le coq festif

What is about the French male species that, when examined as a lone specimen, represents the zenith of gentility, romance, and sophistication (wink, wink)... but when put in a group of 3 or more regresses into a bragging, bellowing, booze-imbibing homo erectus imbecillus?

As we prepared for a mini house-warming/apéro at our new digs last Saturday night, JB and I thoughtfully debated the merits of Porto versus chilled Muscat, lovingly compromised over a bag of French trail mix and petits fours for snacking, and contentedly unpackaged our new plates and crystal. While JB fastidiously wiped the virgin wares and arranged them on our bistrot table, I remarked on his new cologne, and he asked my opinion on the state of his shave.

Two by two, our guests arrived, gliding in and out of the bedroom, salon, and kitchen, cooing in sincere awe, not of the grandiosity of the apartment, but of the sizable gap in living conditions between our current nest and the hole we inhabited in the 13th! Collapsing on our newly mounted chairs and the couch - yes, we even have a couch, and this fact added to the general state of incredulity of our friends - each with a glass of appetite-inducing liquor, their smiling faces lit by flattering light radiating from bulbs attenuated by - get this - lamp shades, we fell into appropriate catch-up conversation.

I learned that an old friend of ours is now officially a divorce-ay, having signed the papers less than a week ago alongside his ex and soon-to-be baronne. François divulged his political stance on the headscarf issue - startlingly similar to mine - and the perilous state of secular governance in France and Europe, nay, the world today. Katia and I chatted about the possibility of going in on a sewing machine together to at last be able to create our dreamed-of curtains and skirts and tea-cozies.

Suddenly, Thomas broke into a rousing rendition of, "Allez, on se saoule, allez, allez!" and the hazy film of propriety and well-behaved civility was pierced indefinitely, to be progressively ripped to a mass of unrecognizable scraps before the night's end.

Flashforward to the Korean barbecue restaurant that we bombarded in the Bastille, 5 bottles of cheap wine and several rounds of sake later, and any semblance of refinement, even elementary table manners has disappeared to the point that our neighboring tables take turns gaping, laughing in disbelief or shaking their heads in repulsion. Oddly, though, while morsels of radish and beef carpaccio flew through the air and wine glass after wine glass spilled into the flaming grill, forcing the waitress to have to relight the pilot (against her better judgment, I'm sure), no one in the restaurant, staff included, deemed it worthwhile to make an admonishing remark, or at least a plea for the cessation of rugby songs. The only explanations I can offer for this silence are that the other diners were either a) too terrified to approach our table for fear of ending up covered with teriyaki sauce or b) struck with a minor case of the Stockholm syndrome.

Things really got out of hand when around 1am, JB started bobbing his head and outstretched arms, chanting "west coast is the best coast". François, taking up the challenge with glee, offered up an interpretation of Usher's "Yeah", all the while calling out for another round of sake, and pouring more salt on JB's left thigh, on or around the wine he let pour minutes before. The Dutch couple next to JB and J-M, who throughout the night mostly laughed wide-eyed at our shenanigans and never requested a change of seating, got up to leave when François intercepted them, booming, "Hey, you can't leave without taking a sake with us! Allez! To Holland!" Smiling stiffly, they squeaked out a meager thanks, but really no thanks and scurried toward the door, thanking the staff hurriedly and vanishing into the horde of passerbys on the rue de la Roquette. It occurred to me that we might be holding the entire restaurant hostage...

I won't go into what transpired when the desserts arrived. Suffice it to say, the next time any one of us has a hankering for Korean barbecue, we'll be heading to Montparnasse.