A Sunday Dinner

This is not the Sunday dinner you have with your immediate family. This is not the Sunday dinner you had in college with your four closest friends to solidify your bond as, “basically family.” This is a Sunday dinner with about 50 strangers. And I don’t mean the distant relatives you don’t remember.

Every Sunday, for nearly four decades, Jim Haynes opens the door to his Paris atelier, in the 14th arrondissement, to more than 50 people, (twice that when the weather is suitable for outside seating). All ages, all races, all walks of life come walking in through his front door for a nice meal and nice conversation. The dinner is prepared by a friend of Haynes who has volunteered their time and labor to make enough food for the X amount of guests. Bringing an envelope with a contribution and a business card enclosed is suggested but not required.

A founder of Edinburgh’s Traverse Theatre, a writer, a traveler, Haynes has several accomplishments under his belt. However, you wouldn’t think that by just meeting him, wearing a bright red apron with, “Jimmy,” stitched on the front to greet the 56 guests he has invited over for dinner. People hand him envelopes and shake his hand, either for the first time or the fiftieth. You can’t really tell since he treats them all the same – like a friend he’s known his whole life. 

That’s how he greeted me the night before, as I rolled in to his home with my heavy luggage and eagerness to be off a train and in the city.

 How did I get lucky enough to stay at his place? A friend of my host in Azille, who quickly became a friend of mine, is a close friend of Jim’s. When he told me about Sunday dinner, I made the decision right then to make a stop in Paris before Italy. Out of the way? Yes. But I couldn’t pass on the chance to meet so many strangers from all around the world in just one night. I told him I would look into emailing Jim to reserve a spot on his list for the last Sunday of the month but had to figure out where to stay. Within two days, he had messaged me on Facebook that Jim would house me for a couple of days. No questions asked. 

About three weeks later, I made my way up the stairs of Jim’s home to introduce myself, where he proceeded to recap Sunday dinner plans and made suggestions for places I could go to my first night. In a matter of minutes, I felt at ease and beyond welcomed.

But that’s what he’s known for. He makes it a point to memorize everyone’s name, gives you comfort in what can be an overwhelming environment, loud with chatter and filled with people, and makes you feel connected. For instance, two strangers from Melbourne, Australia became acquainted soon after Jim discovered this commonality between the two.  

Among the people I met there was: a travel writer from California, who had worked in public relations of a university until retiring and using her state pension to see the world; an expat trombonist who invited me to see him play the following night, a British guy who had worked as a hotel critic thanks to luck and a connection, and a couple on their honeymoon, who when asked how they got together, the woman replied, “I basically told him he had to date me.” “That works?” I responded. Noted.  

The meal this particular night was a bean soup, followed by couscous with veggies and sausage, and an almond cake with a scoop of vanilla ice cream for dessert. 

“I’m really happy they had a vegetarian option,” a college student from India, who is currently studying abroad in Genoa, says, pointing at her plate of couscous and veggies, sans sausage.

And it does seem like Jim has thought of everything. Various drinks to choose from, both non-alcoholic and alcoholic. Chairs placed right outside his front door, where they can’t disturb the neighbors but can provide an extended seating area. And no music, leaving the room to be inundated by only the sound of lively conversations and laughter.

I’m not sure if the decision to not play music is on purpose. But I do know it was the first time where I had nothing to distract me from talking to people. I could not  quietly bop along to a beat or ditch a topic to go dance or have to ask, “What’d you say?” because the newest hit had drowned out the person.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Jim had caught on to the trick of shutting off music to turn up the conversation. After all, it has been quite a while since the first Sunday dinner. Thirty-eight years ago, Jim’s house guest, at the time, offered to cook dinner for his friends as a way to thank him for letting her crash there. After what was deemed a successful night, she asked if she could do it again the following week. Jim agreed and here we are almost 40 years worth of Sunday dinners later. 

There have been some changes. The number of guests has increased. The person in charge of the cooking almost always changes weekly. As for conversations had, connections made, and Jim Haynes’ welcoming energy, those remain a steady constant every week. 

If you’re in Paris and want to drop by Jim’s for Sunday dinner, head here to reserve.