Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 11: "Mr. Low-key"

To stroll the streets of Paris on a warm summer night, after a satisfying meal and a bottle of Bordeaux, hand in hand with a beautiful man is the ultimate parisian experience. It had been a fabulous birthday thus far; dining at an exclusive restaurant with a reputation for the best foie gras in Paris, being officially and blatantly dissed by our waiter, and exploring the various musical options offered in the streets during the annual Fete de le Musique. Both Low and I were enjoying the warm glow of a good wine buzz as we slowly made our way back toward the Place de Vosges (and his hotel). An all girl Grunge band caught our attention, somehow the vocals didn't sound as hard in french! The bass player was a tall, lanky lesbian sporting a head shaven totally bald save for a skullcap of hair moussed to stick out in every direction from the crown of her head. "Now that's something you don't see everyday!" I discreetly whispered in Low's ear. "Fabulous!" he answered, as was his habitud. We moved on to discover a Reggae band, and a sea of dredlocks that reminded me of wall to wall shag carpet fiber from the 70's. There was a familiar aroma in the air, at once pungent and sweet, and the audience here was mellow as they swayed to the rythym of the islands. Cannabis is highly frowned upon here, but for the Fete de le Musique all is forgiven - for this night and this night only! After groovin' to a classic Bob Marley tune we moved on, our hearts filled with nostalgia. We laughed as we swapped stories of smoking our first joint back in the day, and Low was nearly creamed by a bicyclist as we briefly stepped off the curb to avoid a group of students sitting crosslegged on the sidewalk passing a bottle. It was an accident of timing; the guy on the bike zigging to avoid a young family towing a toddler, Low zagging to avoid the hippies. "Oh my God!" I exclaimed, "are you all right?" The cyclist was yelling angrily something that sounded like "What do you think you are doing you idiot, are you trying to kill me?!" (in french, so I can only surmise), and I was laughing inappropriately and uncontrollably as I always do in moments of crisis. Luckily, the french don't hold on to their anger for long, they yell and blow their horns and move on. Now we were even, having both been dissed by a parisian that night! "Fabulous!" he smiled as I pointed this out, then "I feel like I'm in the middle of a Woody Allen movie, set in Paris!" "Am I your Louise Lasser?" I joked. "No, you're my Scarlett Johannsen" he purred, and gave me a sweet little kiss. (5 bonus points) He was impressed that I remembered Louise Lasser however, and we compared notes on "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman" as we continued our journey through the '70's and the Marais. A German oompah band was competing for airspace with a french rapper with a bad amplifier and a Mr. Microphone, and we pondered the possibilities of a marraige between the opposing forces. Sort of a tuba beat box. Suddenly I realized we had arrived at the Place de Vosges, having arrived by a side street I hadn't used before. We strolled through the place, and I explained to Low that we were walking where jousting tournaments were held in medieval times, over 800 years ago! But tonight there were no sounds of horses hoofs pounding the soil as they charged their opponents, instead a choir of 20 or 30 men and women singing acapella. We were steps away from the Pavilion de le Reine, where he was staying for the weekend. We stopped to listen to the choir, and he put his arm around my waist, giving me a little squeeze. "Happy Birthday" he cooed, and kissed me tenderly. "So..." he smiled shyly, lowering his gaze. "So..." I repeated (hoping for birthday sex). "Would you like to stay with me tonight?" He was tentative, as if I might refuse. He had, after all, racked up quite a number of bonus points since I met him! He had been a gentleman and was adorable, coming to Paris from London twice just to take me out, which made me feel pretty special. I answered with a long, seductive kiss that left no need for words, and we strolled arm in arm through the beautiful hidden courtyard of his hotel and into the lobby. "Bonsoir, monsieur!" The smaller "boutique" hotels always require you to leave yor key at the desk, and a charming young parisienne greeted us, offering an antique looking key attached to a giant gold tassel. "Je vous en prie" she answered to our "Merci", then "Bonne Soirée!"

Your Friday night French Ro-Com Part 10: "Mr. Low-key"

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!