Jardin de Montbrillant

I was living in Genève, Switzerland, for years. One day I decided to visit the iconic building behind Gare Cornavin.

The door opened at 11:30. I moved up the queue and received my portion—tender mutton and potatoes in rich gravy, plus salad—all prepared to exquisite cuisine standards. The hosts greeted each of us with respectful eye contact, “Bonjour!” and “Bon appetit!” The ladies who scooped for us did so according to our personal preference. I sat down in a corner, and started eating. A gentleman joined me at the small table. He fetched two cups of water, one for me. He appreciated my “Merci!” He finished first, got up and gave up the place for others.

Another gentleman joined me. He appreciated my “Bon appetit!” which he did not expect, and responded “Bon appetit à vous aussi!” Later, when I finished, I got up, washed my plate and came out of the food distribution centre. There I stood at the exit, and recalled how some years ago I stood at the same spot wondering what place that was. I recalled having noticed the design marking, in an arc, Le Jardin de Montbrillant. So it is a house for complimentary luncheons, all are welcome, with equal respect – with and without a job, with and without a roof over our heads, with and without whatever addiction, whichever patch of the color palette we are ascribed.

I got home feeling dignified and warmed for many days to come, loving Genève more than ever. I promised myself that when I go next I shall sit in the middle of the dining hall, not in a corner. I came away with the hymn humming itself to me, “Au coeur de nos détresses, aux cris de nos douleurs, c’est toi qui sourffres sur nos crois et nous passons sans te voir.”

Thereafter, I did return twice. Once on a rainy Saturday, the queue was crowded. Fellow visitors were less reserved this time, and we chatted a little. I left without dining. My friend rebuked me for depriving others! So I scheduled my third visit to be an hour and a half after the door opened. To my surprise I found the dining hall in complete tranquility, fulfillment and order. All servings over. Chairs on the table. Mission accomplished for the day. Nothing to shout about. No trace for show.

This place is a close cousin of the red London bus stationary behind the train station—the red bus which held me in curios suspense for four years. I kept asking around, something mysterious taking place there. Congregations ate, drank and laughed, but they didn’t look like random customers. Friends kept telling me there was nothing there, stop worrying about that bus, there was nothing there! Finally, months before bowing out of Genève I found out that it was a food distribution joint.

Another close cousin is just around the diagonal corner—a green (fluorescent green, like a highlighter pen) square building under the train platform. Again, something was going on there but I could not make out what. It was only over my final months that I got to know it was an injection centre. That’s Genevois courtesy of Genevois catholicism (small-letter c, meaning all-inclusive and all-embracing rather than any church) of Genevois style. No banner; no labelling; creatively colored and shaped to be distinct and unmistakeable so that those who need can easily find the place. Not for public judgement. None of busy-body’s business. No brass plates naming sponsors or ribbon cutters. Services are simply just being there. Just.

The beauty is that unless you decode as a determined detective, you wouldn’t know who are the people behind this full chain of hospitality centers running in perfect coordination, unison and resonance. They all appear to run auto-pilot, multiple centers around Geneva taking turns to complement meals between this and that day of the week, this and that hour of the day. The network is run by organizations independent of each other.

That was the Genevois episode in the making of me. The Genevois touch is partly how I am put together. That was the formation that moved me out of myself, that I started noticing. I noticed Big Issue when living in England and Wales but had not poked my nose into it.