A couple of evenings ago I found myself with an hour to fill before I went to la Citrouille for dinner.
Americans all hit the restaurants beginning at 1730 or so and are finished and gone by 1900 or so.
The local Parisians start filtering in about 2030 or so.
I like to slide in in the gap between 1900 and 2030, like 1945.
So, I get there ahead of the Parisians, but I'll be there for quite a while after they have come, and I can enjoy listening to them and watching them.
Maybe even, if I get lucky, I can strike up a conversation or two.
I'd much rather talk to a Parisian than a trump voter from Idaho Falls.
Therefore, there is often a pre-dinner time buffer needing filling with some activity or other; I usually choose a leisurely glass of wine.
Such was the case on the evening referenced.
I decided that I would go to The Mazarine; it's just a few paces from the entrance to my building and I always feel at home there.
The last few days I have been missing things: twice I have asked for a wine glass when one was sitting in front of me; I have no idea what that means, but it's probably not good.
That apparently happened in my pre-dinner stop for a glass of wine.
As I was leaving the place, I noticed that The Mazarine is next door.
I'm glad of that miscue, though.
I really like the place I was actually in, and I probably never would have gone into it except due to my recent habit of not seeing things.
The place is the total opposite of fancy.
I suspect that there is a new genre: upscale trashy.
It features a place that is quite old, quite clean, but beaten up.
The clientele range from people who look like me, to my Parisian equivalent, to young people, young couples, old couples, mid age couples and one guy who bought in an eighteen-month-old enfant, planted l’enfant on the bar - until the bartender picked him up and cuddled him - they talked, the guy and the bartender, and then the guy took his kid and departed.
My kind of place.
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