I write this sitting alone on a curved banquette at Le Valois, a classic dark wood-panelled brasserie in the eighth arrondissement. I am facing the entrance, though I can’t quite see Parc Monceau from this angle. At a quarter after ten, most of the tables are still set in white paper for dinner, though small round café tables are bare except for votive candles. I am sitting at one of these, which has been helpfully balancing a flute of champagne, a ramekin of crème brûlée and my computer for the past fifteen minutes. Ordinarily I am not in the habit of writing by candlelight amid extreme decadence such as this, though perhaps I should! As it happens, this fine place is the closest location I have found with free – unlimited even – WiFi in my neighborhood. That is, after my own room. As I am here, slightly spruced up, I thought I might expand upon my usual thé vert à la menthe, and what could I drink with my crème brûlée other than exactly what the kind waiter has suggested? Jazz music is playing lightly in the background, the kind that is reminiscent of film noir and something vaguely Italian. There are actually several parties still dining, though I think for the most part they are chatting familiarly over finished plates and coffee. I am here now, at this hour, because there is no point in my being in Paris unless I am out in it. Paris is the light which makes daily fumbling blindly through the darkness worthwhile. Were Paris any less of a magnificent city, I would have left it long ago. But it is an ever-rewarding place, and for this I am still here to tell about it!

A few weeks ago I watched a Bernardo Bertolucci film which took place largely in a Parisian apartment. The only clue to the apartment’s real whereabouts was the café just in front, and I memorized the name of it so I could look it up later and perhaps pay it a visit. I remember looking for it haphazardly with the sixth arrondissement as a search parameter and finding nothing. The name of the café had something to do with a French royal lineage and it figured a bit overmuch in my search to yield any conclusive results.

A few days ago, while walking home along Boulevard Haussmann, I passed a street called rue d’Anjou and it reminded me of the film and the royal name. Wasn’t the Duke d’Ajou the name of a prince? I decided to cut through a neighborhood to cross through the park. In so doing, I passed a café, also with a royal name, only this time it was exactly the name of the café in the film, Le Valois. Well, I hadn’t time to stop, but I decided I must return to investigate. I took a picture, and tried to visualize it from the street, as it would have appeared in the film. It seemed similar, but as it is directly in front of the entrance to Parc Monceau, I couldn’t be sure, as the park never appeared in the film.

Well, this morning I stole away for a few hours, and brought some papers from my visit to the Gagosian with me to review. I crossed the park and there, as I had left it, was Le Valois. In the interim I hadn’t found any confirmation that this was the Valois from the film, but it was classic and elegant and perfect. Besides, it was part of history – the sign out front stated that had been running since 1868, one hundred years exactly before the date the fictional film was set. I sat at a table inside by the window and ordered a thé des tsarines, which not only had a fantastic name but it was some sort of green tea with orange accents. (My new favorite, one I’d never heard of before!)

I must finished this story now as I am running out of battery, but suffice to say, that this is indeed the place where the film was set and in fact, there is a scene in the movie where the lead characters dine here! (I’ll have to watch it again).

So, with its history and cinematic past, its glorious tea and free Wifi, and the waitress with pale blue eyeshadow and the waiter who plays tricks, it is really my new love!