Table for One

Tripping over the uneven cobblestones down Rue Sainte-Anne, in my unbroken-in snakeskin booties, Hemingway in stow, I headed to Le Mesturet', alone. The girls were out in the rain greedily taking in the sights, and rightfully so, but I had a slightly different agenda. I wanted to be alone with this beautiful city for a while to see myself . As I entered the boutique restaurant, I was greeted with a pleasant "Bonsoir". To which I replied "Bonsoir, parlez vous anglais". Once she acquiesced, I announced that I would be dining solo, with pride in fact. In hindsight, I realize how exciting it was to be mistaken for a French women upon entry. Makes me think that I had a certain confidence and style that preceded me. Although, I guess it could have been the fact that I was simply a women, in France. But, I digress.


She handed me a menu, and gave me time to mull it over. Although I knew if steak was offered, that's what I'd be having. The wine menu, was a blur of French words, and true to form, I concentrated heavily on it, giving the appearance that I was deeply enthralled in the noted variations, when really I had no clue what the hell it read. I asked for a Cotes du Rhone, a French wine on every menu in town, honestly for no more of a reason than the fact that it is a red wine and I liked the way the name rolls off the tongue. Clearly, I set the bar enormously high. I chose a 12 ounce steak frite board, dressed with a peppered salad and a caramel custard drizzled with sweet and tangy bourbon .

Let me just say, I was feeling "high-class". In that moment I thought it was because of the meal I'd chosen to consume or the slightest hint of a French accent in my tone as I asked for the Cotes du Rhone. However, I am almost certain now, that it was all in how I thrust forwardly into this temporary role as a French women. I'd changed the spelling of my name to Lucretia, ate one bite at a time, and spilled red wine on the pages of A Moveable Feast in a solo booth of this corner gem. Once I had finished all I could of the steak that was larger than my head, I beckoned for my server, and in no rush (as they do in Europe) she came to assist. I ordered a bottle on not-so-fancy wine to go, to be shared over conversation with the girls upon my return.

I closed my book, grabbed my vino, and bid adieu to everyone within earshot of the door, feeling that content swell inside my body that only comes after a solid first date or a sweet first kiss. Walking home, it began to rain a bit harder. I embraced it like Midnight in Paris, and let my curls drip with water onto my nose and cheeks. There is something about that city that feels like a thousand companions are at your disposal, especially when you're alone. The rain tells you secrets, and the restaurants dance in your nose.  Couples invite you into their relationships openly, as they share sweet kisses under the streetlights, and of course at every corner, fashion stares you in the eyes. Although, it was night, and I was alone, I felt anything but.