Dominique Strauss-Kahn is left with only 'French maids’ for company

Once Dominique Strauss-Kahn was a shoo-in for the next president of France - but those heady days are long gone.

Dominique Strauss-Khan's wife has decamped to Morocco, and demonstrators and the media follow his every move Photo: GETTY

By Anne-Elisabeth Moutet

8:30PM GMT 30 Nov 2011

114 Comments
 

It’s no fun being Dominique Strauss-Kahn these days. His long-suffering wife, the millionaire art heiress Anne Sinclair, has decamped for the family ryad in Marrakesh, leaving him to face the daily revelations about prostitutes being flown to him in Washington. His Place des Vosges neighbours are up in arms as the quiet of their beautiful, 400-year-old Parisian square is disturbed by demonstrations against the “sexism” of the former head of the IMF. (A recent one involved a gaggle of Ukrainian feminists, bussed in from Kiev, wearing bikinis, “French maid” outfits, stilettos, stockings and garter belts.

His every move is followed by paparazzi. And even though the case that put his adventurous sex life in the open was dismissed by the New York courts, the hotel maid Nafissatou Diallo is suing him in a civil court, where she expects to win massive damages. Once he was a shoo-in for the next president of France; those heady days are long gone.

Now Edward Epstein has written an “investigative” piece for the New York Review of Books, which attempts to prove that the alleged rape was a set-up masterminded by Nicolas Sarkozy’s party, the UMP. Using footage from the hotel’s security cameras and telephone records, presumably fed by DSK’s defenders, Epstein constructs a ripping story of entrapment.

He makes much of a supposed “victory dance” caught on CCTV by two low-level hotel employees after the police were brought in to hear Diallo on the day of the alleged assault, using it to suggest that Accor, the French chain managing the hotel, were involved in bringing Sarkozy’s most dangerous rival down. (The employees, however, have said they were discussing sport.)

Alas for DSK, even his closest friends and political supporters aren’t buying Epstein’s thesis. The latest one to dismiss it is Jean-Christophe Cambadélis, a Socialist MP who was widely tipped be part of a 2012 DSK cabinet, and who once carried the can for DSK in a party financing scandal. But Paris is almost entirely unanimous on one point: that Epstein’s very readable piece is predicated on an assumption of competence by the UMP dirty tricks department that’s nothing short of fantastic. “That lot couldn’t conspire their way out of a paper bag” is the consensus.

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It’s not just the Right that’s disorganised. The team running the campaign for François Hollande, the Socialist presidential challenger, has had to assign a minder to his gaffe-prone partner, the former Paris Match reporter Valérie Trierweiler (nicknamed Valérie Rottweiler). Trierweiler, who covered Hollande and his then partner of 20 years, Ségolène Royal, for Match (even reporting from the post-delivery room after the birth of the last of the couple’s four children in 1992) says coyly that her “relationship with François changed in 2005”, a date that some dispute. She took to giving embarrassing interviews in which she said that Ségolène should “learn to step back”. Rottweiler is now being “advised” by one Nathalie Mercier, a PR hack from the very agency which conducted the campaign to clear DSK’s name with such alacrity. Oh for the days of Madame de Gaulle, who never said a word.

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Is sex compulsory in France? A man who “mostly’’ stopped having sexual relations with his wife of 21 years has just been fined 10,000 euros damages by an Aix-en-Provence court on appeal, confirming a similar 2009 ruling. Two sets of judges concurred in finding that the man’s wedding vows had not been followed, even though he “occasionally” still performed, and that his wife’s rights and expectations were not respected. The couple are now divorced in a ruling setting the fault 100 per cent on him. Can damages for unsatisfying performances be far behind?

© Telegraph Media Group & Anne-Elisabeth Moutet, 2012

EN FRANÇAIS • Pourquoi je ne retournerai pas chez Marks & Spencer (unauthorised translation by Courrier International)

La fermeture soudaine des 18 magasins de la marque britannique avait traumatisé les Français en 2001. Dix ans après, la réouverture d'un premier magasin sur les Champs-Elysées est loin de satisfaire les fans de M&S. 

