A Bubbly Life in Paris

I’m at my favorite brasserie in Paris. It’s on l’Ile St. Louis, so it should be completely touristy, but if you sit in the back you’ll find the locals who come in every morning to read their newspapers as they have coffee.

In Paris, they still read physical newspapers. Si charmant.

Today, the younger waiter who’s usually surly and ignores me is delighted I’m here. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. He even came over and typed on my keyboard. I wonder if he got lucky last night.

Jerome, my usual waiter, slides into the bench across from me. I ask him how he is, and he says better now that I’m here. He asks if I’m finished writing my book yet. I tell him almost–I think a couple more days on the rough draft. He gives me a thumbs up and boogies off–literally. He dances his way through the work day.

There’s a French woman who regularly comes in for breakfast with her young son. She looks like a movie star, and the kid has a casually fabulous haircut. She grabs him in a bug and pretend to eat him up. He wiggles away the way boys do but then touches her face. He has the glow of a child well-loved.

A group of Japanese people meet here–the second time this week. They look like they’ve stepped off a page of a manga. One might be The Iron Chef. Only a Japanese man can get away with wearing a shiny Vegas jacket and pants at ten in the morning. Well–and my Magic Man.

My champagne arrives. The eager pop of the bottle makes everyone turn and look. The tourists check their watches. I want to point out that they’re in Paris–if there’s ever a place to have champagne for breakfast it’s here. Don’t wake up one morning, wishing you’d had more champagne. That’s what I’m taking home with me from Paris.

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