Fully Booked

Where would you go if you had only 24 hours to live? That’s a question we should all ask ourselves quite regularly, because that way you get to do all the things you want to do before you die. My own “last day on earth” list would include an array of English delights: a pint of Harveys real ale in my village pub (the Royal Oak in Newick, East Sussex), a champagne picnic at Lord’s Cricket Ground in London during a test match, an hour spent staring wistfully at the goalmouth in Arsenal’s new Emirates Stadium, lunch at the Ivy, dinner at Le Caprice, and a night in the penthouse suite of somewhere historic and magnificent like Claridges.

But if I’m honest, I might not stay in England at all. Instead, I would catch the Eurostar to Paris, take a taxi to the Odéon area of St. Germain, and book myself a table for lunch at Les Editeurs. Part café, part restaurant, part library, this is the kind of enigmatic, open-all-day place Paris does so wonderfully well. I’ve had every type of meal there: breakfasts of croissants, orange juice and piping-hot fresh coffee; lunchtime feasts of moules marinières and chips washed down with Puligny-Montrachet; afternoon tea while reading English newspapers; and sumptuous four-course dinners upstairs in the cozy main dining room. Never once have I left feeling unsated.

Because of its location, buried deep in the famous publishing area of this great city, the clientele is invariably intellectual, from intense young students (always chain smoking) to bookish lovers (always giggling) and gesticulating literary critics (always enraged). The atmosphere is lively, yet oddly calming. I could happily sit there for an hour just people watching. And, this being Paris, they’d all be watching me, too: edgy, curious, fascinated by human nature in all its guises. And what a place to end my days. After all, allegedly, I used to be a bit of an éditeur myself.