Wren stands in front of the menu for what feels like twenty minutes. Like the tourists (though she isn’t one) that do the same, she is hoping that something will magically appear that actually strikes her fancy. Regrettably, not only do none of the items “speak” to her, but they also happen to be predictably overpriced. For example, the cost of a standard-issue margherita? Seventeen euros. Except it won’t even be a margherita—it will be a French “interpretation” of one. Which effectively means a cheese pizza. So yes, Wren had been staring at the options for a while, willing something better to appear. But there was no such sorcery to be had. 

Her eyes lingered on the dessert and coffee sections, figuring she could turn to that if absolutely necessary. As it turned out, it would be. Because upon enough reflection, Wren realized there was nowhere else she could bring herself to go. She didn’t want to keep searching. She had already spent the past half hour traipsing up and down the boulevard looking for an establishment that might be “just right.” She was the Goldilocks of Parisian cafés. And nothing was ever going to be a “perfect fit.” At best, she could hope for a so-called fit that didn’t make her vomit. Like, literally—from all the cigarette smoke. French people—and most Europeans, for that matter—still simply loved to smoke like it was the 1950s. That was the one thing she did miss about America: “sanitary” air (minus the barrage of vehicular and chemical pollution). 

But there was no avoiding a film of smoke wherever you went. To try to do so would be as inane as fighting capitalism. So she sat down. That is, after the server (who was also seemingly the proprietor) made sure Wren was aware that they weren’t serving dinner a.k.a. “real food” for another hour. Wren assured the woman that was just fine, because all she wanted was a coffee and a tiramisu anyway. She had made her contingency plan after enough time staring at the menu. After all, if you can’t live on dessert “in a pinch,” what kind of decadent diva are you? Marie Antoinette understood.

In reply to Wren’s order, the woman remarked, “Such a gourmand”—a startling response as far as Wren was concerned. For she had ordered this combination countless times in countless places, and never had anyone so much as batted an eyelash, let alone made such a glib yet filled-with-meaning comment about it. Wren might have been irked by the remark were she not rather proud of being assessed as such. Especially considering her eternally low budget. It wasn’t exactly like she could afford to order the Hemingway steak from La Closerie des Lilas. So to be appraised as someone with discerning, high-quality taste came as a great compliment to Wren, who had been feeling the antithesis of chic ever since setting (a bumbling) foot in Paris. Unless, of course, this woman was just being sarcastic—actually mocking her for her gauche taste. No, worse than gauche: pedestrian. 

But she couldn’t have been worse than the Americans who showed up expecting to have ready access to any meal they wanted, only to be told that it was just drinks or dessert until the kitchen officially opened again at seven. This kind of “limiting” schedule always discombobulated les américains, so accustomed were they to always getting what they wanted—whenever they wanted. In order to do that with food in this town, however, one had to settle for a 7/7 restaurant (for the unversed, that means open all day [within reason], every day). A type of establishment that usually served inferior cuisine. The only thing more “desperate,” as far as Wren was concerned, was eating at a tabac. Something that might be more “authentic,” in its way, but didn’t suit her particular tastes. As it surely wouldn’t the uppity couple that walked into the outdoor area of the restaurant, which was called Apex, right after Wren sat down. They had already looked reluctant in the first place, shrugging at the sight of the menu before traipsing in like they owned the joint. That was the way of les américains. Wren blamed it on the colonial nature of their British forebears, who had likewise traipsed into the United States to create this mutant breed of themselves. 

When the “pants-wearing” woman of the couple, a wispy thing with frizzy blonde hair, declared that they wanted to be seated for dinner, the server/proprietor informed her of the same little detail she had unapologetically announced to Wren. The blonde wisp immediately turned her nose up at the very notion, then answered, “Sorry we can’t wait that long.” As though the proprietor actually gave a shit. As though she were actually “crushed” that they weren’t going to stay. But no, in fact, she was likely fucking relieved. One less pair of fucking fastidious freakshows to feign “catering to.” Not that the French ever feigned catering to anyone. 

This was why, the more Wren thought about it, the more she realized that the woman probably hadn’t called her a “gourmand” in the complimentary sense of the word, but rather, in the sense that meant full-stop “a person who enjoys eating large amounts of food.” As opposed to the more flattering definition that “implies being a connoisseur in food and drink and the discriminating enjoyment of them.” Instead, this woman clearly saw her as the grotesque kind of gourmand: “one who is excessively fond of eating and drinking.” But, in truth, all Wren had wanted was a place to sit down that didn’t seem too bothersome in terms of vibe and clientele. 

Alas, how could this woman see Wren as anything else, knowing instinctively that she was an American, therefore a perennial visitor. Even if she liked to believe she lived there, they would never really consider her a true resident. Just a fat fuck “politely” called out as a gourmand. A word designed to throw shade as only the French can.