Mom Says:
Imagine if you will, a romantic evening, cold and crisp but with a sparse showing of stars. Imagine further a sandstone façade on le Rue de Berri, in the 8th arrondissement of Paris.
A silver BMW pulls up to the door, and a portly portier in a plain black uniform hurries to the car to open the back door. Springing from the back seat, an expensively fluffy grey Persian cat alights on the sidewalk as lightly as a ballerina, quickly followed by the dark, feline, masculine grace of her black shadow, a svelte cat born to the tuxedo fur he lives in. The portier bows microscopically to show his respect for such a sophisticated aura that the couple emits as they pass him, so much surpassing that attempted by most of the human people guests of the 5-star restaurant. This is a man who has seen it all, and who knows when to be impressed.*
The cats’ paws barely hit the lobby’s immaculate parquet wood floor before the Clef d’Or Concierge smoothly speeds to their side.**
“Mademoiselle Quatre-Pattes, votre table, c’est ici…”
They follow him to a quaint little room papered in gold and decorated sparingly with Japonesque flower arrangements in black lacquer trays. A small round table, is draped in white (Egyptian) cotton, with two wide, high-pitched chairs.*** Unlike other tables the couple has passed, this table has no silverware, only napkins, plates, and glasses already set with “Les Straws Bendee.” The center of the table sports a pair of low white candles, and a red glass vase with a pair of pure white roses.
The felines leap to their seats and the Concierge pushes them close to the table.
The Persian asks, “Pourrions-nous avoir un garçon qui parle l'anglais?”
“Bien sur! N'importe quoi pour un de nos meilleurs clients!”
The big grey Persian batts her dark eyelashes. And purrs.
* That would be now.
** Concierges never “hurry.” What were you thinking?
*** NOT to be mistaken for highchairs, which are for human people children. Mais non!
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