bout de papier, Vol. 3, No. 3 (1985) — Fall 1985 // Automne 1985, p. 12
Since bout de papier certainly would not tolerate from its French-language contributors such linguistic blemishes as le weekend, le jogging, le gaz or le jazz, may I
– a Toronto anglophone – use this space to demonstrate just how pure my Queen’s English remains, untainted by Gallicisms after more than three decades in Ottawa. I do not fancy myself as linguistic savant nor as a member of any élite. I hope I’m committing no faux pas, or gaucherie in writing for bout de papier this way. Consider this simply an aide-memoire, rather than a démarche or exposé, written in a mood of nonchalance, even perhaps insouciance, but certainly not malaise. However facile this cachet may appear, lam not trying to create within PAFSO an impasse or debacle, or to inflict a coup de grâce by force majeure. This is simply a minuscule aide-memoire from a retired bourgeois entrepreneur, written with sangfroid in a spirit of laissez-faire.
To illustrate my theme, let me start with a resumé of a recent soirée in Ottawa to which I invited my familial entourage, as they wanted to be au courant in these matters. We went to my favourite pub, which I would not dignify with the term restaurant or bistro. I gave my group carte blanche to order as they wished but suggested they skip the buffet and prix fixe. After I consulted both the chef and the maître d’. about the cuisine, we decided to order from the a la carte.
Not wanting, in my retirement, to appear nouveau riche, I didn’t suggest apéritifs and, after consulting the sommelier, ordered simply a carafe of vin blanc and a demi of •It was a meal par excellence. We all started with pâté maison or escargots, and then split between the lobster bisque, potage de legumes et bouillabaisse. Next, military strategy and ethics. Fearful of the delusion of a limited nuclear war in Europe, Burns warned about the dangers deploying tactical nuclear armaments in that theatre and of the need for conventional alternatives. Here, as was so often the case, Burns was in the vanguard of Canadian strategic thinking.
Burns was remarkably accomplished, a veritable renaissance man — a soldier by training and sailor by design, gardener and pianist, administrator, peacekeeper, diplomat, lecturer, scholar, and engineer cum map-maker. His proficiency here won him the Order of the British Empire in 1937. He was also a rare bird, a Canadian military man of letters. Juvenal’s words, from his Satires, had a personal meaning for Burns: “an inveterate itch to write, now incurable.” His greatest work, Manpower in the Canadian Army, reflected his nationalist and professional soldierly concerns. Yet it was perhaps his years at the Royal School of Engineers and the Imperial Defence College in England and at Quetta, India, which most provoked his internationalism, his intellect, and his imagination. The man who mused upon “Manners and Morals for Modern Maidens,” who wrote as Arlington B. Conway for H.L. Mencken’s American Mercury and who vacationed with the controversial gadfly, who twice in succession won the coveted Bertrand Steward Essay prize for the best military essay in the Empire, who held his own in correspondence with the famour strategist Liddell Hart – these too were the attributes of the real Tommy Burns. some crêpes or filet of sole almondine. Then, an entrée of steak minute or Chateaubriand. After a bit of soufflé, we had a tete a tete to decide on dessert. A parfait or tarte a la mode? A Charlotte Rousse or a Napoléon? A Poire Belle Hélène, marron glacé or something flambé?
After all this, we had a soupçon of liqueur, which we sipped with élan and topped with a demi-tasse of café filtre. In this ambiance we enjoyed real bonhommie, but what it did to our avoir du poids!
At an adjoining table, we noticed a very soignée dame, with her chic daughter and au pair friend from some lycée. There had been a minor contre temps when their garçon, perhaps out of ennui, spilled some consommé on the crêpe de Chine gown of madame. The agile maître d’, who was a former hotelier, cleaned up the mélange with a serviette and, with panache, presented madame with a lovely chemise and negligé.
Although the chassis of my car groaned en route, we drove to the Bijou and just made the matinée. We preferred loges to the mezzanine and saw the new repertoire of a rather avant-garde corps de ballet. It was a fine program by a versatile troupe, much better than last week’s Vaudeville. As an encore, they gave a routine of Léger des mains, with much finesse. My whole entourage was happy, and our esprit de corps intact.
En passant, I nearly forgot that the next day, after matins, I had to resolve a small affaire d’honneur involving a crétin from the Eighth Floor, as blasé and cavalier as you would expect from that ménage. He accused me of some canard and, in a state of pique, claimed I had offended his amour-propre. Out of this he sought to create a cuase célèbre, indeed a mêlée. The locale for our rendez-vous was behind my chalet. He showed up with an aide, probably hoping to render me hors de combat. Thank God I was on the qui vive.
I’ll leave for my memoirs the details of this incident, in my own patois. Suffice it to say here that, with a bit of savoir-faire, I was able to achieve a détente, if not a complete rapprochement. At least, I am no longer his bête noire.
A propos of the renaissance within PAFSO, I hope this vignette, this pastiche will not be regarded as a mere bagatelle or divertissement, written by a blasé raconteur or boulevardier. Au contraire, I hope it will merit a plaque on the Eighth Floor, where I am no longer an habitué. I promose not to inscribe it with some nom de plume or hide behind some sobriquet. I shall sign simply: Your interlocuteur valable. Au revoir! A
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 3, No. 3 (1985) — Fall 1985 // Automne 1985, p. 12. Read the rest of this issue →
