11 avril 2007
Passage du Prado, Paris
Between the Gare de l''Est and the Grands Boulevards lies one of the most fascinating areas of Paris. To my knowledge, it has no particular name, sometimes it is referred to as "faubourg Saint-Denis", but it is actually located either way of the lower part of a street of that name. Past the Gare de l'Est and the Gare tu Nord, the street stretches out toward Montmartre in a different area. It is by no means elegant and bears not the slightest trace of gentrification, which makes it precious. It is still a business district — glass wholesale stores are nearby on rue de Paradis and for, I believe, centuries, there have been many leather workshops between faubourg Saint-Denis and Poissonnière. The leather industry has attracted, decades ago, a sizeable Turkish and Kurdish population. Who shares the neighborhood with North Africans, Chinese, Indians, Pakistanis, Carribeans and Africans further to the East on boulevard de Sébastopol (where you will also find an excellent Sichuanese restaurant, one of the few in Paris). It is probably the most ethnically diverse small neighborhood in Paris (not counting the suburbs). During the better part of the 20th century, this used to be a theatre district. It still is, with many of the theatres still active. The main landmarks are two triumphal arches erected by Louis XIV in the 17th century: porte Saint-Denis marking the beginning of rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis and porte Saint-Martin marking the beginning of rue du Faubourg-Saint-... (<-- insert proof of attention here). The place also bears relics of former waves of immigration: old Yugoslavian food shops are still there on rue du Château-d'Eau. Describing the many riches this neighborhood has to offer would definitely take too long.
In the Faubourg Saint-Denis, for ages, walls have been speaking. Kurdish political posters, concert announcements, always new but always pretty much in the same style. Not very food-oriented? We'll go back to food quite soon. But before that, we are going to talk about architecture.
"By the way, have you ever seen the passage du Prado?
— No..."
I
feel so lucky. I am actually going to introduce someone to this
extraordinary place. And I'm all the more certain that they will like
it that I know the place doesn't look like much from outside. Better
than that: it looks like nothing. It is not easy to spot from the street. But once inside, you get, so to say, a slap in the face.
This beautiful Art-Deco covered arcade is home to Turkish pizza places, Turkish coffee houses, Indian DVD stores, Pakistani pastry shops and restaurants, barbershops either Turkish or Indian, the latter adorned with a huge portrait of Sharukh Khan above the window, and even a Mauritian restaurant that looks pretty good. The arcade brilliantly sums up the whole neighborhood under its magnificent, intact, incredibly cruddy period glass ceiling from which hang some scrumptious glass-and-metal ornamented panels. All year round, rain or shine, the light is lovely in spite of the thick layer of greasy black dust caked on the ceiling elements. Or maybe not in spite of it — maybe partly because of it.
What do people go to the passage du Prado for? For a plate of rice and curried chickpeas, doused with fluorescent green chatni; for a close shave in one of the barbershops; for the latest Bollywood musicals (3 DVDs for 10 euros that day, all starring Sharukh, naturally); for a lahmacun (Turkish pizza) to nibble on; for a leisurely chat while fiddling with a string of beads; for a game of backgammon and a cup of coffee; but not for browsing, and certainly not for sightseeing. Not one tourist in sight, obviously. Now call it dirty, call it seedy or creepy if you will, but the passage du Prado is a goldmine, an artistic and social treasure, a finely tuned ecosystem — and I'd be very thankful to you if you never spoiled it for me. Don't come in by busloads to check if my description is correct. Be respectful, be discrete. Come alone, or by two or three. Do not disturb the fragile balance of this still unspoiled, unique place.
Indeed — how long will it go on? I do not know. It has been going on for quite some time and I'd be very happy to see it last a bit longer. As far as I know, it is the only covered arcade in Paris — at that level of architectural beauty — that has not yet been whitewashed, manicured, scraped, cleaned, gutted and scaled, gentrified, cutified, deprived of its immigrant population and converted into a shopping mall for rich people. Of course, a bit of cosmetic cleaning would do no harm. But just a bit. Please, do not overdo it. Do not murder my arcade. Do not expel the Turkish pizzaioli, the Indian barbers; do not let in Jean-Paul Gaultier, fashion magazine offices, Annick Goutal perfumes that smell of pricey hookers, Thai designer shops. I have nothing against those things — honest. But at least, leave that one to us, to the Parisian people. Run a mop through the ceiling panes if you will, but pray, do not change anything.
And as I write this, I know that, if the caudillo of the West suburbs gets regrettably elected as president, this arcade will have a lot to worry about. It will not be alone in that. The Karcher (one of his favorite words) is pointing its little head. Like everybody in France, I have to bear with the opinion polls continuously hammered into our heads and causing a slow, regular shooting pain. And although I have been courageously dealing with it as every French person has for months, I am beginning to feel a bit weak. I do know what polls are worth, especially with said caudillo being former head of the police (he has recently resigned but I do not believe it makes a difference), but the constant pressure from the outside world makes me now close to breakup. I am longing for the end of that election, while I am also increasingly dreading it.
Well, sad thoughts have never made things any better, I think as we finish our lunch of curried lamb on basmati rice at the Pakistani coffee shop. But it is true that these days, thinking of the Current Occupant (as Garrison Keillor calls him) getting ready to bomb Iran, and the certainty that nobody will be able to prevent that, well ça craint — a French way of expressing intense pessimism. Suddenly two small plates land on our table, laden with a delicate sweet pilau, probably made at the owner's home, brought in a plastic bag and distributed to everyone in the restaurant. Rainbow-colored, bursting with ghee and the smell of green cardamom, this small offering looks like a discrete encouragement not to lose hope.