Ah, to be nineteen and carefree in Paris again… In those days, I was determined to experience it all: the museums, the culture, the food – and of course, the nightlife. In retrospect I realize I went clubbing primarily to meet French boys, a hobby I have completely lost interest in since returning to the States and marrying an American. Yet each night after dinner my friends and I batted about notions of going out dancing, or even just out for a drink, and decided on another glass of wine at home instead. But on our last night in Paris, Nicole, newly married and pregnant (but not showing yet), was determined to see and be seen while her cute little dress still fit! So our motley crew piled into Anne-Sophie’s minivan and headed for Barrio Latino; some in their party dresses, some too discouraged by the rain to dress up, and one conspicuously pregnant. Not that it mattered, apparently; we waltzed right past the doormen, pregnant lady and all!
Inside, it was hard not to gawk like a tourist. Le Barrio is dessert for the eyes, a four-layer cake of interior decorating magic. A stunning wrought iron stair railing designed by Gustave Eiffel (yes, THAT Eiffel) draws the eye up through four floors decked out with low sexy leather banquettes, intimate tables, and the sound of clinking glasses. Extravagant fabrics cover classic loveseats and ottomans in bordello reds and burnt oranges. Feeling like actresses on a movie set in ‘40s Rio, we drifted up the stairs, pausing to glance over the balustrades at the seething mass of bodies dancing on the ground floor. The place is packed to bursting on weekends, but on this Tuesday evening there was room on the upper levels to stretch out, play pool, or order a drink without having to scream. Not being nineteen, dressed to the nines, or Latina, we did not get as far as the private elevator to the VIP-only fourth floor, which reportedly requires a key to get in.
Soon enough, the infectious music drew us back to the tightly-packed dance floor. Arms waving, music pounding, we forgot all about our jobs, bills, children. Anne-Sophie’s minivan was a private jet and we were heiresses on holiday in Havana. We were young, we were elegant, we were … rudely interrupted as a muscular dynamo clutching a cordless mike bounded onto the dance floor and the obnoxious strains of "Follow the leader, leader, leader" blasted into the room. The dancers lined up in rows behind their "instructor" and began mimicking his every move. We were trapped in the middle of a Franco-Latino Electric Slide! The crowd went wild – but we jaded Americans edged our way back to the bar and pouted. I mean, we didn’t fly all the way to Paris to take a salsa aerobics class!
Drinks: Expensive (7-8 euros!)
Food: Not worth it!
Cover: None on weeknights
Overall Rating: Go, if only to see Monsieur Eiffel’s beautiful ironwork!