We come to Paris reasonably often (for Anglos), and yes, we're staying at a fancier gaff than normal, just over the road from Les Deux Magots & Café de Flore in the 6eme arrondissement, which is living up to its reputation of hosting mostly 2 kinds of inhabitant: small dogs in handbags, and fat Americans in shorts.
Having ticked the box in Les Deux Magots last night, we wandered into the St Germain hinterland this evening to find something a bit more "local". And bingo, we found it.
Chez Fernand in rue Guisarde (not the Montparnasse one) is about as tiny as it gets (in Paris that is; we ate somewhere tinier in Nice in March), with people sat on top of each other in a way that sadly never happens in English speaking environs. The food was naturally excellent (tartare de canard - une révélation!) without being fussy or clever, but that's not the bit we're interested in here.
It was the fact that our linguistic skills have improved hugely since the last time we were in this town (March 2012), and in fact, since Nice. Not only did the staff indulge us by sticking strictly to français, but we got into conversations (mostly about cheese) with locals and regulars.
The key skill we've recently acquired seems to be the confidence to ask people to repeat or explain themselves, without resorting to, "Je suis désolé, mais je ne comprends pas."
These are skills that had clearly passed our American neighbours by, who seemed to be the only people in the place dissatisfied with the food and service. It's a two-way street, my friends.
However, this self-same confidence has its drawbacks.
After leaving Fernand (complete with its signed Roland Garros 1981 poster - Borg, Lendl, Forget, Noah et al) we pottered back towards the Bvd St-Germain to find a bar to while away the cool evening breeze. We stumbled upon a tabac/café where we could sip a whisky while staring at a motley queue buying late night ciggies.
There's nothing like smoking for bringing disparate types together. And that, of course, transpired. Was it the girl in the LEATHER puff-ball frock? No. The black-helmeted scooterist straight from the set of Beineix's 80s classic "Diva"? Mais non. C'était François.
It was the end of a long day for François. Most of which had evidently been spent cadging booze from anyone friendly enough to catch his eye. I was too friendly. Mainly through my desire to continue speaking French to as many people as possible. My boldness brought us a longer conversation than I had perhaps envisaged.
However, it posed no danger, was eminently enjoyable, and cost us no money (since the proprietor had long since determined that François didn't need any more boissons tonight).
We shared an odd moment when he asked me to touch index fingers, ET style, then didn't know when to stop staring at me. We both understood the word arrête, which brought the episode to an awkward conclusion.
We all went our separate ways. Us back to our swanky hotel, and François (presumably) to another table in another bar.
I love this city.
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