 The Daily Telegraph | Anne-Elisabeth Moutet |
28 novembre 2011
  

Comme toutes les Parisiennes, j'étais assez contente à l'annonce du retour de Marks & Spencer (M&S) à Paris. D'ailleurs, nous n'avons jamais compris pourquoi les Britanniques étaient partis [en 2001, M&S a fermé ses 18 magasins en France]. Ils avaient ce merveilleux magasin situé juste en face des Galeries Lafayette, dans cette partie du boulevard Haussman dédiée au shopping, la réponse de Paris à Oxford Street [la grande rue commercante de Londres].
Après avoir subi l'épreuve des conseillers de ventes à l'air distant aux Galeries et au Printemps - rutilants temples des marques de créateurs, des It-bags [sacs à la mode], des parfums renommés et des robes taille mannequin vendues à un prix astronomique - M&S faisait figure de refuge avec ses rayons remplis de petites culottes sages, de discrets pantalons en jersey noirs qui allaient avec tout, et son Food Hall, le marché d'alimentation qui représentait pour nous le comble de l'exotisme.
On n'allait pas chez "Marks and Sparks" faire ses courses pour le déjeuner dominical français normal, mais pour faire ses provisions en vue d'une fête, du repas de Noël, de l'anniversaire d'un enfant. Ou tout simplement pour se gâter.
Pour une fois, au diable le comptage des calories. Le bacon entrelardé grésillait allègrement en compagnie de nos œufs*  fermiers Label rouge. Le thé était bio (à l'époque, on n'en trouvait pas facilement à Paris) mais les biscuits et les gâteaux étaient, semblait-il, entièrement fabriqués avec des additifs alimentaires, du sucre raffiné et d'improbables colorants chimiques approuvés par la commission européenne.
On décorait la table du dîner avec des toffees, des boules de gomme et des caramels de la marque M&S, encore dans leurs emballages. Les agences publicitaires servaient des sandwiches M&S durant leurs séances de remue-méninges - c'était tellement décalé*, tellement créatif. On n'essayait jamais de faire croire qu'un plat cuisiné M&S avait été préparé à la maison si on le servait au dîner. Au contraire, on annonçait triomphalement : "Ce soir, dîner anglais ! Je suis allée le chercher spécialement chez Marks et Spencer* !"
A l'autre extrémité de l'échelle, dans le Septième* et le Seizième Sud*, pour les familles bourgeoises lectrices de Madame Figaro, dont les valeurs traditionnelles comprenaient une anglophilie préservée dans un genre d'aspic bcbg des années 1950 - vague mélange de jupes à carreaux écossais, de twin-sets en cachemire, de bons pensionnats de jeunes filles, de Prince Charles et du thé de cinq heures -, M&S était "la" Source, le fournisseur attitré de tout ce qui est authentiquement britannique, ayant à peine entendu parler des marques de luxe Mulberry ou Fortnum's.
Elles faisaient provision de thé, de scones, de muffins, de sablés écossais et de chocolats à la menthe avant de filer en voiture vers la maison de campagne, le vendredi soir. C'étaient là les gens qui écrivaient des messages de profond désespoir sur le livre des visiteurs mis en place par les employés licenciés du boulevard Haussmann lorsque M&S nous a abandonnés en 2001.
Et maintenant, M&S est de retour. Au coin de ma rue, en fait. Sur les Champs Elysées. Là où la boutique Esprit a mis la clé sous la porte après moins de deux années d'existence. Tout comme le magasin qui l'avait précédé. Et le journal dont les bureaux se trouvent au cinquième étage, le malheureux France Soir, maintenant pratiquement en redressement judiciaire.
Depuis que le café Sélect a été rasé il y a belle lurette, au coin de la rue de Berri, l'emplacement portait malheur. Je me suis également demandé ce qu'un client normal de M&S avait en commun avec la racaille des Champs Elysées. 
Tous les week-ends, environ un million de personnes envahissent l'avenue, une foule en sweat-shirts, jeans baggy, mini jupes ou baskets Adidas (une grande boutique Adidas se trouve au numéro 22), à laquelle se mêlent d'habiles pickpockets, des mendiants agressifs, et de supporteurs de football (un énorme magasin du club Paris Saint Germain est situé au numéro 27), faisant la queue pour voir le dernier film de Tom Cruise, s'acheter un Big Mac (au numéro 140) ou acquérir les leggings tachetés à 9,95 euros de chez H&M (numéro 90).

