“Bonsoir!” chirps the tiny 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 and neck look squeezed 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 using phrases like “THE place to go” and “simply can’t be missed.”
Still flashing that unwavering smile (I can almost see her ticking off a quick estimate of exactly how many Euros we’ll be spending tonight) she gestures to a pack of three young men wearing tailored button down shirts, Alligator belts and zero body fat. 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 with an LV logo collar lies collapsed at his owner’s feet, paying little attention to the humans pouring Medoc and bantering in animated French above him.
At last we reach the bar area 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 accuately, capable of) making. Avoiding the judging eyes, I glance at the thick candelabras suspended on walls coated in rich brocade, chandeliers overflowing with Renaissance crystal and black velvet banquettes surrounding onyx tables, reminded of an arty vampire film set. As expected, the lighting is a carefully-orchestrated dimness that makes everyone look luscious and alluring even with a nasty case of German measles topped with a bout of scurvy.
Claiming a table, we settle and 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 throw coquettish glances at grinning dates and strut to the bathroom clutching thousand-dollar bags under their arms like shields. A group of three women and two men crowd into the adjacent table. One is the clear alpha female, a coffee-and-cigarettes thin, feral blonde in one of the loose-but-still-tight dresses that “those in the know” are wearing. 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 eagerly, clutching their wine glasses and darting anxious eyes around the room, shrinking under the oppressive “You are not now and will never be cool enough to belong in this place” message that wafts through the room like Dior Homme cologne. Suddenly I feel empty, deflated, sitting here in Paris, drinking champagne in this room that encapsulates everything that drove 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 exact same thing.
“Want to get out of here? Let’s go get a crepe 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.