Rosalie came here from Italy in 1887. She was from Rome, and carried a curvaceous figure. When she arrived in Paris she walked the length and breadth of the city, but struggled to find work. Those early days were hard, and laborious. She tried her hand as a seamstress, working for some of the great designers here in the City of Light. Lots of young women were employed in those fashion houses, and it was pleasant work. The seamstresses listened to street singers from their balconies, and met up at night to go dancing outside the cafés, and were always dressed in the latest fashions. Rosalie’s dreams had come true. Sadly she would not keep the job for long, for eventually people began to call her a macaroni. It was a shame, as Rosalie had enjoyed the nightlife in Paris, and going dancing on the Rue de Lappe. So she found work as a maid in the household of Princess Ruspoli. The lady was very strict and condescending. Princess Ruspoli gave her a very hard time. “This isn’t some sewing shop here. Can you even speak French?” Rosalie was submissive. “Yes, Madame! Very good, Madame.” She cleaned the chandeliers to perfection, knowing the silver had to be polished before the princess awoke and the floor must be spotless. Happily, François – the chef – was on her side. She would always remember chef François. He had taught her to make quiche Lorraine, and steak tartare with capers and rabbit with prunes. Rosalie learned quickly and in secret, for her job was not to cook but to keep house, to set the table and fold the napkins, and to polish the wine glasses so they sparkled. She also looked after the children, ungrateful little devils though they were. They looked upon her as less than nothing. “Rosalie, hurry up!” ordered the eldest. “Rosalie, you’re ugly!” cried the youngest. Rosalie acquiesced to their slightest whims. All of this Rosalie endured, day after day, before returning to her chambre de bonne under the roof beams on the sixth floor. Fortunately, she had many friends on that floor. Up there they shared their complaints and frustrations, talking about their masters’ fastidious ways and unrelenting capriciousness. They met up in the park with the children wrapped up in overcoats, and chatted gaily on the wooden benches. But Rosalie had yet another destiny to fulfil, and she poured her heart into her training in the kitchen with chef François. One day, armed with her hard-earned skill and ripe determination, Rosalie would open her own restaurant.
One fine day, Rosalie left the Princess Ruspoli’s employ and decided to become a live model for the capital’s artists. Her plan was to gather a small nest egg for her restaurant, and at the same time to begin cultivating a network of patrons. There was only one place Rosalie wanted to open her restaurant: in Montparnasse, the beating heart of the art scene. She was soon spotted by Bouguereau – “a master in the hierarchy of mediocrity,” or so they said. She posed for him and was paid a pittance, but it was a start. Bouguereau sung her praises to his fellow artists, and so Rosalie came to be well-known among the bohemians of Montparnasse. One day she walked into the painter’s studio and announced, “I see better days for myself; I must leave you.” This would be her last pose, and Bouguereau had tears in his eyes. He paid her a parting bonus, and helped her on her way. With this she was able to open a small bistro, which she called “Chez Rosalie”. There she hosted all of Montparnasse’s artistic nobility, competing ably with established haunts up in Montmartre. Chez Rosalie had only four tables with stools, and could seat no more than twenty-four, and so there were several seatings each night. Her osso buco was exquisite, and her pasta was both delicious and affordable. Rosalie’s generous heart gave credit to the impoverished artists of Montparnasse, who would sometimes pay for their dinner with a sketch. One night, a stranger named Modigliani sat down at the bar. He drank heavily, and ordered glass after glass until he had to be carried out of the café with a man under each arm. Before he left, Rosalie asked him to draw her a sketch to pay his bill. Modigliani grabbed a pencil, and set to work while hiccupping. They gathered around him, admiring his deft, confident lines and the magnificent drawing that took shape. Rosalie thanked him with a smile. This work would join the others in a drawer in her desk, whose contents grew day by day. Rosalie had always loved her life among the artists, and thought fondly of the warm shine of café lights on cobblestones beneath her dancing feet. Now she was their patron, and she was content.
Alan Alfredo Geday