Haron was whisked off on Sunday for a surprise birthday day-trip to Paris on the Eurostar.
We gawped at Notre Dame. We wandered round a museum – an old prison, full of kinky potential even if the French were wont to favour “off with their heads” over sound judicial birchings. We bought naughty antique postcards from the stalls on the banks of the Seine.
We argued over the glass pyramid in the Louvre courtyard; I’ll leave you to guess which of us was the more traditional, and hence outraged by its modernity. We strolled through the Tuileries, admiring the local scenery.
And we ate. Oh, what a lunch! A tiny, stumbled-upon-in-a-backstreet French brasserie; hearty provincial food, of the very highest order.
Our waitress was quite delightful, which inevitably led Haron and I to start whispering pervy thoughts to each other. She nearly knocked over our water: we imagined the proprietaire noting her misdemeanour on a sheet behind the counter, from which her errors would be tallied at the end of the week.
And then: a crash, and she sent a glass on the neighbouring table tumbling to the ground. There were some offences, we decided, that would not wait until the week was out. He’d beckon her into his tiny office, and take the strap from the wall. There’d scarcely be enough room to swing it, but his arm and aim would be practiced. She’d yelp, and cry, and apologise, and be hugged, and appear to serve our dessert with tears still in her eyes.
(Actually, she just got out a dustpan and brush and cheerfully cleared up the mess. Quite disappointing, really!)
I hope you’d have tipped her well if your scenario had gone through. Or is French one of the European countries that’s not pleased when you give tips?
Lol, my mother was in Paris last Sunday for her birthday treat as well. And from the sounds of it did pretty much the same itinerary. I’m wondering if she noticed the ‘nice young couple’ wandering around the Louvre pyramid. You do know it’s there for a reason, though, don’t you Abel? It’s got the Holy Grail buried under it, at least according to Dan Brown. And I’m just *positive* you love his fantastic writing style, right?!
Of course, it being France, it might not be a strap taken off the wall, but a martinet! 😀
What was the name of the restaurant ? I’m in Paris once in a while and I like my nosh…
Ooo, the martinet. Missing from my implement collection, but a source of fascination. I remember reading years ago that they could be purchased from French hardware shops, but I doubt that’s still the case. I wonder if anyone here knows whether that was *ever* true? I must look on eBay!
Neil: sadly, I forget its name. Parisian restaurants are like that for me – wonderful experiences, stumbled upon by chance, never to be rediscovered… My all-time best meal in France was in one such, ten or more years ago – two multi-starred chefs having left their posh, acclaimed restaurants to fulfil their lifetime ambitions and open a Parisian brasserie, without the pressures of aiming to satisfy Michelin. And I’ve never been able to find it again.