Le Verre a Pied

The rain starts to fall as you reach the foot of Rue Mouffetard. The market is on today and the street is humming. Orwell lived around here in his ‘Down and Out’ days. Hemingway used to stay just up the road. Things have changed a little since then. The clothes of the people shopping for organic fruit or eating oysters outside the fishmonger tell you that the rent has gone up a bit since ‘The Sun Also Rises’. The drizzle is getting heavier, so you head towards Le Verre a Pied. 

This little bar is so discreet that you walked past it many times before realising it was there. It’s been in this exact spot since the days when George and Ernest used to stalk these streets with big ideas and empty pockets. It seems more likely than not they would have wandered in for a drink at least once or twice, though you will never know, and kind of prefer it that way. 

You shuffle up to the bar and find a spot on the corner. The faces of the people standing next to you are visible as reflections in the mirror, poking out between the different menus, the bottles, the postcards and trinkets. You catch a glimpse of yourself, peeping from behind a wine list. It’s a bit like appearing in the portrait at the end of The Shining, except being trapped here forever would hardly be torture.

The front room is full of people drinking quietly. A couple of older ladies are having blanquette de veau in the back part, their gentle chat contributing to the soft simmer of conversation hovering in the air. Just behind them, among assorted artworks, a black coat and a beret are hanging from hooks. They could’ve been there for a hundred years. Everything in here could have.   

You spot an oil painting on the wall, a scene of Rue Mouffetard as witnessed from just outside the door of the bar. People milling outside the shops, a parent holding a child’s hand, the barrels in the street outside the wine cave. A Tabac sign is visible, poking out above the awnings, which dates the painting somewhat but not by any specific period. The brush strokes create an effect that could be rising heat on a summer day or equally the haze of the raindrops you’ve just escaped from. 

On the wall, there’s also a black and white line drawing of the bar area itself. The perspective looks as though it’s from outside the window on the street. Perhaps someone who didn’t have enough coins for a drink? He might have longingly sketched the warm interior from out on the cobbles then come in and offered his work to Claude the barman in exchange for a glass of viognier and a few oysters. You should try that yourself, you think, before remembering that you never could draw too well.

Back at the bar, an older gentleman strikes up a conversation with you about your hat, which he thinks looks English even though it’s American and you bought it in Corsica. Unprompted, he tells you stories about his time in England, after the war, when he worked at a factory in the North. He went there mostly to learn the language but came back with a Yorkshire dialect that nobody could understand. He reflects on this for a moment and then thanks you for your time as he heads to the door. 

It has stopped raining now, giving you every excuse to go back out onto Rue Mouffetard and carry on with your day. Maybe in a little while. Perhaps you’ll enjoy the hum of voices inside for a bit longer. You remember when you used to live around here, just like those great writers whose books you so enjoyed. In a way you still do. Everyone who’s ever spent time here becomes a part of its history. It’s a nice feeling.

Le Verre a Pied - 118 Rue Mouffetard, 75005 Paris