In Memoriam: Gribouille

It was about four in the afternoon on Saturday when I saw it. A chalkboard in front of Gribouille read "Last Day." My heart sank. The dinning room was empty, the pastry shelves bare but for a small stack of raisin croissants. A cook poked his head out of the kitchen and smiled grimly. I asked him if the sign was true. He said, "Yes. On Sundays, we were always full, but Monday through Friday..." He trailed off with a shrug. I feel confident in saying I was their last customer. The raisin croissant is sitting in front of me still. I don't have the heart to eat it. As an outlet for my grief, here are some fond memories of Gribouille:

1. It was the dead of winter and snowing hard. I had just moved to Williamsburg and was getting out of work late. As I walked home from the subway, the prospect of heading to my unheated loft had me near the breaking point. And then I saw it. Through the snow, through the dark and yes, perhaps even a bitter tear, there she was. The dining room was empty. In hindsight, this was, perhaps, an omen. Some soft classical music was playing and after I'd ordered, a waiter brought me a bowl of potato soup, compliments of the house. As I regained some body heat, I thought to myself, maybe I shouldn't quit my job, maybe things aren't so bad. The meal was, as I would find to be usual, delicious. It saved me on a bad night. The fact that I was fired a month later is likely unrelated.

2. After a nice brunch, I went up to the counter to pay the bill. One of the Frenchmen who owned the place was working the register. The man ahead of me in line ordered, in French, some bread and pastries. After paying for his order, he accidentally spilled some crumbs on the counter as he left. The owner swept away the crumbs, flashed me a smile and, with a heavy accent, said "French people, eh?" That still cracks me up.

3. The croissants. My god, the croissants. Heavy without being doughy, full of texture and never stale. They weren't the pieces of bullshit you get at Starbucks. They were little slices of heaven, for two dollars a piece (two fifty for a chocolate one).

You will be mised Gribouille. It's a fucking travesty that good restaurants like you must die while clusterfucks like your across-the-street neighbor, One Hope Cafe, live on. Goodbye and good luck.

Comments

[Corrina]

This is a touching piece. I loved that place too.

[Trevor]

Their problem was that they were literally open at the most odd hours. I mean- I live two blocks from there and still never ate there. Why would you have a restaurant and close at 7pm everyday!

[Amy]

It's lile losing a good friend. A good French friend. We followed Gribouille before it opened, wondering what kind of place was going in as we ogled their renovations of that charming corner. I brought my out-of-town Francophile sister here time and again. Such a shame.