Je connais mes Champs Elysées. J'ai vécu dans le quartier la moitié de ma vie. De fait, je suis née à 100 mères de ce que l'Office du tourisme de Paris aime appeler "la plus belle avenue du monde", une étiquette dûment reprise par la publicité annonçant  le retour de M&S. Bien avant l'ouverture effective le 24 novembre, on pouvait se demander comment l'enseigne réussirait à mettre tout M&S dans un magasin aux allures d'appartement familial. Je m'y suis arrêtée à la sortie du bureau le lendemain. Une longue queue s'était formée dans la fraîcheur d'un soir de novembre. Les clients d'un certain âge étaient admis, l'air médusé, à l'intérieur deux par deux.
A travers les vitrines, on apercevait les rayons de vêtements à moitié vides. On ne pouvait s'empêcher de se demander si la queue - dont parlaient tous les quotidiens après l'inauguration - ne tenait pas quelque peu du coup de pub.
A l'intérieur, la plupart des visiteurs faisaient de nouveau la queue pour le rayon alimentation - qui ressemble davantage à une caverne, reléguée au fond du magasin, pas plus grand que chez le marchand de journaux de votre quartier. De fait, les produits alimentaires ont été ajoutés presque à la dernière minute. A l'origine, le magasin était censé asseoir la réputation de M&S dans la mode. Ce ne fut qu'après une sorte de campagne spontanée par courriels, une fois la rumeur partie dans Paris, que l'enseigne a libéré de l'espace pour l'alimentation. Laquelle représenterait d'ores et déjà 35 % du chiffre d'affaires de la première semaine, au lieu des 10 % prévus.
Les cadres débordés donnaient un coup de main aux employés qui réassortissaient à tour de bras les rayonnages, à mesure que œufs écossais, poulet à l'indienne*, sandwiches au bacon* et autres scones s'envolaient au cours de scènes dignes des temps de guerre. Je cherchais mes articles M&S préférés, les cinq petites culottes en coton roulées, vendues au prix de 6 livres [7 euros], mais elles étaient visiblement considérées comme trop bas de gamme pour traverser la Manche. Même chose pour les collants noirs opaques à 8 livres [9 euros]. En tout cas, je pensais ne pas pouvoir imaginer, ni moi ni qui que ce soit d'autre, faire la queue une demi heure sous l'œil torve d'un agent de sécurité bâti comme une armoire à glace, pour un sandwich ou un poulet tikka masala. Quant aux petites culottes sages, je continuerais de les acheter à Londres.

Note : *En français dans le texte 

© Telegraph Media Group & Anne-Elisabeth Moutet, 2011

Paris has a Marks and Spencer again, but it's the wrong size and in the wrong place

After years without a store in Paris, Marks and Spencer brought one back last week. But the shop on the Champs-Elysées doesn't quite fit, says Anne-Elisabeth Moutet

Anne-Elisabeth Moutet outside the Marks & Spencer's on the Champs-Elysées Photo: ALASTAIR MILLER

 

By Anne-Elisabeth Moutet in Paris

8:30AM GMT 27 Nov 2011

Like every Parisienne, I was pretty chuffed when I first heard Marks & Spencer were coming back to Paris. We'd never understood why they'd gone away in the first place.

They used to have this wonderful huge store just opposite Galeries Lafayette, in the shopping haven segment of Boulevard Haussmann that's Paris's answer to Oxford Street.

After going through the gauntlet of stand-offish sales counsellors at the Galeries and Au Printemps – shiny places all about designer brands, It-bags, big-name scents and eye-wateringly expensive size zero dresses – M&S was a refuge with acres of sensible knickers, tactful knit black trousers that went with everything, and the Food Hall, which to us was the height of exoticism.

You didn't go to Marks and Sparks to make your normal French Sunday lunch; you went to stock up for a party, for Christmas dinner, for a kid's birthday, for a treat. (Buying your Christmas cake, not the very morning from your neighbouring boulangerie, but in September? In a tin? This was more outlandish than anything they could dream up in Papua-New Guinea.)

The calorie count, for once, went out the window. The streaky bacon sizzled gloriously with our farm oeufs Label Rouge. The tea was organic (which at the time wasn't readily available here) but the biscuits and cakes were seemingly entirely made of additives, processed sugar, and improbable chemical colourings approved by the Brussels Commission.

Our kids loved it. We loved it. My friend Nadalette's twin daughters religiously celebrated their birthdays, year after year, with the M&S caterpillar-shaped chocolate cake, gaily sprinkled with multicoloured M&M shavings. They cried when they were told they couldn't have it any longer.

You'd decorate a sophisticated dinner table with M&S toffees, wine gums and caramels in their wrappings. Ad agencies would serve M&S sandwiches during their brainstorming sessions – it was so décalé, so creative.

You'd never try to pass off a ready-made M&S dish as your own if you served it at dinner; on the contrary, you'd triumphantly announce "Ce soir, dîner anglais! Je suis allée le chercher spécialement chez Marks et Spencer!"

At the other end of the scale, in the Septième and Seixième Sud, to Madame Figaro-reading bourgeois families, whose traditional values include an Anglophilia preserved in a kind of ideal 1950s Sloaney aspic - a hazy mix of tartan skirts, cashmere twin-sets, good boarding schools for girls, Prince Charles and le five 'o clock - M&S was the Source, the Ur-provider of The Right Stuff, when they barely knew about Mulberry or Fortnum's.

