Just like that

And Just Like That, Life Returned to Paris

We descended upon the city like sexual locusts

After exiles small, medi­um, and large, we swarmed the night in Paris, hun­gry, greedy, and ready. 

Us. Sur­vivors of plagues extra­or­di­naire like Coro­n­avirus and le SMIC (that’s the sexy French way to say, ‘Min­i­mum Wage’), we chis­eled the crust from the cor­ners of our eyes and con­demned les mer­ry-go-round assort­ment de soft­pants we had been wear­ing to the nether­laun­dry worlds, nev­er to be worn again. 

Fuck you, Life! You crazy fuck. You near­ly got us there! But here, in France, the stim­u­lus checks were month­ly, so we ground our stim­mies to dust and snort­ed them in the form of more red lip­stick from Rou­je. And of course, we bought some actu­al gro­ceries and cig­a­rettes (Vive. La. France).

It’s sun­ny (today any­way) and it’s melt­ed cheese wheel sea­son, the most French of all sea­sons. Break out the req­ui­site wines and let’s do this. I’m alive and some­how still nim­ble enough to lim­bo, lim­bo, lim­bo under­neath the fuck­a­bil­i­ty stick, for yet anoth­er raclette (and tin­der, should it come to that) season. 

I’ve got per­haps one last oeu­vre left in me and what seems to be an immune sys­tem after all, have at me! Ok, I also got the vac­cine… three times. I’m feel­ing invincible.

My first stop after this hiber­na­tion (men­tal, phys­i­cal, emo­tion­al, and finan­cial) would not be a sage and obvi­ous choice for some­one who spent the entire cal­en­dar year on the dole à la Française, like one of Paris’ gor­geous and sober­ly-priced ‘Bouil­lons’. Non, non, non, we have walked the line, razor’s edge and, like lucky fucks have for ten thou­sand gen­er­a­tions, we are roar­ing it all back to life. 

I go first to Le 17 to appre­ci­ate the new crop of nev­er-clos­et­ed les­bians com­ing of age, and sip a Moscow Mule with all my usu­al frenemies. 

The real bar Le 17 (accept no imi­ta­tions) on Rue de la Folie Méricourt

The feel­ing of home; Paris’ 11th arrondisse­ment. I’ve fought so hard to belong in this city. It is here at Le 17 that I am swal­lowed whole, near­ly digest­ed, and spat back out on my ass on the side­walk at 2:13 am like a stunned cow. C’est moi, je suis La Vache qui Rit!

The thump missed the fore­head and so I escape my abat­toir for din­ner on a rooftop. Sushi is more of a deliv­ery thing for low­brow types such as your dear and present author. Kebab (le taco de Paris) sim­ply does not fit sur­vivors like us (it’s a fail­ing of the willpow­er and imme­di­ate­ly regret­ted, like McDonald’s. Except for the good spots like Le Coeur du Liban).

Fuck this, I’m going to live balls-out. We are going to Freddy’s. 

Take note anx­ious and con­trol­ling types , no reser­va­tions taken. 

But first, Le Très Par­ti­c­uli­er for cock­tails in the gar­den. I remem­ber how I was intro­duced to this place. 

Fred­er­ic, my casu­al legal advis­er and George Clooney look-alike, invit­ed me here for din­ner. I observed how he always demand­ed a bet­ter table from the host, nev­er accept­ing the first offer; an inter­est­ing fel­low to have in one’s corner. 

Le Très Par­ti­c­uli­er Bar @ the Hotel Par­ti­c­uli­er in Montmartre

I met Fred­er­ic at Frenchie’s Bar à Vins. For sev­er­al years, it was my birth­day restau­rant. Appar­ent­ly, I told him I’m the next Simone de Beau­voir and pressed my num­ber in his palm after a birthday’s‑worth of wine and girl­friends. The civil­ian casu­al­ty of the night was a Mex­i­can guy whose num­ber I cadged think­ing he was Fred­er­ic’s friend (lo sien­to, Gabriel).

Frenchie Bar à Vins is carved out of a sol­id old stone build­ing which cre­ates an inter­est­ing scene on the wee lit­tle alley­way where it’s locat­ed as peo­ple step out to check phone mes­sages. The alley is sort of like the lounge of the bar? Rue du Nil at night, oui.

The army of the Frenchie empire on Rue du Nil

I made sure to go there as a puri­fy­ing rit­u­al since I had been stood up in that same restau­rant on my birth­day by my own hus­band the pre­vi­ous year. Rea­son #467 we are no longer mar­ried. Don’t feel sor­ry for me, I’m in the process of being award­ed a dizzy­ing­ly appro­pri­ate set­tle­ment.  Have you ever been ghost­ed? By your spouse? Pull up a seat.

My ther­a­pist could be read­ing this, so let’s go back to now. 

The bar at Le Très Particulier

I’m going to live many lives tonight, it seems, as we make our way to Mont­martre. At Hotel Par­ti­c­uli­er, Le Très Par­ti­c­uli­er is their bar. They make you ring an inter­com at the begin­ning of a dark­ened gar­den path­way and ask to be let in. Per usu­al, I tell the voice in the inter­com that I am a for­mer pres­i­dent. Depend­ing on my mood, I often go obscure with Nico­lae Ceaușes­cu or Mob­u­to Sese Seko. Some­times, I’m just Barack Oba­ma. I want to show them I went to Uni­ver­si­ty, even if my gen­er­al air of being from Indi­ana says otherwise. 

