You can find me at Silencio

Post misdirection on my way
to Chez Julien, in the Marais...

Last Thursday, I received my first dinner invitation in Paris.

I had plans in the Marais at eight with William, a French friend of my friend Peter from Ann Arbor. Pete had – completely unrequested – generously reached out to his Paris connections to show yours truly a lovely time in the City of Light. We met at Chez Julien on rue Louis-Philippe – one of the Marais’ most elegant restaurants on the Seine – most famous as a location for Carrie Bradshaw’s Parisian experience in the final season of Sex and the City (where she feeds her neighboring bulldog pastries). I had carefully planned the extensive métro route there, and yet, despite my efforts, was easily confused upon arrival by the maze of streets that compose Paris’ large 17^th century quartier. I hurried across Pont Marie, surrounded by urban homes built proudly under the ancien régime, including Église Saint Paul, where – a guide told me years ago – Louis XIV was baptized.  

William works in fashion PR – his clients include some significant luxury brands like the Row – and had studied a bit in the U.S., so breaking the ice was hardly an effort. After a glass of mild white wine at our breezy sidewalk table, we laughed about trashy American reality shows – a guilty pleasure for both of us – and how typically “Paree-jahn” the snobby hostess was, regardless of who approached the door or how impeccable the ensemble (such Parisians, I learned, do this to everyone). I also received an enthusiastic compliment on my French, satisfying a MUCH-needed vote of confidence from a chic native-speaker. From then on, decreasingly inhibited on my second verre of Bordeaux Graves, I played up my pronunciation, punctuating my English with French expressions and exaggerating the seductive lilt of street names and words we gabbed about: Boulevard Rochechouart…Rue Montorgeuil…brioche perdue (“lost bread” – what we call French toast). Aside from half-blushing as I ordered my lamb très bien cuit (definitely anxious about a plate of gushing animal fluid), I felt totally at ease.

It was amazing how connected I felt to France all of a sudden, how familiar and welcoming its entire capital had become after less than a week. The distance from home and initial hesitancy surrounding language and people drifted further away. The world seemed smaller talking to William in both English and French, realizing – arguments about cultural imperialism aside – how incredibly popular many American things are in this place so often scorned as anti-American. The likes of Nikki Minaj are often heard near the Eiffel Tower. Whitney Houston and Britney Spears blast on weekends from either a bar or an apartment party at the end of my street in Pigalle. As my friend Peter told me: “People love America in France.”

We switched continents for a bit and talked about French cinema, which I obviously adore.  It honestly hadn’t occurred to me that fabulous French actresses like Audrey Tautou and Marion Cotillard might not be popular in their homeland just by virtue of being French. As a foreigner in another powerful first-world nation, it’s surprisingly easy to slip into this kind of thinking. William looked slightly nauseous at the mention of Audrey Tautou.

“I AY-TED Amélie Poulain,” he said, swiftly condemning her debut film, beloved in high-school French classes across America, “Eet was rideeculous…”

I burst out laughing. No luck for Audrey Tautou. Coco Before Chanel just might have been better with someone else. And Marion Cotillard in La vie en rose? A long pause ensued…

  

“I was moved,” he began, “But she eez so orriball in interviews…”

We had better luck with our favorite designers. But the more we talked about Phoebe Philo, Riccardo Tisci, and Sarah Burton, the more I lamented having to miss the upcoming menswear shows while studying in Grenoble.

When I was certain the evening with my new French friend was over and William had more than done me a favor entertaining the American in Paris at a fancy dinner, he asked me what we were doing next. I heard “Silencio”, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Yes. Yes, I have heard of Silencio. And how are we getting in?”

Should you need an FYI, here’s a link to a New York Times review of the most exclusive club in Paris, and one of the best nightspots in the world:

The height of fashion, six floors under

William attended a work party the same night the review describes, and – as luck would have it – thus knew the door manager. The impossible was suddenly happening, and I descended a soundproof, floor-lit staircase to the glistening underground world that is Silencio. Many euros later, we were sipping devastatingly sublime house cocktails and listening to dance remixes I’d never heard before. Why don’t I have photos? They’re not allowed inside :)

I have only one ENORMOUS problem with all of this: How the hell am I supposed to go to Grenoble on Saturday? Life here is getting way too delicious to leave...