Service Projects: Danish tableware from Copenhagen. Objects crafted to be used and cherished every day. Glassware, plates, and cutlery in metal or porcelain, designed to endure—"tableware for special moments, and the most ordinary ones."
Take a simple idea and treat it with utter seriousness. Let us find an example. Two weeks ago, I decided to turn my apartment into a brasserie for Sunday lunch. Believe it or not, between the Diner 220 and Saloon 270 plates, the Canteen Brushed flatware, and the Ice Cream Cup 02 dishes, my guests found themselves watching instinctively for the white apron of a garçon, ready to order a demi from the ghost of Saint-Germain. A whimsical cab ride, and Lipp opened before us.
Part chef, part waitress of this clandestine bistro of the palate, I fully intended to loosen tongues and quietly gather a few leads for my inquiry into taste. Magnus, proud to have finally conquered Bluetooth, queued up his latest YouTube discovery on the Devialet Mania: twenty minutes of Bouillon Chartier on a midday in June 2017. “Just listen to this… No, really, listen. These are simply people having lunch. People who grew hungry on a Tuesday in June, never suspecting that one day, an old man would make their chatter the chamber music of his autumn. Isn’t it deeply moving? I find it moving. Then again, I find many things moving—that is the trouble.”
“ASMR, my dear Magnus,” said Élie. “Have you seen Menus-Plaisirs, Wiseman’s documentary on the Troisgros family? Four hours inside the kitchens of a dynasty that has held three stars since 1968. No music, no voiceover—only a liturgy of copper and steel, the restless simmering of broths, and the happy hum of the dining room. A feast for all five senses, provided you have four hours to spare. Which is to say, you must be either a gastronome or retired. You, of course, are both!”
I told Élie to drop the teasing and come to the table. Horses galloped along the amber rims of the Saloons, while the Diners dreamed of neon signs and milkshakes… But the seventh plate, the extra setting, was a Métier: pure white, unadorned, devoid of history, fired at blistering temperatures to withstand the most searing confidences.
What would I ask them this time? What confession, what small secret, what card held close to the chest did I want to see laid upon the table? I pointed to the white plate. “This seat is empty. If you could invite anyone at all, right here, right now, who would it be?”
Colette gazed at it for a moment. “Iris Clert. The only woman capable of charging admission to an empty gallery. Klein exhibited nothingness in her space, and all of Paris queued up to witness it. I urge you to read Servin Bergeret’s essay. She was the first to show Fontana, Leon Golub as well. Above all, she refused to fade behind her artists. She used to call herself ‘the messenger of the gods, and therefore of artists.’” Colette raised her glass. “To Iris, and to her scandalous taste. Sixty years later, no one quite knows how to categorize her.”
“Magnus?” I asked.
“My wife. Because she transcends time.” He closed his eyes and gestured for us to do the same.
“Close your eyes, children. Picture a woman with golden hair. It rests against her shoulder, and whenever she laughs, the strands tremble. She wears that lipstick she tucked between her breasts for twenty years. Because a lipstick kept near the heart leaves a heart at the corner of your lips.
She would tell you of our son’s first cries, without a shred of modesty. She would recount every bit of my foolishness—le mie sciocchezze, as she called it.” He turned to Arthur. “She would have found you charming. She would have set a Vogue to her lips, right where her color lingered, lit it with that marbled Bienaimé lighter, and held your gaze until your cheeks flushed the shade of her lips, and of her heart.”
“You know, Magnus, I think I would have fallen in love with your wife.”
Magnus smiled. “Remarkable women have that one flaw, my boy: they make everyone else seem unfairly ordinary.”
He leaned toward me. “Pauline, would you happen to have a little mustard?” I handed him the jar. “Ah, her favorite.” And he took a generous spoonful. Arthur drank for his grandfather, Magnus tasted for his wife, Colette saw through the eyes of Iris. Taste, that day, was a matter of lingering presences, not entirely our own. It was lent to us by those we had loved, preserved, long after them, at the corners of our lips.
FOOTNOTES
To read: Iris Clert, singulièrement galeriste – Servin Bergeret (2024). Published by Les Presses du réel, this essay traces the life of one of the Parisian avant-garde’s most nonconformist gallerists.
To watch: Menus-Plaisirs – Les Troisgros (2023) – A documentary by Frederick Wiseman devoted to the Troisgros family, a dynasty of French chefs whose restaurant has held three stars since 1968.