And my accent, I’ll need all the help I can get if I’m aim­ing for high­brow.

But tonight I’m kick­ing up my heels so I keep it easy and claim to be Nico­las Sarkozy, implor­ing for one last drink before jail. 

Paris is so worth it. She always gives you more than the bite she takes.


Fred­dy’s Pop­u­lar hole-in-the-wall, wine bar with curat­ed tast­ing plates, stone walls and barstool seat­ing; 54 Rue de Seine, in the 6th arrondisse­ment

Rou­je The ulti­mate ‘French-fem-cool girl’ brand, knits, strap­py dress­es, jeans and red lip­stick; 11 bis Rue Bachau­mont, in the 2nd arrondisse­ment

Bar Le 17 Unpre­ten­tious­ly eclec­tic, per­fect for peo­ple watch­ing, tabac, beer, café, cock­tails; 17 Rue de la Folie-Méri­court, in the 11th arrondisse­ment

Le Coeur du Liban Mod­est in looks but world­ly in tastes, sand­wich­es galore (and much more to offer than just falafel), pis­ta­chio and orange flower treats, dine in or take away, open until 11 p.m.; 56 Rue de Lan­cry, in the 10th arrondisse­ment

Frenchie Bar à Vins fam­i­ly style dish­es, wine pair­ings, relaxed, warm and set in a build­ing made from sol­id old stone; 6 Rue du Nil, in the 2nd arrondisse­ment

Hotel Par­ti­c­uli­er — Le Très Par­ti­c­uli­er Some­what hid­den bar, sig­na­ture cock­tails (try ‘The Gold­en Tick­et’ for a pick-me-up) and moody, vel­vet seat­ing, gar­den views; 23 Avenue Junot Pavil­lion D, in the 18th arrondisse­ment

Indeco­rous Cul­turevore and Poly­chrome Chow Vir­tu­osa Kat Walk­er likes nice things.

She once went to a job inter­view for that was sup­posed to be for sales but was actu­al­ly for pros­ti­tu­tion (the high-class ver­sion, she hopes lol) at a fan­cy hotel in the shad­ow of the Eif­fel Tow­er (arti­cle com­ing soon) and, anoth­er time inter­viewed for a posi­tion as a phone psychic.

She passed both with fly­ing col­ors. How­ev­er she declined the human traf­fick­ing posi­tion but stuck around longer than she should have to be able to write about it. (Are you not entertained?)

As for the tele­phone psy­chic gig, she only last­ed one day, even though the pay was excel­lent. Wooooooo…..She sees you sub­scrib­ing to our week­ly PARIS RIGHT NOW dis­patch . There is also a man in your future.

Now she is set­tled in as your Edi­tor-in-Mis­chief here, lead­ing the charge to not take Paris so damn seriously…let’s frol­ic a bit, non?

She writes fast and with­out pru­dence so if you enjoy this type of thing, edi­tors aren’t free so here is le Patre­on

When she’s not writ­ing about crois­sants, love, cul­ture, and lov­able, sexy crois­sants, she is a gonzo per­for­mance artist whip­ping up a (usu­al­ly) polit­i­cal ruckus. Her rab­ble rous­ing has pro­voked the atten­tion of var­i­ous pub­lic forums, like the time she appeared in the movie The Yes Men Fix the Worldas Russ­ian jour­nal­ist Lai­ka Gaga­ri­na or was fea­tured in Roll­Cal­l’s Heard on the Hill for her mock­ery of the U.S. sen­ate. Oth­er efforts have land­ed her in the Le Nou­v­el Obser­va­teur, Chica­go Sun-Times, Chica­go Tri­bune, and the Reader.

In oth­er places and oth­er lives, the actu­al live guy who played Ross on Friends came to see her show at a NYC gallery.

She has nev­er had a weird­er lunch than that one when an FBI infor­mant offered to kill her busi­ness part­ner for her.

She declined (phew) and that’s why she’s here, freely- and un-jailed-ly writ­ing about crois­sants and per­verts and the Eif­fel Tow­er (in that order, usu­al­ly) for PARIS > DEFINED MAGAZINE.

Her per­fect­ly impos­si­ble din­ner in Paris would be at Pierre Sang on Gam­bey (the wait­er choos­es the wine) with Gen­e­sis P. Orridge, Napoleon Bona­parte (he picks up the tab and the wait­er knows this in advance when pick­ing wines), Christo­pher Hitchens, Anais Nin, and Ket­a­mine in atten­dance. Drinks after at le17 but back in time, like 2017.

Her favorite French word is ‘bruit’ but only when a hot girl says it slowly.

In a bid for your atten­tion and approval she writes things here and man­ages this unruly tribe of Parisians endeav­or­ing to bring you what Paris­ing is real­ly about.

Sub­scribe HERE to the P > D newslet­ter for a week­ly dose of her, and the rest of the ram­bunc­tious and per­fect­ly depraved gals’ tren­chant and thought-pro­vok­ing opin­ions. Or tune in to their high­brow cul­ture com­men­tary and bike rid­ing through Paris on PARIS » D E F I N E D TV.

If you are mash­ing out a mes­sage to warn her of her crimes against gram­mar and punc­tu­a­tion save your time because she knows, she knows.

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