21 Steps To Happiness. F. Gerson G.
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followed him out to a sleek scooter like those I’d seen people riding in movies and TV commercials.
“They are very fashionable,” he said. “And so much easier to park than a car.”
“Can you fit two on them?”
“Well, there is a back seat, but…”
At the rear of the seat is a little space for an attaché case or a Lynn Blanchett.
“So forget the taxi. I’ll take a ride with you,” I said.
He gave me the are-you-sure-about-that-you-silly-woman look.
Yes, I’m sure. Absolutely sure. Like I’ve never been sure before. I’m a scooter-riding Parisian!
“I don’t have an extra helmet for you.”
“That’s all right. I don’t mind.”
I smiled at him. We climbed aboard and for a second there, I was probably the funniest public relations recruit he ever met. As we made the short distance from the hotel to the restaurant on his scooter, I realized I’d found the perfect way to…
1 Keep very close to Nicolas.
2 Get another good look at Paris.
3 Get a mad hairdo.
4 Filter the gas fumes, hence protecting the environment.
5 Get unwanted attention from maître d’s.
“Do you need any help?” Nicolas asks once we are seated and have our menus.
His voice is so gentle and sweet. He is always an inch away from a smile or a laugh because angels have a keen and happy nature.
“Sorry, we do have a menu in English,” the maître d’says, trying to snatch the French version out of my hands.
But I say, “Non” (Learn French in 10 Days—Day 1). “French is fine. What vegetarian options would you recommend?”
The maître d’ smiles politely. “We only have one vegetarian option.”
“Good,” I say. “I’ll have that one, then. It looks delicious.”
“Would you mind if I order meat?” Nicolas asks.
“You can order whatever you like.” I laugh idiotically.
He orders something in French, then asks me, “Some wine?”
“Sure!”
He selects the wine and then we have a long embarrassing silence.
“Do you smoke?” he asks.
“No.”
Is that good? Is that bad? Would you like me better if I did?
“Me, neither,” he says.
Oh, it’s good, then.
We have another embarrassing silence.
“I…”
I can’t believe I’m sitting here with a guy like you!
“I…”
Say something clever, Lynn! “I—”
“I’m a great admirer of your mother’s work,” he cuts in.
Shit!
“The paper collection,” he says enigmatically and nods.
Double shit!
Just when I thought my brain was at its emptiest, the simple mention of Jodie’s name bleaches it white.
“She’s a genius, isn’t she?” He digs deeper.
I enter vegetative state.
Say SOMETHING, Lynn!
“Château Haut-Brion, 1997.” Too late, the maître d’ is back with a bottle of wine. Nicolas tries a drop and says it’s perfect. C’est parfait.
“Do you like French wine?” he asks.
“I don’t…Yeah, sure, I love French wine.” I love anything you love, silly!
“Good.”
We have another long embarrassing silence.
If I don’t speak soon he’ll bring up Jodie again.
“I’m very tired, sorry,” I apologize for my lack of conversation, my lack of personality, my lack of…everything.
“Of course, it’s not a problem.”
I try the wine. It tastes weird, like a mixture of dirt, mushroom and mold.
“Perfect,” I say again.
“It has aged nicely, hasn’t it?”
“Mmm…yes, yes,” I approve.
Then he sniffs the wine, takes a sip and makes all kinds of weird noises before swallowing it.
A gurgling angel. How disturbing.
“Une belle robe, quoiqu’un peu riche en tannin.”
I nod. Oui, oui!
“You seem to know a lot about wine.”
That’s right. Compliment him till he bursts.
“Oh, not really. But it’s one of my hobbies. Food…restaurants…wine. You are very lucky in New York. So many good restaurants. Famous chefs. Amazing bars.”
Oh, no, don’t start asking me stuff about New York. I moved to Connecticut with Dad years ago. All I ever do when I go to New York is spend time locked up in Jodie’s amazing apartment, glued to her giant-screen TV. Ask me about cable and I can talk forever.
“I love going to New York just for the restaurant scene,” he continues. “What’s your favorite restaurant, Lynn?”
“Restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“In New York?”
“Yes.”
“I…wouldn’t know. I am not very interested in…food,” I say. “Que me nourrit me detruit.”
“That’s…the…anorexic motto,” he says and smiles cautiously.
Was that humor? Like…Curvy me…anorexic? Ha ha! Damn that French subtlety.
Another embarrassing silence. He smiles but I can tell that I’m making him pretty uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, I am so tired.” I blame everything on the jetlag again. Oh, God. He must think I’m so dull.
“Your goat’s cheese toast on eggplant salad,” the maître d’ says as he places the plate in front of me.
I can’t stand goat’s cheese and I hate eggplant.
“Votre filet mignon,” he says to Nicolas and places what looks like a delicious piece of beef rolled up in a thin slice of yummy bacon in front of him.
He nods approvingly. Angels are meat eaters, apparently.
As for my salad, I just stare at it as if it were trying to speak Greek to me.
“You’re not eating?”
I’m so hungry, I could faint.
“Oh, I’m not hungry anymore.”
“I see,” he says. “Do you mind if I…” He points at his steak.
“Go for it, I don’t mind you eating.”
“You know, this place, this restaurant…” He shows me around with the tip of his steak knife. “It’s one of the hottest places in Paris right now, and you would hardly get better vegetarian food anywhere else.”
“I