My love for the french bistro is one that runs deep. It was a cognitive love at first, but it wasn’t until my second trip to paris that I truly fell in love. Deep, abiding love. The kind of love when you know you’ve found where you belong. I’m convinced that I was french in a former life. I simply must be.
I love the smells, the sounds, the feeling.
There is a certain crowd in the french bistro- artists, students, poets… there is a respect for the genius that could be happening at any table nearby. A song is being written, a heart is being broken, a story is in the making, a revelation has been made. All between sips of espresso, crunchy breaking of baguettes, and clinking of spoons.
You won’t find chicken nuggets here. No fried foods, cheeseburgers or milkshakes. Only the finest cheeses, freshest breads, sweetest baked treats. You won’t be coddled by the staff, but then again why do you care? You’re not here for them…
…you’re here for yourself.
Some of my most precious moments with yours truly have happened over a soy latte and roasted vegetable and goat cheese panini. I feel more myself in a cafe of strangers than probably most anywhere else in the world.
I think things like, “Is there a felicity in the world superior to this?” Then I giggle to myself at how pretentious I am. I drink my soy latte who never judges me. I taste the smoothness of fresh raw cheese at its finest. The cheese is not cheesy, no.
And neither am I.
I get to be the fullness of my inner french goddess here. I can write things I would never dare write from the comfort of my American apartment. I can think things I would never dare share with anyone other than Vonnegut or Hemmingway. I imagine Andy Warhol really would have wanted to be friends with me.
I dream of the day when I might be asked to write the specials on the chalk board because Gorgette is sick today and I’m the only person who knows how.
Oh, Bistro français, Je t’aime. Merci pour tous la mémoire.