I’ve seen french restaurants from London to Los Angeles and never gave them more than a passing glance. Somehow I’d never considered the possibility of an american restaurant in Paris. There’s a small pub called La Taverne de Cluny near my hotel where a large number of anglophones seem to congregate, but it’s still a french atmosphere. This was nothing like anything remotely resembling France. This was blatant unadulterated Americana in all its greased-back, tomato-fryin’, socks-n-sandals glory.
It was a large square room with dark walls and strategically placed mirrors to mark it seem even more spacious. We passed the bar en route to the waiter’s stand. It was a ‘57 Chevy Bel-Air convertible, split down its spine and turned so there was a waitron stand between the rear bumpers. At first we passed a girl who looked something like Olivia-Newton John in a tube top and spandex pants popping the tops off of one Jolt cola after another. Nearer to us was a huge box full of the small paper pixie stix.