La Vrai, Paris

From Essoyeschool

Tonight I got off the Metro at Blanche, my favorite stop, to look for a cafe. Starving to the point of lunacy, I found the places recommended to me to be full, at least on the outside, where I wanted to sit. I continued down the street, following my groaning stomach past one crowded cafe after another. After a few blocks I stopped at La Vrai Paris, just as a couple was finishing their wine outside. Perfect timing: I was seated immediately.

I just ordered steak frites, my safety food of choice. I hear intense French conversation all around me, and inside there is music booming, reminiscent of some epic movie soundtrack like Star Wars. Weird. I watch a group of friends bid each other farewell, kissing each other on both cheeks.

There is a group of American travelers to my right, drinking cocktails with glow in the dark straws. I am not surprised that they also happen to be the only diners with these glowsticks (the French couple to my right is neglecting their wine as they gaze passionately into each other's souls, and the group next to me has an ice bucket filled with beers). Glowing drinks are much too kitsch for the French.

My steak frites arrives-there is an egg on top of my steak, yolk perfectly placed in the center. Cool. It also comes with a small salad and a tray of bread. Not bad for 11 euro. As I spend a few minutes fully involved in my food, I don't notice the Americans leave. I am the lone soldier. I wonder if they took their glowsticks.

The group of friends with the beer are blowing smoke into my eyes, as they converse, hands a-flutter, faces leaning in close together with great animation. My frites and salad are delicious but I hold off the steak to prolong the pleasure.

There is a suave-looking French dude in place of the Americans, speaking to his two completely un-suave looking compadres. I don't know what he is saying, but somehow I get the sense he is complaining about stupid people.

My steak with eggs is the most succulent meal I have tried so far in Europe. The meat almost melts in my mouth. I like taking large bites but eating very slowly...savoring each one. Then I use the warm bread to soak up the excess egg yolk, which blends to perfection with juices from the steak. Heaven on a plate. I'm glad I came here starving. I remember the way Jack Kerouac describes French eating habits and decide to leave the remainder of food alone while I read a little...so I can savor it. This also allows me to stay as long as I want. Perhaps I will get some wine.

I'm growing to love the politeness of Parisian exchanges. Even the guy who sells roses from cafe to cafe gets a "bonsoir!" from the bouncer, the waiter, even a few customers. The suave guy is now laughing hysterically, almost maniacally, cheery as a school kid. He catches me looking and shoots me a smile. See, the French do smile. Sometimes.


I order a glass of rose. My waiter doesn't speak English, but doesn't seem to mind me pointing at the menu. I love treating myself well. One nice meal per week, and the rest of the week I conserve mi dinero. The guys with the beer ask me what I'm writing, and we converse for a bit in Franglais (or Frenglish, whichever you prefer) as a lovely breeze sweeps through the cafe. 

I go inside to use the bathroom and have to maneuver around the DJ, now blasting techno, and the Africans dancing to it with joy, almost euphorically. The song is in English but only has one line: " I love the smell of bleach." Over and over again.

I return to my table and watch the crowds of people pass by. The men are all wearing purses, some of them Louis Vuitton and most of the women are wearing long, flowy dresses that just miss the ground. They are carrying motorcycle helmets. I like that the gender roles are different in Paris. The men actually dance, not just stand there waiting for a girl to grind against them. They even dance with each other.

Suddenly, two women run into the cafe, arms flailing about.

"Is this the place with the glowsticks?" asks the first one. I estimate each of these women weighed about 300 pounds.

"Pardon?" says my waiter, visibly confused by the flailing arms jiggling about.

"DO...YOU....HAVE.....GLOW-STICKS?" asks the other one, slowly enunciating each syllable. The waiter seems annoyed and begins to clear my table, ignoring them.

"Ugh. He doesn't understand us. Oh well."

The large women stomp away and I savor the last sips of my wine in peace. Thank God I am not one of those Americans.

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