They'd stock up on tea, scones, muffins, shortbread and chocolate mints before driving off to the country on Friday afternoon. They were the people who wrote messages of bleak despair on the visitors' book set up by the redundant employees of Boulevard Haussmann when M&S abandoned us in 2001.

And now M&S were back. Round the corner from me, in fact. On the Champs-Elysées. Where the Esprit shop closed in under two years. And the shop before that. And the newspaper whose offices are on the fifth floor, the ill-fated France-Soir, bought by yet another Russian oligarch, Sergei Pugachev, for his 25-year-old son, Alexander, now nearly in receivership. (The paper, not the son.)

Ever since they tore down the Sélect café yonks ago at the corner of rue de Berri, this has been something of a jinxed location.

I also wondered what your normal M&S shopper had in common with the chav zoo the Champs have become.

Every weekend there are about a quarter of a million people on the avenue, in hoodies, baggy jeans, short skirts or Adidas trainers (big Adidas store at number 22), dodging pickpockets, intrusive beggars, and football fans (huge Paris Saint-Germain football club store, at number 27, complete with the odd optimistic David Beckham picture) to queue up for the latest Tom Cruise movie, get a Big Mac (McDonald's at number 140) or buy sprayed-on jeggings for €9.95 at H&M (number 90).

I know my Champs-Elysées: I have lived in the area half my life; and was in fact born about 100 metres off what the Paris Tourism office likes to call "the most beautiful avenue in the world", a tag duly picked up by the M&S advance publicity.

Long before the actual opening last Thursday, you had to question how they would manage to fit a complete M&S into a store with the footprint of a family flat.

I dropped by on my way home on Friday. There was a long queue patiently waiting outside in the nippy late November evening, with bewildered middle-aged shoppers admitted one couple at a time.
Through the windows, you could see near-empty clothes aisles. You had to wonder if the queue – spotlighted by every daily newspaper after the opening, Blitz spirit, free tea and biscuits, so Anglais – wasn't a bit of publicity stunt.

When I put this to the store manager, she blanched and went all elf 'n safety on me. There Were Rules, she explained. Which were Essential. It got a bit like pulling teeth, until I managed to get out of her that only 420 people are allowed inside the 14,000 square ft store at any time.

Most of these were queuing again, inside, for the "food hall" – which is more like a food grotto, in the back, the average size of your local newsagent. The food was in fact added as a bit of an afterthought: originally, the store was supposed to establish M&S as a fashion retailer.

It was only after something of a spontaneous email campaign, once the rumours started in Paris, that some space was freed for it. It apparently already accounts for 35 per cent of sales this first week, instead of the projected 10 per cent. "There will be Simply Food outlets in Paris soon," the nice publicity woman told me.

It's very obvious they can't open fast enough for us. Harried shop executives were helping the assistants continuously restocking the shelves, as the oeufs écossais, the poulet à l'Indienne, the sandwiches au bacon and the scones got grabbed in quasi-wartime scenes.

When we came back on Saturday morning to take pictures, the queue was still there, but the inside of the store was fuller. It was still the food that attracted the most customers – very few seemed to have found their way to the lingerie department, occupying most of the entire first floor – but the women's clothes now also got some attention.

The choice, I have to say, is very stylish and covetable. There was a €25 Autograph gold lamé tank top that looked just as good as something nearly similar I recently bought from Max Mara at €200, scrumptious shearling gloves in buttery suede for €62, a cashmere hoodie for €120. Not cheap by any standards – my favourite Per Una £15 nightie was €32.50 – and certainly more than the 10 per cent mark up on London prices announced.

I went looking for some of my favourite M&S items, the five rolled up cotton knickers for £6, but they obviously had been deemed too down-market to cross the Channel. Ditto the opaque black tights at £8.

M&S Paris have gone chic on us. They should be a success – I espied on a whiteboard, as we were dropping the photographer's heavy kit bag in a back office, that 3,100 customers have visited it the last two days, each spending an average basket of €36.50.

If the objective was to create a buzz in advance of the normal-sized stores scheduled to open within the next two years outside central Paris, they probably have achieved that.

All the same, as I walked home past my local supermarket, whose manager was hugely miffed that M&S are allowed to open on Sundays while he cannot, I thought I couldn't see myself or anyone queuing for half an hour under the baleful eye of a basketball-player-sized security guard for a sandwich or a Chicken Tikka Masala.

As for the sensible knickers, I'll still get them in London.

© Telegraph Media Group & Anne-Elisabeth Moutet, 2011