Passionfruit Butter

It was in the small, cozy dining room of Les Côtelettes that fate brought us together. There were only a few other groups eating at the restaurant, including one at the table next to ours – a group of four. “They’re speaking English,” my mother whispered surreptitiously, delighted, perhaps, that other Americans were privy to this charming jewelbox of a bistro. We carried on with our own dinner conversation, which was at times punctuated by battles for the last gnocchi or reaches to share bites, though we couldn’t help but occasionally overhear the goings-on at the next table. We minded our own business until we heard one of them mention Baton Rouge – who would talk about that but a fellow Louisianan? Curious, our ears perked up in a way they seldom do at the words “Baton Rouge.” As we wrapped up our meal, we introduced ourselves.

As it turns out, their quartet was comprised of a young couple, taking a break from their home outside New Orleans to vacation in Europe, where they were now dining with an older American ex-pat named Jim and his friend, a local. They responded to us warmly and Jim reached into his pocket, handing us a xeroxed copy of a newspaper article.

“Have you heard of my restaurant?” he asked. “It’s only open Sundays.”

We read the article, a write-up on his “restaurant,” Chez Jim Haynes, which is in fact a grandiose name for the dinner parties he throws every week from his apartment in the quiet Alésia neighborhood located in Paris’ 14th arrondissement. “There’s a waiting list for dinner tomorrow night,” he warned us, “but if you’d like to come, I’ll see what I can do.” Lo and behold, a quick phone call was made the next day and we found ourselves on the guest list for this strangest of shindigs.

We followed Jim’s brief directions until we found the telltale green gate that he said would tell us we had arrived. We roamed into the place to find a long, narrow courtyard that stretched before us, with short flights of stairs along the way that led into apartments stacked one behind the other. Jim’s was the first, made apparent by the small throng of people mingling outside. Feeling a bit out of place, like the new kids in a class of people who’d always known each other, we banded together and went inside to find the one familiar face: Jim’s.

Jim is a strange, glorious man. That apron was made for him by a regular patron of Chez Jim Haynes (actually, she made him two, but he only wears this one). Every week, his guest list of about eighty people is different; most people have been before, but some, like us, are newcomers. Miraculously, Jim remembers the name of every single person, and he brings them together with great success and even more ease. Dinner Chez Jim is what every cocktail party host dreams about. Eighty strangers mix and mingle with impossible smoothness and congeniality- not a bland or misfitting character in the bunch. Jim’s function is to bring everyone together in the same place at the same time, but from there, things proceed effortlessly and spontaneously.

“Split up, you four,” Jim commanded after we greeted him. Masterfully, he introduced us each to different clusters. “Rémy, what rhymes with ‘carrot?’” he asked me as he pulled a guest over, whose name, as it turns out, was Barrett. Jim is the king of using anecdotes and mnemonic devices to warm people to one another and break the ice. He’s got a keen memory that serves him well. As Barrett and I chatted, I sipped this bowl of soup – a chilled blend of canteloupe, ricotta, and lime. Exotic and refreshing.

Eighty people are fed without a hitch as they stand in line to receive food from Jim’s small kitchen, where you might be one of the lucky few to claim a spot in the cushioned seating area unless you choose to eat and mingle outside. Two people (different volunteers every week) lend a hand with plating.

The main course was simple and yummy: flatbreads filled with spicy, pine-nutty chicken; wild rice with fennel and toasted fennel seeds; and a plain spinach salad with creamy chèvre. We ate amongst the many others, standing up, juggling our plates and plastic cups of wine as we conversed vibrantly with the dynamic crowd. People from all over – Texans, New Englanders, and Parisians alike – rotated constantly from group to group, and as we all made our introductions and discovered arcane similarities, the eighty faces took on a comforting familiarity. Rob, a stand-up comic from California, kept us laughing all night as his adorable wife Sarah told us about Teach for America; Cameron and Mai, a pair of best friends, relayed stories from their epic backpacking expedition; a Frenchman whose name I didn’t catch told me reminisced about life in Houston, Texas; an older man who I never got to meet sat on a step in a jaunty straw hat and white linen shirt. It was the most colorful, exciting mix of people I could’ve concocted.

French vanilla ice cream does not taste anything REMOTELY close to the cloying vanilla we have here. It’s 27 times better, especially with flourless chocolate cake and melon pulp. I’m not a huge fan of canteloupe, and even I loved its unexpected inclusion, which instantly summerized the molten chocolate and rapidly melting ice cream.

The night wore on at a leisurely pace until (in stage whispers now, so as not to disturb the neighbors) we all said our goodbyes and sauntered back out the giant green gate. We were still chuckling over highlights of the night when we passed a neighborhood bistro where we glimpsed some of our new friends, who had set up camp there for further conversation. My mom introduced me to a mom-daughter pair who she’d chatted with Chez Jim, and the banter continued until, weary, we finally parted ways to call it a night.