Being 83 with Potential

Thought for the Fortnight

Me on my quiet 80th birthday with family

This is an ‘extra’ post, offered to you off piste as an ‘extra’ for having messed up last week.

Some of you will know that, in addition to this newsletter, I write for Sixtyandme, an online magazine for older women. As my energies are increasingly absorbed by Substack, the frequency of such posts has waned, but I recently posted an article about a set of unexpected events around my 83^rd birthday.

Here, I re-post what I wrote there, but also move on to what happened afterwards. I think it was delicious. The first part was initially summarised in a Substack Note, but not the second.

Birthdays are not a big thing in our house. Sometimes I celebrate and sometimes I do very little. I make a bit more effort for the special decade birthdays, like 60, 70, 80. But 83 did not seem special on any count.

So, as my birthday approached, I made no plans and did not encourage my family to do so. (My daughter is a great party organiser and would have done so in a flash, but I said no, don’t worry).

And in any case, I was going to be away.

Birthday in Paris

My husband and I go to Paris quite often, although less often than we used to when we were younger.

From London, it is only slightly over two hours on Eurostar, plus getting to Eurostar from our house and getting to where we are staying at the other end. Even with the extra wait required at the station, it is roughly four hours door-to-door.

And we have friends with a flat there, so that makes it even easier.

We didn’t plan for my birthday to happen in Paris. Instead, it just happened to be the most convenient time to go, given doctors’ appointments and other fixed events.

Indeed, it was slightly worse. My birthday was the best day to travel back. Several friends commented to me, “What? You are spending your birthday in transit?”

“Yes,” I said, “it doesn’t really matter.” And it didn’t.

A Birthday Lunch

But as the day approached, we thought it would be nice to have a meal to celebrate, using the day before. I chose a restaurant I had been to before, where I knew the food was excellent (it has a Michelin star) and the atmosphere very relaxed.

A relaxed meal is important to me. I hate formality – the waiter putting the napkin in your lap and all that. I like friendliness and comfort.

And we always eat a big meal at lunch – not dinner. We both hate trying to digest a big meal in the evening. Indeed, we don’t like going out all that much in the evening these days.

So, the morning of the planned lunch, we were doing some shopping and dropped by the restaurant to make the booking. We opened the door and a lot of staff, including the chef, were standing right there discussing things. I said hello and immediately added that we would like to book for lunch that day.

But before I could go any further, one of the assembled throng said: “We are terribly sorry, Madame, but we no longer open for lunch on weekdays. I am so sorry.”

Needless to say, I was crestfallen. I had no special back-up. I really liked that restaurant.

With no particular aim in mind, I said I was really disappointed as it was my birthday, and I was looking forward to it. At which point, the chef turned to the young waiter and said: “OK, let’s open up for them.”

And they did!

We came back at the agreed time and had a lovely lunch. Two initial small courses. The most tender chicken I have ever eaten (cooked something called ‘sous-vide’ over a long period). And a complex dessert, in which they had inserted one candle for me to blow out.

In the background, the chef was entertaining some friends, drinking wine and laughing a lot. It made for a very convivial atmosphere.

During the course of the meal, we talked a bit to the waiter, who turned out to have worked in London and spoke good English. He was the main sommelier of the restaurant and he and my husband discussed wines.

At the end of the meal, he brought a very special white wine to the table for my husband to sample (I don’t drink much but had one taste). It was delicious.

All very pleasing.

Goodbyes

As we were leaving, I shook the chef’s hand and thanked him for opening the restaurant for us. He said he was happy to have given me a nice birthday.

I then said, because I am never coy about my age, that I was 83.

He looked at me again. Indeed, he asked me to repeat it, perhaps because my French is not all that perfect, but probably mostly because no self-respecting French woman of my age would ever reveal such details.

And then he smiled at me and said “Ah, Madame – vous êtes un Pétrus!”

Which in case you don’t know is a very, very fine wine, said to be one of the best wines in the world. It is normally drunk aged – sometimes more than fifty years. And it is hugely expensive, way beyond anything I can afford. Look it up on google - you will be amazed.

What a lovely compliment from a complete stranger.

I will remember my 83^rd birthday forever.

PS. To give the chef a small bit of free advertising for his efforts on our part, the restaurant is called Pierre Sang (the name of the chef), and it is in the 11^th arrondissement of Paris. Highly recommended.

Aftermath

Because I had mentioned his restaurant, I decided it was the reasonable thing to do to send the chef a link to the post by email, with my thanks. To my surprise, he replied quickly.

He thanked me for the article and reiterated his pleasure at being able to share my lunch and then added this sentence:

“To me, 83 is the age of young ladies! You are a young lady in my eyes, just like the wine we enjoyed together—full of character, elegance, and so much potential.”

I love the very idea of still having potential at 83, never mind character and elegance. Bring it on.

A version of the first part of this article was first published on Sixtyandme.

I am always delighted to hear from you, as I love to engage with readers. Feel free to tell me about a special birthday in your life or, perhaps, a special compliment. Or anything else that you want to pass on today. I am ready and listening.