That is what Gaston, the fictional thwarted suitor-turned villain from the Disney version of Beauty & the Beast ate every morning. Raw eggs. Apparently, doing so kept him ‘the size of a barge’.

And today, I had my first raw egg. I don’t think it’s at all due to a seemingly-French influence, even though as I gulped it down with some pomegranate juice I thought of the offensive lothario. Mind you, I made sure it was a “bio” egg which means it was organic, and very unlikely to contain any harmful salmonella. It wasn’t so bad, and as I’ve read, it’s quite good for the health. I crunched away the egg-y taste with some bio coconut chunks. Overall a really weird breakfast, even by my standards, but it has served me well!

Anyway, I just wanted to make note of that. I’ve lived to tell the tale.

(Wait a second…. I’ve had raw eggs before! I love egg nog! That stuff’s loaded! And cocktails, too! Okay, never mind. But still, this seemed worse.)

Other amusements of late…

In a largely Wifi-absent state, I’ve had to resort to other means of last-minute diversions. This, when paired with a dying cell phone, makes planning an evening truly interesting!

These circumstances led to my recent visit to La Fidélité, which is a restaurant with an underground dance club on weekends. It’s in the 10th near Gare de l’Est, which is not really all that nice of an area. Which is not to say that it isn’t safe per se, but more like one can’t walk along Magenta very far without eliciting strange, undecipherable sounds from passersby. Regardless, the restaurant is really quite elegant, which doesn’t match the neon pink vertical sign out front, which I had somehow missed the first time I walked by. Classic French with high ceilings. Down below the Dj was playing fun dance music, mostly American standards from the ’80s, but the stuff adults were listening to, like Phil Collins in his angry years. (Which is an assumption, because I’m sure it was from before I was born). That and some “Frenchie” songs that everyone knows the words to.

I was meeting my friend Segolene there whose friend was Djing that night. At least that’s what I took “ma copine mixe ce soir” to mean. Due to my phone failure, I never ended up finding Segolene and the mixing mistress didn’t seem to know her. But, no matter.

Anyway, the crowd was an interesting mix of guys with Mr. T mohawks, girls with short hair and lots of eyeliner, and older men with aging women. (That is a strange statement: why are men ‘older’ and women are ‘aging’? I don’t know, but that’s the best way of describing them. How about, wizened old men and their gal pals?)

These danced and sipped their demi-litres of beer and I made a new friend who spoke not only French and perfect English, but also Italian, Spanish and (I’ll take his word for it) Japanese and Chinese. (Perhaps more, but I wasn’t taking inventory). He confirmed that most of the best Japanese restaurants in Paris are near the rue Ste. Anne and that even there one has to watch out for inauthentic fare prepared by enterprising Chinese. He said a simple “konnichiwa” upon entry is usually sufficient to ascertain the type of establishment one is dealing with. If looks of confusion (who doesn’t know “konnichiwa”?) answer your greeting, it’s best to move along!

From there I took to the streets (taxis having gone on strike) toward that very street (rue Ste. Anne) to join a birthday celebration held at a converted art gallery. I was surprised to find so many people I knew and to be greeted in such a genial fashion – kiss kiss, Salut, Ça va?

Later, outside on the curb waiting for a taxi I met a young man with a propensity for cheeky winks who reports the tennis news on channel 17 or 18 (depending on your TV, I guess). He definitely looked like a TV presenter with his olive skin and nice white teeth, though I think when he put on his glasses he looked like Clark Kent. He was such a comic-book character that I couldn’t take him seriously at all. Actually, he could have been Gaston on a pared-down 2 dozen diet, but pre-angry mob-leading days.

Anyway, later, after  having left the birthday party for a more subdued affair, I met the TV reporter/James France-lookalike again just as the party was being overwhelmed with unwelcome crashers. As part of the crashing rabble, he decided to leave and joined me in search of taxis. The Marais after certain hours can be quite deserted, but thankfully, after 3 unavailable taxis passed (He said we were “hoping for a taxing, not waiting. Did [I] see the difference?”) my optimism came true and an illuminated chariot arrived!

*By the way, this fabulous Alain Delon mirror is in the toilette at Merce & the Muse, just above the sink. It’s a great little café and the bathroom was quite the fascination!

**There is absolutely no point to this post, but some of you have asked for updates, and so this is what I can offer without revealing too much of the innocent nameless.