Page 48 of French Kiss

A few minutes later, Notre-Dame came into view. We walked back up a staircase and found ourselves at the bustling intersection of Boulevard Saint-Michel and the river. Josh led me across a bridge to Notre-Dame, which stood elegantly in a plaza filled with selfie-snapping tourists and pedestrians crossing through and heading deeper into the Right Bank.

We walked into the church, which was open despite having been damaged in a fire. The stained glass was intact and much of the interior was still accessible.

I couldn’t believe the majesty of the stained-glass windows, soaring hundreds of feet high with brightly colored intricate designs showing biblical scenes. One after another, I was captivated by the arching windows in a rainbow of colors and the light shining through. We walked past a table of candles, each lit in honor of someone, all burning slowly together. In the pews, many people sat quietly, but I was more interested in the building and the magic of its structure than in prayer, so we moved through quietly then exited.

After crossing back over the bridge, we found ourselves in front of the cascading Saint-Michel fountain, which was surrounded by tourists, students, and commuters heading below ground to the Metro. A group of about six teenagers were staging an impromptu a cappella performance. We listened to one song and dropped a few coins into an upturned porkpie hat. This area pulsed with activity, in complete contrast to the Rodin gardens, which had felt so serene. I couldn’t decide which I liked better.

“You hungry?” Josh asked. “I know a place near here that’s great. And no frogs.”

“Promise?”

“Actually, I can’t say for sure what’s on their menu, but I won’t force you to eat anything you don’t want. How about that?”

“Merci,” I said, realizing I was hungry and having no idea what time it actually was. The afternoon had lazily unfolded in a perfect way, and dinner could only improve things.

We walked through the fifth arrondissement a bit before finding our way to the restaurant. This area felt more like what I was used to, since I’d been in academic environments for so many years.

On almost every corner was a bookstore—either an incarnation of the large Gibert Jeune stores or a smaller shop—and for the first time since I’d been here, I noticed some fast-food burger restaurants. That shouldn’t have surprised me, given the student population, but this was Paris, where I’d imagined French youth ate crepes and baguettes perfectly covered with the best butter from well-treated Normandy cows. Maybe they did. But clearly, they also ate burgers and fries. I even saw an Apple store and a Starbucks. So much for my image of Paris being a world away from home. Maybe all countries were inextricably connected and that ideal of escaping didn’t exist anymore.

Josh and I walked up Rue des Écoles, passing students along the way despite it being summer. Eventually, he led me into Brasserie Balzar, a restaurant with a big red awning, round tables, and wooden chairs with woven seats. With its wood paneling, large mirrors, and globe lights inside, it looked exactly like my image of a Parisian bistro. The bonus was the menu. It did have escargots, which Josh insisted we try, but it also had salads, cheese and olives, a crab and avocado dish, and two kinds of fish. Plenty for my finicky palate.

The maître d’ showed us to a table set with a white tablecloth with a white sheet of butcher paper on top. The places were already set with plates monogrammed with Brasserie Balzar in the same font as the block-letter signage outside. I took the booth, and Josh sat in the wooden chair opposite me. The maître d’ handed him a wine menu, and he studied it.

“I love this place,” I said. It was perfect. “What are we thinking on wine?”

“The list is overwhelming. I may just close my eyes and point.”

“We getting a bottle?”

“I think we should. You’re not nearly drunk enough, and I promised you a drunken afternoon.”

“I don’t think I need to be drunk. I’m really fine,” I said. “But a glass of wine sounds good.”

He chose a red wine I’d never heard of, and our waiter brought it promptly. We both tasted it, and he poured two glasses. Josh got into a long conversation with the waiter, who kept smiling at me like people do when they know the other person has no idea what they’re saying. Then he left us with the wine.

“Care to translate?” I asked.

“I was asking how the fish was prepared. I don’t like a whole fish. If I find one bone, it ruins the whole thing. And there are always bones.”

I hadn’t even thought of that. I didn’t want fish with bones either. “So what did he say?”

“He recommended the chicken.”

“Maybe I should have that too,” I said.

“I’m thinking we should have the escargots as an appetizer. You have to try them once in your life. Then chicken or whatever. But definitely dessert.”

“Why are you so insistent on the snails?”

“Because you’re in France. And they’re actually really good. I’ve had them.”

“Snails. Like…” With my hand, I made a gesture of a snail slithering on the table.

“I don’t think they move that fast, but yeah, pretty much like the garden snails that’re on the sidewalks right after it rains. In fact, that might be where they get them.” He smiled impishly at my horrified expression, and I tried to figure out whether he was kidding. Did it even matter?

“Well, that sounds delightful,” I said, sarcastically, highly skeptical I could stomach even one without gagging. Josh continued to grin at me like he was having the time of his life torturing me and my sensitive palate.

I decided I could close my eyes and convince myself it was something else, so I agreed to try one. I’d planned to go back to my hotel at some point to change for dinner, but we’d kept going from one place to the next, and I hadn’t had a chance. I was glad I’d chosen a dress that morning. Even though it was just a long T-shirt, it actually was nice enough to wear out to dinner.

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