My thoughts as I entered Soho at high noon during the recent lockdown period. Michele Wade
Blue Silence
Dean, Frith, Old Compton, and as I turn the corner to Greek Street I remember, 1945 a photograph. Two beautiful sunlit G.I.’s strolling, a men’s outfitters, suits hanging under its awning and there is Maison Bertaux boarded with sandbags. Anna the waitress with her two red ribboned plaits hiding under the domed silver steamer, bombs falling. She was taken out later by street girls for treats. Our customers kept their sugar rations in a cupboard. We were never closed.
Today there’s the 1936 blind hauled and slung up hastily on the eve of lockdown. Reads “Closed On Mondays” - No cream delivery Mondays, not even for ready money.
I stared in the complete silence.
The shop front framed in blue.
I recalled Howard Hodgkin, “Abandon the cream” he instructed “FRAME the front, the pastries, the life inside in deepest navy blue”
We obeyed.
Bliss. Yes it’s behind the counter, with the wistful light created by high windows, interior glass, old mirrors and serrated blind.
A shuffle through the drawers. Secreted at the bottom, is a lovely photo of my sister, myself and Derek Jarman. All others have been borrowed by those like us who adored him.
Here it is. What would he have thought of all this?
A shattered light shines through the scullery window and there’s the rum bottle to lace the Rum Babas loved by Alma.
Alma born by the synagogue in Dean Street 100 years ago. Sundays, buying millefeuille offcuts for under a penny, watching the Italian boys deliver blocks of ice to keep the pastries cold.
Esta, Alma’s grand aunt, a beauty addicted to all things French, especially artists, met Monet and Pissarro and would show off her new friends to Kathleen behind the counter as they purchased and delighted in our goods.
Esta wanted to be part of that great movement that swelled through Soho and beyond of dazzling émigrés; Hungarians, Belgians, Ruthenians and above all the French. Sir Beerbohm Tree complimented by keeping the nearby theatres ablaze. Iris Tree, his daughter - muse to Mogdigliani - would bring her son to Bertauxs for luxurious eclairs with chocolate creme patisserie, often handing them out on visits to the Bloomsbury Set.
You see, Maison Bertaux founded in 1871 by a member of the Communards became part of a unique corner of Soho - where a copper pan, a Mont Blanc, a glass of absinthe and a French kiss could be yours in a matter of moments.
Pastries, were they all the rage? They seemed to fuel the most creative, even those more fond of bars, Jeffrey Bernard, Dylan Thomas whilst pubs were closed from 3 to 5, often falling asleep on half-eaten coffee eclairs. We would gently wake them and wave them through to the bar next door.
We have enjoyed a tidal wave of brilliance from Claude Monet to Derek Jarman, Ronnie O’Sullivan to Alexander and Steve McQueen - and of course the muses - including my beautiful sister who infuses the shop with light. The artists of tomorrow and the beloved customers of today.
I hope you have enjoyed these remembrances.
