Parisian Dinner

The waiter in a black tailcoat carried an old metal dustpan, its red paint peeling away. Brasserie Lipp. Red, like a cold slice of meat still stained with blood.

A curly-haired Algerian twirled the strands of cabbage onto his fork. Beside it, a brownish-raspberry sausage lay on the plate. The dish of knuckle, cabbage, and sausage was at once repulsive and erotic. Like all things carnal.

The Americans arrived. A woolen white sweater, thick enough to conjure the wind-chapped underground of the New York subway.

Who were they?

Two men in jumpers—one with ruddy cheeks, a reddish beard, and barely visible freckles. The other with chestnut curls and publisher's glasses—thick lenses in a not-quite-stylish silver frame.

Across from them, an elderly couple.

The woman wore a white jacket. On the ring finger of her olive-veined, slender hand, a large black diamond sat in its setting. Her palm hung limply, like an unstable suspension bridge.

Thin, coral-pink slices of lightly salted salmon were brought to the table on a white plate—almost liquid, glistening with fat. Sour cream. Tiny, porous blini.

The woman spread the thick, white mass over a blini for her husband, and again, I saw the ring.

Black.

Black like my coffee.

Later, we went to Café de Flore, and I wished for him to have, in a single moment, a complete reunion with the collective unconscious of the great creators.

I wished for him to extract knowledge from that field—like sucking the sugary marrow from a bone.