Well, Christmas has come and gone, and I have officially left Paris. I’m currently speeding towards Lyon, the last place my French will be useful for quite some time and the second leg of this trip before we hit Spain and I become essentially mute. A gaggle of French children behind me are chirping “Regarde Maman! Regarde Papa!” (Look Mom! Look Dad!) every five minutes and kicking the back of my chair, and I just finished the last of the macarons.
Playing tour guide is an exhausting task, and while I’m sad to see the City of Lights go, I’m looking forward to returning to a place where the only directions I ever need to give involve pointing in the direction of the pre-made sandwiches at The Shipyard.
Part of my duties as a semi-Parisian local included finding restaurants that were still open on Christmas Eve and Christmas, and subsequently booking reservations. I naturally waited as long as humanly possible before completing this task, but once I did, I was quite proud of myself. After a delay of two days, the Charles de Gaulle monster spit my family out and Christmas Eve rolled around quick. The restaurant I had picked for the evening was Brasserie Flo, one in a chain of well-reviewed brasseries all over Paris; I chose one in the 10th arrondissement, based off the menu and assuming it would be a breeze to find since I had been working in the neighborhood for the last few months.
Like anything is ever that easy.
Best Hidden Upscale Restaurant/ Best Way To Scare The Hell Out Of Your Mother In A Foreign City
As I explained before, the 10th is a charming neighborhood. There’s always someone getting their weave on, even if it’s 11 at night, and the places where Jess and I grabbed lunch a few times a week are nestled next to places with dingy windows and names like Pizza City and King of Subs.
Our reservation was for 8 p.m., and as we hopped off the Metro and I glanced at my crinkled and well-loved Paris Pratique map one last time, I felt confident. But, as the street continued on and on, and suddenly the stores were fewer and far between and lingering groups of 20 something guys with nothing better to do starting appearing on the corners, I could feel my mother panicking behind me.
Unwilling to appear lost or in the least bit confused, I powered on, my heels clacking over the day-old leftover snow on the sidewalks. Streetlamps began flickering. Homeless men with no teeth yelled unintelligible profanities and ramblings. After five minutes of turning around to see my mother’s dubious face growing worse by the block, I decided we might have missed a turn.
One nonchalant stolen glance at the map and one helpful street sign (posted by the restaurant, which is apparently used to it’s clientele wandering deeper and deeper into the ghetto in search of it’s doors) later, we found ourselves in a glorified alley, the burnt-out lights of Pizza City a stone’s throw away. And voila, Brasserie Flo.
I hauled open the unwieldy wooden doors and was greeted by not one cheery “Bonsoir!” but six. The staff was dressed to the nines and the coat check girl, who looked like she had just stepped off a runway, whisked away all of our coats, and we were soon led to our table by a penguin-suited maître’d. We took our seats, an amuse bouche starter and a round of champagne landed in front of each of us, a huge, very French menu gracefully appeared in our hands from nowhere and I began to panic like someone who, at least a few times in the last four months, has resorted to eating Nutella out of the jar to survive.
If you’re wondering, Yoda-French definitely works in fine dining situations. Then again, our headwaiter was so charming and jolly, I could have been Molière for all I knew.
“Hungry we were…SOO satisfying this meal was!”
“Very happy to hear that madame! Would you perhaps be desiring a coffee, or another round of champagne?”
“Another glass I couldn’t…coffee I can!”
I did encounter something new, in translating the menu for my English-speaking family. In translation world, especially where a menu is concerned and the French like to get poetic and rambly, I am no longer a Jedi Master, but more of an ogre type creature, with a limited vocabulary who points a lot.
"Meat...that. This...fish. With that. Ooh, ooh! Green beans there! That...meat?"
A respectful three hours later, we spilled into the alley once more. This time, drunk as I was on the pure thrill of a Parisian-amazing-secret-discovery, I gave a little curtsy to the toothless man talking to his beanie. Merry Christmas, indeed.
Next up, I try to convince Lyon, the culinary capital of France, that I'm just not hungry anymore.
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