9.34 - I’ve been coming to work in this bar in the Kabyle district for a little while, yet only recently I realised it’s because the place has the perfect balance of sensorial Feng Shui. Some moments it’s quiet and all you can hear is the jazz radio coming from the 1993 stereo system, which somehow has perfect acoustics in this little bar. Other times it’s lit up by the sounds of old men speaking some language I definitely don’t understand. My favourite spot by the window is free so I snatch it.
9.37 - The day barman asks me if I want a pint. The fact that anyone even thinks I’m the kind of person who would be chinning beers before 10am should be the cause for some alarm. I like this barman, he’s not particularly big but he’s tough as nails. I’ve seen him disciplining a badly behaved customer one time and now he is firmly on my list of people not to be fucked with. Like all the best barmen, I can’t tell if he is 25 or 55. I order a double coffee and get to work.
9.46 - The old guy who looks a bit like ‘Butch’ from The Sopranos is sat in his normal seat at the bar. He was drinking beers when I walked in but he’s not had enough of them yet to get really animated. He has noticed, though, that the old lady had taken up her usual place outside. She’s a black woman with ginger hair who looks like a mad old acting coach. She drinks coffee and smokes dinner-lady fags and sometimes people give her change even though I’ve never seen her beg for it. They don’t like each other, the old guy and her. Things might kick off later.
9.52 - In general it’s hard for me to get going with work. I can’t concentrate until I can. It’s a bit like trying to fall asleep. At least I have plenty of stuff to look at in here. There’s a strange mix of photographs above the bar, some of people who are related to the place (the nuggets-hard barman is up there) and others who have definitely never been in here. There’s a portrait of Elvis, for example, and a signed picture of Richard Gere. Though who knows, maybe Rick brought Julia Roberts in here for some fried sardines and a pint of Pelfort.
9.58 - 11.03 - Solid uninterrupted productivity. If I wait long enough the ambiance of this place just lulls me into the zone. I can do more work in an hour than I could achieve all day in an open plan office. I think my version of white noise is old men day-drinking and having banter and petty arguments. What this says about me I don’t know. Maybe my parents found me as a newborn under a pub pool table and never told me.
11.04 - Here we go, Butch is trading some barbs with the mad acting coach. He’s still at the bar, and she’s out on the terrace, but the door-windows are open so he can wind her up while sipping his glass of 1664. I wonder why they hate each other so much? Maybe they were lovers? Maybe they still are? Perhaps they come in here and pretend to argue then return home and go at it like galapagos turtles. There’s a thought to put you off your fried sardines.
11.30 - I’ve got my lunchtime workout scheduled, so I go to pay the bill. The day barman offers me a drink on the house. I tell him I’m going to the gym. This impresses him a lot. He gets excited and starts doing what I think are supposed to be sporting movements but mostly just look like him kicking the shit out of an invisible man.
14.30 - My favourite seat is free again so I jump in it. I like to sit at the front of the place looking out onto the street, but at enough of an angle that I can lean back and see what’s happening in the bar without it being too obvious. Not a lot is going on now though, just the fella with the Boer War moustache sitting with his walking stick. He always looks like he’s silently reminiscing about the best day of his life.
15.00 - The lads from the butcher shop next door come in for their afternoon coffee. Tall, well-built men with big beards, they are wearing white aprons covered in blood and frankly look fucking terrifying. One of them comes over to see what I’m scribbling in a notebook. “Your handwriting is beautiful…” he tells me. “It must be such a privilege to have handwriting that looks like that.” I make a mental note to buy meat from his shop in the future.
15.40 - Here we go, it’s kicking off between Butch and Mystic Gypsy. The old fella has gone outside to square up with her. Frankly I think this is a bad idea. She is out of his weight class and probably has shards of a broken crystal ball inside her cloak. They engage in physical battle, which looks a bit like when you are walking around in the dark, pawing at the wall for the light switch. I look back inside, but without me noticing the day barman has swapped for the night barman. He is watching the fight passively and clearly doesn’t give a fuck.
16.00 - The night barman is interested in one thing and one thing only: food. The first time I met him, I’d said I had to leave to pick up salmon for dinner. “Oh…” he said, rubbing his hands together, “if you are having salmon what you want to do is this…” What followed was a monologue detailing every time he’s ever cooked salmon and how delicious it was. I should have just walked off but the guy kept offering me free drinks and frankly I like listening to him reminiscing about meals. Just now he asks me if I would like a gin tonic, and I wonder if 4 o clock is too early to get on it. Who am I kidding?
16.30 - Old Butch has come back in and he has brought pizza that he’s sharing with everyone in the bar. It’s a very naked PR exercise to boost his standing after he got his arse kicked by the gypsy, but I do admire the effort. I’m trying to not eat carbs but he practically forces a piece in my mouth and to be fair it’s damn delicious.
16.56 - My date told me not to be late like I always am, so I’m paying up now and trying to get out of here. The night barman asks me what I’m cooking tonight and I randomly say lamb because I’ve not heard his lamb recipes before. Maybe if I go to the toilet then I can just leave afterwards?
17.15 - I’ve finished my drinks, paid and taken a slash, so I wave bye to the old boys and head for the door. The night barman calls to me, rather sternly in fact. “Hey. You forgot your glass…” he says, pointing to the bar where a fresh gin and tonic is waiting for me. He grins like a sly old fox and I know I’m going to be late. “So anyway, if you want to cook lamb, I’ve got a recipe for you...”
Le Morlaix - 112 Rue de Meaux, Paris, Île-de-France, France