chez jim

If you ever find yourself in Paris, hidden in a charming courtyard shaded from the orange sunset sky by free growing trees, you will realize that this is exactly the kind of life they don’t tell you exists here. Because if they did, you probably would never leave. And if you stayed you’d risk becoming one of those people who actually believe their life has turned into one miraculous dream, symptoms which I have begun to develop.

For the past 30 years, Jim Haynes, has been generously hosting a dinner at his Parisian atelier for anyone who wants to attend. There are usually 50-70 guests, depending on the weather and availability of the outside space, and besides some of his closest friends, he usually doesn’t know anybody yet. Lavish only in its conception, one can expect good food, good drinks, and even better conversation. Since conversation is really what it’s all about at Jim’s house.

The dinners start at 8pm and run until about 11, at which point at least half of the guests remain pretending they don’t know what time it is because there is so much left to say. But, if you are like me, three hours is barely enough time.

Last Sunday me and my good friend Thomas, who was kind enough to accompany me in hopes of easing my social awkwardness, spent the first half of the day trying to figure out what to expect and also semi planning a back-up plan if we turned out to be the couple who looked like they had made a wrong turn off a nearby street. It just so happens we were some of the youngest (in age not spirit), except for the pubescent boy from Boston who was dragged there by his very, lets just say, interesting father. It seems best not to come with any preconceived notions but instead to arrive with an extremely open mind and an empty stomach.

I spent the first thirty minutes staying close to Thomas while observing the turn out and working alcohol into my system to shake the jitters caused by a room full of strangers dying to talk. Pretty soon we were approached by a lovely couple from Washington DC, whose names I no longer recall. She, was a critical essay writer, and he, was a doctor specializing in internal medicine. They were charming and lively and the conversation ranged from the cultural diversity of Washington DC (which was a shock to me) to their obsession with New York and soon to a commentary on the hip Marais area in Paris which lured three young French girls into our circle. At this point, having ejected ourselves from the conversation, Thomas and I were slowly making our way towards the real hit of any party – the food.

Plates stacked high with braised pork, black beans, rice, and steamed spinach, we took it all outside and sat next to no one other than the cook for the evening, who got to talking about her favorite outdoor markets in Paris and the cooking book she is in the process of compiling. While we chewed, she dished out some secrets to successfully putting together a meal for such a large group and we reassured her that the food was delicious, even though the pork was the only really good element on my plate.

As the crowd moved around, the night started to set in, and the wine was loosening me up, I managed to have a whole one hour conversation with a brilliant man in his fifties who used to be an English professor in Vancouver. I must have charmed him with my excessive jabbering about how much I love all things literary because before I knew it he was giving me hugs and referring to me as ‘a seed I planted that has begun to sprout’. We discussed the power of three little truths called chemistry (the thing which you can't define), good, honest writing, and the power of understanding how unique everyone is. We also talked about the fine line between fiction and non-fiction and simultaneously came to the conclusion that all art forms, whether they be done by brush or pen or other, transcend the categories of right and wrong, and make it possible for open interpretation and an uncanny ability to reach into each and every soul. I concluded that we need more professors like him in our classrooms.

I was so utterly engaged that when I snapped out of it and excused myself to use the restroom, I had realized how many more people there were to meet. I found Thomas near the bathroom talking to three lawyers. He introduced me to one of them and after a little chat, I dragged Thomas outside for a much needed cigarette and an update on the conversations we've been having - he had met an Australian with a handlebar moustache and spent some time practicing his French with a native. Unfortunately, the one person who I expected to be there and was very much looking forward to meeting, Jim, was not at his own party. But I happened to catch the eye of his best friend, a sixty plus year old German named Martin, who told me my pants were sexy and invited me to spend the summer with him in the French provinces. Since the early 80s, he has kept a small publishing house overlooking the Jardin du Luxembourg, which he has taken to calling ‘my very own backyard’.

I spent the last hour of the dinner talking to Martin over fresh strawberry shortcake, which he had two portions of under my watch. He told me about the dying publishing industry, the shortage of good contemporary French literature, and the Jim dinners of course. “It’s a hit or miss really. Most of the time, the people are great and you can't seem to get to everyone in the room quick enough. Other times, I find myself so bored that I have to sneak out.”

It’s true. Besides the wonderful reputation that Jim has built over the years due to his charismatic love for people, the success of each dinner is all about the people. But it’s proven that there must be at least one person worth exchanging words with. And the greatest thing about it? You never know who is going to show and where in the world they are coming from.

As the voices settled, only a handful of people remaining, I sat down for the first time in the evening to give some of Jim’s books, which covered one entire wall, a good look. I left with Thanks for Coming! – a short autobiography of Jim’s remarkable life – chronicling London in the 60s where he co-launched a sexual liberation magazine called Suck, stories about how he knew Yoko Ono and John Lennon before they met each other, details about putting together his book Everything Is, excerpts from other works, some letters, and many photographs taken over the years. If I never again return to a Sunday dinner, at least I will have this book as a keepsake. But I don’t think that is at all possible considering that I am still very intent on meeting the man of the hour.

Here is a short clip from a documentary being made about Jim Haynes and his famous Sunday dinners in Paris. Also please check out his website (www.jim-haynes.com). If you are in Paris, and enjoy meeting people, you will want to pay him a visit.