Paris by Night

If you're looking for traditional French cuisine, you have to spend an evening at Aux Deux Canards. From the aperitif of house-made vin d'orange (excellent!) and the escargots (perfect!), to the maigret de canard (very good) and the chocolate mousse (divine!), the meal was fabulous--and very entertaining. The waiter showed up to present us with the speciality of the house--orange liqueur--in its different stages of fermentation, each of which we were given to smell. He then returned energetically after our aperitif, and, using a pointer whipped dramatically from his breast pocket, proceeded to explain every item on the menu!

When you get sick of eating duck and foie gras, Padova hits the spot. They serve enormous plates of pasta that, although the names might sound familiar, taste completely different from what you might be familiar with in the States. (Cream dishes, for example, are made with crème fraîche instead of heavy cream, which makes them tangy-er.) The individual pizzas are excellent, and they have a kind of pasta sampler that is listed as an appetizer, but that is perfect as an entree if you want to try a few different things. And for entertainment--a strolling guitarist who will sing to you in Italian!

If you're in Paris for more than a week and you start to crave some variety in your diet, I highly suggest a trip to this city's version of Indian Row. In a narrow passage in the Strasbourg-St. Denis area, you'll find a string of about 10-15 Indian restaurants, all providing both indoor and outdoor seating. We found ourselves starving at about 11:15 at night, and sat down at the only one that didn't look like it was closing up. The food was excellent, cheap, and very filling. Not that much different from the Indian food you find in the States, but we did notice that when we ordered Nan, it came disguised as Poori.

Lounging around in cafés, gazing nonchalantly at the passers-by--I guess it can get pretty tiring. Near Montparnasse, we found a bar where you can do more than just sit and stare. The front is a bar and a restaurant, and the back is a billiards hall, where you can play good old-fashioned pool, à la française or à l’américaine. The men at the door can be picky, as is the case just about everywhere in Paris, but--after a quick frisking and a check through your bags--if you look respectable, you should have no trouble getting in. It’s pretty cheap to play (around 60-65FF an hour for a table), and the beers go for around 30FF. Some of the more adventurous in our group got their fill by going straight for the liter-size mugs of draft (77FF). A good place to go if you're not in the mood for the typical bar scene.

In the center of the Bastille—always a rather crowded destination at night—La Fabrique is a bar/club, with seats in the front and back, and a dance floor in the middle. As usual, the establishment "reserves the right to select its clientele", but there’s pretty much only one rule at the door: bring a girl. I was with a group of five guys (four American, one French), and went ahead with one, while three waited outside for their one friend to finish trying (rather desperately) to get a hold of a girl he had met the night before. Within about ten minutes, one came in looking for us, saying that the other three couldn’t get in. Apparently, the bouncer had told the Americans in English that it was a private party, then admitted in French to the native that it was because they didn’t have any girls with them! Off I went to save the day. I just poked my head out the door, indicated to the bouncers that they were—-yes, all of them—-with me, and we had no further problems. They did charge a cover, but, like many places in Paris, the 50FF included one drink, so it wasn’t so bad. Inside, the music was a bit too loud for conversation, but that didn’t seem to be stopping anyone from trying to hook up. Despite the efforts at the door, the boys had a good 3 to 1 advantage on the girls. In fact, I only noted one major difference between this and a typical American club. Instead of a bunch of impatient women itching to get out on the dance floor while the men stand perfectly still observing the wildlife, here it’s the men that dance in place, seemingly anxious to get the party going, while the women, perfectly blasé, sit around in complete disinterest blowing smoke rings at each other.

In general, Sundays in Paris are rather slow. Everything is closed, from the tabacs to the markets, to the restaurants and the grands magasins. In the morning you might find an occasional boulangerie open just long enough for people to get their breakfast baguettes, but for the most part, the city shuts down. So I was rather surprised when my friend suggested that we go get a drink Sunday night. Get a drink? Where? As it turns out, the city springs ever so slightly back to life in the evening. We walked down to Oberkampf, the parisian equivalent of the Lower East Side in New York City (a once-grungy, now hip quarter of bars and restaurants, frequented by a mostly local crowd), and ducked into a small bar with no sign. Inside, the walls were multicolored, haphazardly covered with posters, the tables closely set. All in all, a very warm atmosphere that only got warmer after I downed my first drink: a thé à la menthe, perfectly non-alcoholic, minted tea, served hot in something slightly bigger than a shot glass. We were there for about fifteen minutes, when a girl bounced through the door, announcing--in French and English--that it was her birthday and demanding the someone play her a song. (Obviously, she knew these people.) Soon enough, a rather interestingly dressed woman had taken over the piano, and began to serenade the whole bar. Starting, quite dramatically, with "Cry Me a River", she played several American jazz standards, and some old French favorites, which had everyone singing along. She turned out to be American herself, an expat most likely, and this seemed to be her primary occupation: hopping from bar to bar, pretending to start things up spontaneously, à l’improviste, singing like a madwoman, then running around afterwards with a hat to put money in and her CDs to buy. It was a really fun surprise, and if she hadn’t stopped singing, we would have stayed for a second drink!

Thursday night at Le Scorp, this usually gay bar opens its doors to a wider public, and occasionally turns back the clock. In what would seem to be the equivalent of American 80s nostalgia, Le Scorp’s return to pop classics had the mostly twenty-something crowd jumping up and down, singing along, and remembering… grade school. Everyone knew all the words to everything, to the extent that the DJ would turn down the volume at various points in every song to enhance the effect. We did everything from the chicken dance (or, French-style, as ducks) to some version of a conga line. It was fun! That is, if you could swallow your pride and lose your self-consciousness long enough to get silly with the rest of the room. Well, it was fun for a little while, then we left and headed next door to Le Pulp, Le Scorp’s lesbian annex. In there, same deal: no cover, a mixed crowd, dark atmosphere. But no regression necessary. Le Pulp was playing good old-fashioned techno.

The first time I heard a French comedian (Coluche), I was speechless. Literally. I had no clue what this guy was saying. I understood maybe 50%, and none of it was funny. Even if you understand a language perfectly, it’s very possible that you won’t understand its humor. After all, comedy is very cultural. It’s based on everyday life, politics, history, things that are very particular to a country, or even to a certain city. Jean-Jacques Vanier took a broader approach, and maybe that’s why I understood him. His two-hour, non-stop, one-man comedy, L’envol du pingouin (The Flight of the Penguin), did use everyday situations, but merely as back-drops against which to examine more basic, human questions. He writes, in one scene, to the President of the Republic: "Is there a group for me on this earth? Preferably, in France? If so, what is this group? And what is my place in it?" Don’t get me wrong: this IS a comedy. In fact, it was hysterical! But also a little bit sad, in that almost all of the sketches revolve around the dilemma of a man who feels "un-adapted", out of place in society, and struggles to figure out where he can fit in. Touching, and very very funny!

If you have the time to spend waiting in line (or the forethought to actually reserve seats), the Opera is the thing to do. For a Monday night 7:30 performance of Don Giovanni, I had to arrive at Opéra Bastille before 5pm in order to wait in line for the doors to open at 6:15. At 6:30, the doors open and the line shifts indoors, where you then have the pleasure of waiting until 7:00 for the ticket booths to open. Just before showtime, they release all of the seats left available in corporate blocks and, depending on your place in line, you may or may not luck out. One girl told me that she once waited for two hours only to have the line cut off right in front of her! There were about twenty people ahead of us and by the time we got to the front of the line, all of the 100-400FF seats were gone. But for 465FF each we got great seats, and the performance was well worth the time and effort. Although the acoustics could have been better (the orchestra louder), overall it was fabulous!