Travel Journalette: Paris
Yes, the real one this time.
It’s that time of the month again! Time to let you know about my upcoming show. Plus, finally, only three months late, I have a recap of my Paris trip ready for you to enjoy! Paris, Texas and Paris, France in the same year? Who am I, Eartha Kitt?! Regarding Paris, and France as a whole, I have no commentary you wouldn’t have heard before. Beautiful, old, elegant, blah blah blah. The only novel reflection I can treat you to is a recap of the most slapstick, madcap dinner of my entire life. But first, if you find yourself in town, consider coming to my show this Thursday, October 5, at Pine Box Rock Shop. Details and poster below, followed by a…comment-dit-on… “play-by-play” of a thoroughly post-modern dinner.
SHOW THURSDAY, 10/5 at Pine Box Rock Shop, 8:30pm FREE, No advance tickets necessary
TRAVEL JOURNALETTE: DINNER IN PARIS
We suspected, as the evening began, that something was up at Le Petit Prince, the restaurant we’d booked for our final big night in Paris. We were running a bit en retard as they say, and called ahead to let the hostess know. She answered and replied, “Okay- eh une moment…(screaming to someone off in the distance) THIS IS FUCKING UNBELIEVABLE! (returning to the call)…okay, sir zat is okay.” We thought it was a strange way for the person in charge of first impressions to comport herself, but we were pretty sure she wasn’t actually referring to us, and regardless, I’m not one to judge someone in food service when a customer disrupts the normal order of operations.
We arrived to find Le Petit Prince picture-perfect. Everything we’d hoped for in a Parisian hole-in-the-wall. Burgundy walls, white tablecloths, art nouveau posters of liqueurs of yore, and menu cards written in that same weird Monster Mash font that you find in the Paris Metro (see below).
The hostess, Marie, now all smiles, greeted us at the door and led us to our table without a hint of her previous frustration. Great! We were (maybe) forgiven! A piano tinkled, and I realized that the back of the restaurant was being treated to a light cabaret led by an aged drag queen in her grand dame era. She had a short, black bobbed wig, a smack of red lipstick, lashes, a fringed black dress with a chicken feather boa, and the same overall body plan as the original sketches of Gomez from the Addams Family comics. A closer listen revealed she was crooning her way through “It’s Today!” from Mame. Every note began and ended flat, as though she had been assigned the alto part but couldn’t help but drift up toward the melody. We were delighted.
Our waiter, Diego, arrived to take our drink order, speaking both French and English to us, each with a slight Central American accent. Brandon, the linguist among us, clocked this and asked him if he wanted to speak Spanish. Diego’s pupils, already the size of dimes due to what we suspected were drugs, widened further. He took our drink orders, ending with Brandon, at whom he batted his eyelashes, and cooed in a flirty patois of his own creation: “Y vous? Quoi quieres?”
"Un martini," Brandon responded. “¿Un martini? “¿Martini…rojo o blanco?” Diego asked, referring to the popular Martini brand of vermouth. Brandon explained: "Un martini. El cóctel. Vodka, la salmuera de aceitunas..." Puzzled, and a bit disgusted, Diego left abruptly and wordlessly. Ten or so minutes later, we saw him fiddling at the bar with a piece of paper he had printed out, adding various liquors and things to a shaker, taking big nips of this and that as he made it. I noticed the hostess Marie from across the room, watching Diego make his potion and treat himself to the bar’s ingredients. She had disdain on her face, and it seemed like perhaps it was in fact Diego who was being "fucking unbelievable" when we called. He returned about 20 minutes later with a bright orange, syrupy-looking cordial. He had also found the time to completely change his outfit.
He gave us the paper he was using as a reference. It had a recipe called “Martini Cocktail” and included brandy, citron vodka, orange juice, lemon juice, grenadine, and sweet red vermouth. Turns out, we learned later, martinis are not a thing amongst the French and, in their defense, trying to convince someone in a culture known to be protective of their cuisine that vodka, vermouth, and olive juice really sing together is a justifiably uphill battle. Brandon gave a polite smile to Diego, who, satisfied, left for another 30 minutes, having not taken our order.
At this point, hostess (cum waitress) Marie decided to do damage control. She came over with a small, simple cheese plate. Bread, fig preserves, and a lump of what, to me, is the silver medalist among the family of blue cheeses, Roquefort (Gorgonzola takes the gold while Stilton, unfortunately, does not place). Starving by this point, we over-ordered: steak, escargot, coq au vin, six or seven little other things, and an all-duck charcuterie that caught our attention. Marie memorized our order (we hoped), smiled, and then went behind the bar and took a giant shot of gin. If Diego could party, so could she!
