My first birthday since moving to Paris was shaping up nicely. I had a rendez vous with a lovely man who planned to take me to dine at the french bistro equivalent of Studio 54 (if they decided to honor the reservation), I had someone fun to trawl the Fete de le Musique with, and it was a hot summer weekend. The weather here is something I still haven't acclimated to - cold and miserable the majority of the year, with a smattering of perfect days when Mother Nature takes pity on a soul. It was going to be a perfect evening for the citywide, night long street party, and I was looking forward to experiencing this mysterious restaurant Low had invited me to. He was staying at his preferred hotel at the Place de Vosges, and we met in the lobby. He was waiting for me ensconced in an oversized armchair, and he stood up to greet me with open arms. "Happy Birthday!" he smiled and hugged me. "Are you hungry?" I admitted that I was, and he said he hoped they wouldn't turn us away at l'Ami Louis. I hoped so too, more for his sake than for mine! I knew he would feel humiliated if they snubbed us. He had ordered a taxi, and we chatted about London, the fete, and how he managed to maneuver our dinner reservations as the driver wound through the streets, carefully avoiding the partying pedestrians that were beginning to spill off the sidewalks. We passed a four piece band that included a snare drum, a tuba, a trumpet, and a washboard making a racket as a small group of college students passed a bottle of cheap rum, laughing as one of them performed a jig. The driver turned into a quiet, deserted street and stopped the cab. It didn't appear as if anything was open, could he be mistaken? I saw nothing that indicated a restaurant, certainly not the obligatory bistro tables that occupy the narrow sidewalks here, nor any signage. Maybe it was one of those places where you knock three times and the doorman peers at you through a tiny opening, demanding a password! Low paid the driver, took my hand, and led us to the place. It was the Studio 54 moment of truth - I held my breath as we entered and approached the Maitre'd. Ignorant as to the protocol of acceptance, I hoped I had dressed appropriately. Fortunately Lady Luck was on our side, and with a sigh of relief on both our parts, we were seated. He was smiling as I took in our surroundings, which were suprisingly understated for a restaurant frequented by dignitaries such as the Clinton's. It was a small establishment, with two rows of tables lining the walls, which had been painted a matte black perhaps 50 years ago. The tables were covered by red and white checkered tablecloths, and were set with cutlery one would find in a down home diner. There were photographs on the wall of who I assumed was the owner, with various celebs and politicians, mostly European. It had a sort of old school mafia ambiance, and was famous for the foie gras and rotiserrie chicken. I ordered the former for starters, and Low chose the escargot. Now, I must admit, up until that night I had never tried escargot, nor had I ever desired to do so. But it was my birthday, and my blood was up! Low graciously offered me a taste, and I was a virgin no more. I was suprised at how much it reminded me of mussels, (which I quite like) and I was glad to check it off the list of things to do before I die. That said, one was enough, and I concentrated on the foie gras which was the best I have ever had! Warming up with a good bottle of wine, we amused ourselves by observing the waiters as they served up platter after platter of poulet accompanied by huge piles of shoestring potatoes, with the attitude that they would rather face a firing squad than look at another chicken. They were the quintessential clichés of the french waiter; condescending, arrogant, and sarcastic. We were in french heaven as we casually eavesdropped on the conversation of a big, fat, obviously rich old man who was in the process of seducing a young, blond, Italian social climber with huge ta ta's, collagen injected lips, and a deep tan. In fact, there seemed to be several tables occupied by men with the same goal in mind; to impress and seduce. All the waiters had a goal of their own, to make it through the night without slitting their wrists, and my goal? Birthday sex! Our waiter approached and provided what to this day is the most awesome moment in the history of dining out. "Dessert, madame?" he inquired. Just as I opened my mouth to say "Oui, le sorbet citron s'il vous plait" he dissed me by turning his back, nose in the air, looking across the room at nothing. My mouth was literally still open as I looked at Low in utter disbelief, and we started to laugh. Only in Paris, only in a restaurant that charges 22 euro for two itty bitty scoops of ice cream, and only from a waiter guaranteed 15% of a 300 euro dinner bill! Who could be angry? Ultimately he was obliged to take my order, thoughts of suicide dancing through his head. "That was fabulous" Low was laughing, and took my hand. "I can't believe it!" I exclaimed, "Can you imagine that happening in L.A.? They would never work in that town again!" We were still chuckling as our dessert arrived. The cool lemony concoction was the perfect finish to a delicious meal, and I was as content as a fat cat as we stepped out into the balmy night air and strolled arm in arm back toward Bastille. The mood on the street was festive, all of Paris it seemed was out and about; laughing, boozing, and kissing. Families strolled from concert to concert, fathers with young ones perched on their shoulders, bouncing gently to the rythym of the music. Groups of noisy teens flirted, the girls laughing just a little too loudly, the boys fueling the fire by offering alcohol and cigarettes. We stopped for a moment to listen to a french grunge band, somehow it didn't sound so grungey in française! There was a large crowd assembled around us; a girl with bright pink hair, a white dude with dredlocks and a nose ring, and an elderly french couple, all forgetting for an evening that smiling is strictly interdit in Paris! Over the grunge, we moved on and discovered an eclectic group of people drumming an ancient tribal beat, anyone with a bongo was welcome to join. It was peoplewatching at it's finest, and Low and I were taking full advantage of the opportunity. Always a gentleman, always discreet, and with the exception of a few affectionate pecks, Low gave me little indication of whether or not I was going to get that birthday sex I was talking about earlier. I couldn't think of a better way to end a perfect evening, but would Low a) once again send me home in a cab, b) take me to a Karaoke bar and sing "What's New, Pussycat?" or c) give it up? Join me next week for my big birthday suprise on Your Friday night French Ro-Com!
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