersive experience" that instantly draws the audience into a specific era.

Lionel looked up and approvingly at Maupassant: "Guy, you have found an excellent reference."

Everything here could practically be brought onto the stage! Let's bring Emile and his camera tomorrow and film it all!

Maupassant immediately perked up: "That's wonderful! Emile will be delighted!"

Lionel smiled and poured a little more coffee into the saucer.

As he drank, he said to Maupassant, "Alright, now we can discuss the second act of 'The Café'."

Based on our previous framework, the second act is set in the second year of the Republic, at the height of the Reign of Terror…

(End of this chapter)