While we waited for the food, the drag queen (who never did give her name) took a break to introduce herself to the various tables, giving out winks and little kisses as she sauntered to the front of the room. She proceeded to visit every table at the restaurant, systematically, from front to back, asking each what language they spoke. Crowd work! There was a wide variety of answers. “Francais,” “English,” “русский язык,” etc. No matter what anyone said, the drag queen simply replied “Ah hah, yes, okay.” She did seemingly nothing with that information for the rest of the night.
Time passed. On occasion, we’d see Diego flitting about, now in a third outfit, sometimes checking in with us to ask if everything was all good, but then not staying long enough to hear our answer. Another time he passed by, he asked us “Okay, what will we be having for entree tonight?” We explained that Marie had already taken care of that. Diego cut a look across the room then walked off in a huff, beckoning other waiters to join him in the kitchen.
More time passed. Marie arrived with our all-duck charcuterie, placing it on the table and smiling. She had changed clothes. The chefs (who by the way, were fantastic, everything delicious, no notes) dissected and presented the canard with a thoroughness that would make a hunter-gatherer proud. Breast pieces, leg pieces, and the other usual suspects were joined by what appeared to be pieces of seasoned connective tissue, whipped dips of who knows what, and a lump of duck something-or-other that was so wet and yellow it could have easily been taken for a ripe mango. Max, my second dinner companion, surveyed this charnel house of an appetizer and decided to avail himself of a long vape-break outside.
A third waiter, whom we’d yet to meet, then dropped a plate of escargot, which we had ordered, on the table and then presented us with a plate of fries, which we had not ordered. We never got his name, but saw that Diego had been intensely flirting with him earlier. Diego was presently engaged in a harsh, hushed argument with Marie at the bar, both taking generous samples of I think rum throughout. Waiter-Three started passing out sharing plates for the snails and frites but then looked at them, said, “Ew, dirty,” and took them away without ever returning them. Brandon arched his back to snag Diego during one of his laps. “Can I have some mayonnaise?” he asked, wanting to lubricate the fries. “I’ll give you mayonnaise” Diego replied. He then mimed jerking off onto the table, said “Pas, means no,” snapped his lips like Alyssa Edwards, and walked off, leaving Brandon gobsmacked. Marie came to check on us, asking if we needed anything. “Pas means no,” Brandon repeated. She said “Sorry what?” Then Waiter-Three, who had overheard the whole thing, said to Brandon, “Oh sorry, she doesn’t understand Spanish.” For reference, none of that was Spanish.
Brandon decided that he too needed a break outside. When both he and Max returned, the food started to arrive. As I said, we over-ordered, and none of us were sure anything would go finished. Just before laying down the final plate, Waiter-Three gave a confused look at the steak in his hands. Then a confused look at us. He asked. “Wait…do you guys know if the steak comes with fries?” Before we could answer, every single light in the restaurant went off. Front of house. Back of house. Bar. Outdoor. I assume the bathroom. Several gasps of the various patrons animated the darkness. Confused, we all looked around, no staff to be found. Then, our drag queen friend tip-toed out of the kitchen, tiny cake in her hand, and led everyone in a tremulous version of Happy Birthday (English), lighting the entire restaurant with just the three or four tiny candles implanted in the celebratory gateau. She was followed by the cast of characters that were the staff, leading them to the front where the recipient was sitting, embarrassed and tense. The whole parade was quiet and somber, as though the moment were some kind of morale-raising fête thrown by weary members of the résistance, careful not to make too much noise lest we all be bombed by the Nazis.
We paid the bill and left, each of us confused, and I in desperate need of a bathroom. Most places were closed, and things were getting increasingly risky for me. Luckily, we came upon one of Paris’s famed public toilets. Thank Dieu! My relief was cut short though when I opened the door to find it absolutely ravaged. Perhaps the most disgusting bathroom I’d ever laid eyes on; it put American public toilettes to shame, something I thought wasn’t possible in a socialist country. Turning away, defeated, I was interrupted by a man in a lovely summer suit sitting on the sidewalk. “No! Wait” he pleaded. “It is about to be cleaned! Two minutes! Wait! You will see!” The three of us were confused by this lavatory’s self-appointed press rep, but I was willing to see how this played out.
Two minutes passed, and no one appeared to be coming, but then, a green light on the structure turned red, the door closed, and then a Wonka-esque series of whizz-bang sounds and lights activated along the edifice. The whole thing seemed to even shake a bit. “Self-cleaning!” The summer-suited man said. “Genius…I love it here,” I thought. Brandon, Max, and I waited for the process to finish, each of us amazed at the wonders of genuinely functioning public infrastructure. Then, the shaking stopped. The red light turned back to green, and the door slowly opened. My jaw dropped. The interior looked exactly the same as before.
