‘It’s money that makes the laws’: How gentrification is upending streets across Paris

Amar Sitayeb squeezes behind a tiny counter at the mini-mart that he and his older brother Ali Sitayeb have run for more than 35 years in the Marais district of central Paris. A plump grey tabby cat prowls the floor, and faded photos of neighbourhood babies, many now grown-ups, are taped to an old cash register.

A stream of regulars file in, grabbing potato chips, gum and soda, lingering to exchange gossip and pleasantries. One neighbour with the sniffles buys honey and tea. Sitayeb fishes mint for her from a refrigerator. “This should help,” he says.

Ten minutes later, she returns and asks for rum. “That’ll attack the cold quicker!” he laughs, pulling a bottle from the shelf. The purchases are mainly an excuse to spend precious moments bantering with the Sitayeb brothers, known to residents around the rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie, a boutique-studded Marais street, as the eyes, ears and unofficial mayors of the area.

For soon, the unthinkable is set to happen: their store, Au Marché du Marais, is closing – it will be swept away in a tide of moneyed gentrification, like nearly every other independent shop and cafe around them.

“We know everyone here, we’ve lived our lives with them, and we’re sad to leave,” says Ali Sitayeb, a fatherly figure who recently turned 70 but exudes a much younger energy. In place of the daily necessities that his store offers, like toilet paper and freshly squeezed orange juice, he announces, a Princesse Tam Tam lingerie chain will be installed.

When I first heard the news, I was stunned. I had settled near the epicerie after moving to Paris in 2000. Since then, an incursion of designer boutiques has accelerated, turning the area into an outdoor shopping arena that draws thousands of visitors.

The brothers, who originally come from Morocco, have remained steady fixtures throughout, greeting me on my way to work, dispensing witticisms and advice, and peppering me with questions about a succession of American presidents. My neighbours are in mourning.

The epicerie is a rare gathering spot, and the brothers, with alert eyes and sunny moustachioed faces, keep vigil over everyone. They hold people’s keys and know all the latest news on marriages, divorces, children, thefts, rivalries, real estate deals – the list goes on.

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Theirs, however, is a tale of a rapidly changing Paris. And the closing of their shop, on a street where boutiques now sell 585 euro designer sneakers, has sparked angst among residents, who see a warning in how big money-backed luxury brands aimed at wealthy tourists are consuming neighbourhoods and eroding cultural identity.

“This changes everything,” says Eva Beau, a doctor who has lived near the shop for 20 years. “I feel like breaking all of this – it’s too sad,” Beau adds, her eyes brimming with tears as she scrutinises the luxury storefronts. Beau used to lower a basket with a rope from her fourth-floor apartment, into which the brothers would place coffee and other orders. “The neighbourhood doesn’t need more boutiques,” she says. “We need the human contact of people like Ali and Amar.”

The brothers have long debated when they will retire. When an electrical fire ravaged the shop five years ago, support from neighbours was so strong that they decided to keep going. But then the lingerie chain, run by Fast Retailing, a Japanese retail giant that owns Uniqlo, Theory and Comptoir des Cotonniers, made an advantageous offer for the space.

The pattern is playing out in cities across France. From Aix-en-Provence to Reims, Tours and Strasbourg, bakeries, cafes and shops are increasingly being taken over by retail conglomerates with vast financial resources. The stores look like quaint boutiques, yet the money behind them is formidable.

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Adding to the pressure is the rise of late-night convenience stores backed by supermarket giants Casino Groupe and Carrefour. The increased competition has shuttered scores of corner shops in Paris, many run by immigrants from north Africa.

“It’s money that makes the laws,” says Ali Sitayeb’s son, Tariq Sitayeb, 34, who helps run the épicerie but no longer counts on taking over.

The Sitayeb brothers left Morocco in the 1970s as teenagers to earn a living as waiters and dishwashers in Parisian restaurants. But they found they could prosper more by operating a convenience mart well past the traditional 7 pm closing time of French retailers.

When the brothers opened the shop in 1984, François Mitterrand was president; prices were in French francs; and the Marais, the historic Jewish quarter of Paris, was evolving from a gritty working-class textile and metal factory district. Butchers and boulangeries honeycombed the area. Yiddish was heard everywhere along the rue des Rosiers.

As cafes, bars and artisanal boutiques moved in, the Marais became the centre for Paris’ LGBT+ community, drawing more visitors and prompting an ever more vibrant makeover.

While the Marais had already developed when I arrived, the influx of luxury storefronts has exploded since Europe’s economic and debt crisis ended in 2012, squeezing out residential and LGBT+ commerce and taking over the historic Jewish centre.

“This used to be a real neighbourhood, with families and kids,” Amar Sitayeb says as crowds of tourists strolled past on a recent weekend. “Now all that’s disappeared.”

Jean Luc Rouillard, 67, a denizen since 1980, chimes in: “The Marais has lost its soul. That’s closing,” Rouillard says, pointing to a 45-year-old antique shop being dismantled for a luxury hotel. “And that’s closing,” he adds, eyeing Au Rendez-Vous des Amis, a neighbourhood cafe that has just shuttered to make way for a hamburger joint.

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“That too,” he continues, nodding to Les Mots à la Bouche, the oldest LGBT+ bookseller in the Marais, rumoured to be converted soon to a Doc Martens shoe store after the lease became unaffordable. “It’s dramatic,” he says.

As locals contemplate the end of an era, they decide to throw a surprise party for the brothers at Le Point Virgule, a small comedy theatre next to the shop. Neighbours file in silently: Beau and her daughter Manon Beau, 21; Vincent Douget, a former chef at the cafe; Henriette Delyfer, an art boutique owner who has known the brothers since she was a child; and local police officers who had dropped in regularly to chat over orange juice.

At last, the brothers arrive. They are speechless at the surprise. Tears mist their eyes. While they are looking forward to spending time with their families, “it’s very hard for us to go,” Amar Sitayeb says.

“They are the heart of this area,” says George Fischer, a retiree who has lived next to the shop for two decades.

Back at the épicerie, Tariq Sitayeb has prepared a potent rum punch and Moroccan pastries to welcome a growing crowd. Ariel Weil, mayor of Paris’ 4th arrondissement, appears and shakes Ali Sitayeb’s hand. A circle forms as neighbours lament the Marais’ latest transformation.

“It’s just clothes, clothes, clothes,” Fischer says. “How is a bra going to replace my orange juice?”

“On a personal level I’m sad,” Weil says. “And as mayor, I’m worried that we can’t find a solution to keep small businesses from leaving.”

Ali Sitayeb looks at his watch and sighs. It is his brother’s turn to man the register, and he has to go home and rest. Tomorrow, they will continue the sobering task of winding down the store. “People don’t want things to change,” says Tariq Sitayeb as his father fades into the dark night. “But a page is turning.”

© New York Times