Cafe L'Embuscade

"Fill me up Kronenbourg, fill me up gin!
Line my stomach with yeast and don't let me in
When I pound on the door demanding another;
I do not mean to upset my mother.
She thinks I drink too much already,
It's true I do like to pound them steady . . ."

This is the genius that comes when I write at the Cafe L'Embuscade (that's sarcasm by the way; I know it doesn't always translate it France). It is a small cafe right below our apartment, 111 Boulevard Richard Lenoir. Its proximity makes it convenient in a number of ways, mostly in that we don't have to worry about getting home before the metros close (which can really suck when you're in Montmartre . . . and you don't have money for a taxi . . . and it's a 45 minute walk home . . . and shady drunk men like to approach you in the street). But moving right along, we've discovered that it seems to be open at all sorts of convenient times, like when we leave in the morning for class, when we stop for a drink before we go out, and when we stop for a drink after we go out. From the very beginning, Corinne and I earmarked it as a place to become regulars. Fortunately, this is a goal we were very quick in achieving.

So one night after a couple of us had celebrated the sunset with a bottle of wine (because really, every Paris sunset over the Seine warrants such celebration) Corinne and I decide to head to the cafe. Our intentions were noble. The plan was to go there with our laptops, have a beer or two, and either blog or write some poetry. I had barely asked the bartender for the WiFi code when two slightly older and very well dressed men approached us. They introduced themselves as Simon (See-mon) and Adrien and ask what we were doing. When we explain that we're here for the month studying poetry, they of course get very excited. This is followed by the customary Baudelaire-Rimbaud-Apollonaire name dropping. Eventually our talk moves on to soccer, tattoos, and St. Louis, Missouri - nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

It was a little while before I notice that these men have positioned themselves very strategically. See-mon is leaning over Corinne, deeply engaged in conversation with her, leaving Adrien sitting sort of dangerously close to me. So I try to make small talk, something I'm typically very bad at to begin with. I find out he's a teacher of literature in what is the equivalent of an American high school. I tell him that starting in June, I'll be teaching the exact same subject in Detroit, Michigan. I ask both men if they have ever heard of Detroit. They give the same "oh shit" reaction that I get from Americans when I tell them I'm moving there. "Have you been?" I ask See-mon and Adrien. "No, but we've seen it in the movies." Corinne and I look at each other. "Like 8 Mile, right?" Neither of the men seem to understand. "How does that translate in French?" I ask Corinne. "Huit . . . kilometer?" Blank stares. "Never mind."

The next time I look over, See-mon is holding Corinne's hand. I sigh. The thing is that See-mon's a charmer and Adrien is well . . . not. See-mon has tickets to the opera. He's going on a business trip to the Alps this weekend. He knows where we can find absinthe. Adrien and I should get along spectacularly. But when he asks me if he can hold my hand too, I'm not particularly thrilled. I excuse myself to go the bathroom.

When I return, Corinne and See-mon are . . . pre-occupied. Adrien is still trying to get my attention. I decide that I need another drink. Adrien offers to buy me wine. I tell him that I prefer beer. He gives me a look, and asks, no, almost begs to buy me wine instead. I tell him that I like the Grimbergen. "What's wrong with beer?" I ask. "Nothing," he says hesitantly. "It's just that the girls who drink beer are . . ." He pauses. I give him a steely look. "What's wrong with girls that drink beer?" He backs down. "Nothing," he finally replies.

Did I mention that "L'Embuscade" translates into "the ambush"?

There is no better time to make friends with the bartender, who knows my face but not my name. He introduces himself as Salma and tells me he is from Algeria. He doesn't speak English very well, but he has a friendly smile and he plays Janis Joplin. When Adrien steps out for a cigarette, I tell him, "Salma, I don't know what to do with this guy. I don't like him." When I ask if they come to the cafe often, he says yes and that they are good people. It didn't occur to me that there might already be "regulars" at this place. But Salma turns to me and says that if they give us a problem, we should let him know. I say "merci beaucoup" as warmly as I know how to, and as I have done every time, give him a 50 cent coin as a tip for my drink.

It is at this point that Adrien returns. He asks me why I have given the barteder a tip, especially when this is not something "we do" in Paris. I won't go into details, but at this point we get into a debate about the custom of tipping, how I think every person in a service position deserves a tip, how I used to be a waitress and I lived on tips, etc. We get to a point where Adrien becomes the translator between me and the bartender. I learn that Salma uses his tip money to buy cigarettes. Salma learns that Janis Joplin is one of my favorite singers. And Adrien finally learns that I am not interested, and disappears.

Salma and I continue our conversation. He lets me come behind the bar and put on the Beatles' "Twist and Shout." We talk about our favorite American bands. He tells me that his favorite is Led Zeppelin, and since I'm three beers in by this point, I get way more excited about this then I should be. I ask him if he likes Jacques Brel, although it takes a while, because he thinks I keep saying "Jackie Brown." When I finally get the message across, he looks at me with a sort of reverence. "Jacques Brel, I love" he says.

Corinne tells me she's ready to leave. Her and Simon exchange phone numbers. I tell Salma we'll see him soon, probably tomorrow. And it's not until we get to the apartment that I realize what a good night we've had.