“Bonsoir!” chirps the hostess as we step from a drizzly Rue St. Honore into the bar entryway. She wears diamond studs and a black dress so tight her head squeezes out the top like a tube of frosting. “Are you on the list this evening?” she says in too-perfect French that seems catered to making foreign guests feel proud of their language skills.

“Uh, no,” Boyfriend replies. “We’re just here for a drink.” It’s our last night in Paris, and he’s brought us to the spot that all those interminable “people in the know” talk about with phrases like “THE place to go” and “can’t be missed.”

Still flashing that unwavering smile (I can almost see her ticking off how many Euros we’ll be spending tonight) she gestures to a pack of fat-free men in tailored button downs and Alligator belts. In seconds they’ve surrounded us, taken our coats and ushered us down a corridor packed with oval tables. All manner of moneyed European urbanites lounge in the chairs, smoking Dunhills and drinking syrupy pink cocktails while they survey the crowd with stony expressions. A lethargic beagle lolls at his owner’s feet, paying little attention to the humans pouring Medoc and bantering in animated French.

We reach the bar and file towards an empty table, aware that we’re being scrutinized. It’s the kind of room that demands an entrance, a haughty Norma Desmond sweep that neither of us are up for (or, more accurately, capable of). Thick candelabras are suspended on walls coated in rich brocade, lit by chandeliers overflowing with Renaissance crystal. Black velvet banquettes surround onyx tables. The lighting is a carefully-orchestrated dimness that would make you look luscious and alluring even with a nasty case of German measles and a bout of scurvy. The general effect is “arty vampire movie set.”

Claiming a table, we take stock of the crowd, mostly couples curled around each other and half-empty bottles of champagne. Beside us is a raucous quartet of Gucci-clad men with plasticine hair and $40,000 watches. Women with runway legs strut to the bathroom clutching thousand-dollar bags under their arms like shields, stopping to throw coquettish glances at their grinning dates. A group of three women and two men crowd into the adjacent table. One is the alpha female, a coffee-and-cigarettes-thin feral blonde in one of the loose-but-still-tight dresses. She clutches her husband’s arm and leans towards her female companions, both visibly nervous in their blow-dried updos and taffeta dresses. Eavesdropping on her comments, I discover that all three are American.

“I couldn’t take it anymore, it all got too annoying to deal with,” the leader says over the come-hither music thumping from speakers embedded in the walls. “London was trying too hard to be New York, and New York was trying too hard to be Paris. So I just came back here.”

They nod, clutching their wine glasses and darting anxious eyes around the room. Everyone is shrinking under the oppressive “You are not now and will never be cool enough to belong in this place” that wafts through the room like Dior Homme. I feel empty, deflated, sitting here in Paris, drinking champagne in this room that encapsulates everything that led me to brave JFK on a Friday night just to get away. Feeling a hand on my back, I turn to Boyfriend – from his expression, I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

“Want to get out of here? Let’s go get a beer or hear a band or something.”

Hearing the edge in his voice, it hits me: He hates this. The place, with its black Am Exes and magazine spread clothes, the imperious crowd – he’s always hated the whole thing. But he’s sitting here, sipping overpriced champagne and going through the motions, all because he thinks I want to be here.

“Definitely. Let’s roll.”

I may not have $600 shoes or magazine spread features, but I do have someone whose sole intention on a Parisian Saturday night is to make me happy. Smiling, I take his hand.