Many years ago my friend Darren Cooper, who ran our west Region services operation invited me to go persuade him to change the way he was doing business.
He lived on the second floor of a stunning old townhouse in La Quartier Latin in Paris. The office was MILES away and full of busybody execs so we met at his house to discuss things through.
It was June and he had the huge windows thrown open to the city busyness. We stat at his huge, dark oak table, with a tatty guitar leaning against the opposite end, and an amplifier facing us blankly.
Every couple of hours the intensity of our debate would fade, and we would pop to the ground floor where there was a very old cafe. We would talk music, and joke and peoplewatch as he smoked and while sipped glorious cafe au lait.
By six we had knocked together a plan of action. Darren theatrically closed both our notebooks and said "Dave, I'm hungry, enough bullshit for one day !".
He led me down and through the bustling throng to a backstreet restaurant. Darren embraced the fat , sweaty chef like a long lost brother, as they chattered in colloquial French. I smiled, picking out about every third word ! Did he have any canard du pays et champignons today ? Qui ? Tres bien !
" Sit down Dave, lad, you're in for a treat".
I was going to eat wild duck with wild mushrooms cooked like only the French can cook.
Darren and I sipped wine and water while Mm Du Fage busied himself.
The meals arrived in due course: richly steaming, diamond berries in the jus, marvellous. The Canard was so gamey I almost retched to begin with: Darren held my arm " persevere my friend, this is a delight once you savour it". He was right. Two mouthfuls in the overwhelming flavours fell apart and the wild oregano, dill, saltfish, grass and everything else that defined the duck's wild life burst forth. I have rarely encountered such complex flavours.
Simply stunning. We ate in near silence as the cafe buzzed with cognoscenti. A carafe of earthy Pinot Noir washed this repast down, so young and fiery that it still carried a fine spritz.
A slow meal fully savoured, followed by chat over sipped digestifs and we clapped hugs around each other and the chef before wandering back. Dark now, the streets shone with a million clipped soles. We ducked into Darrens local pub "the Long Hop" for pints of cuba libres and a game of pool with locals.
Around ten thirty we got back to his apartment windows now gaping to the moon. Across the street , the mirror image house to this one had a roof garden. Someone was playing the harmonica on there, very well.
Darren picked up his old strat from against the table, and began playing a simple 12-bar. After a distant laugh the two of them syncopated across the street.
I was a better player than he, but by the time Darren gave me a go, the moment was dwindling. After a memorable few bars my accompanist shouted and waved and fled indoors. Only the breeze and the music of Paris' very heart beating remained as the amp hissed.
We chatted, sipped cognac. I crashed in his spare room, no way was I spoiling this night with a taxi ride and a sterile hotel.
I dozed off , the Paris night kissing my cheeks. A good day.
