I have no profound objection to Starbucks. I’d say that I split my latte business evenly between the various providers in Madison. But here?? Starbucks was born out of one person’s travels to Italy and his inspired insight that the Italian coffee culture could burgeon in the US, but the coffee chain never did set up shop in Italy. [Nor in Poland for that matter, but there, I think the rejection came from Starbucks rather than from the imitate-all-things-American nouveau-riche of Poland.] To find Starbucks in Paris, though, is a shocker. And it doesn't help that my search on the Net revealed three other Starbucks coffee shops in the French capital. Can we just let it stop right there, please?

As midnight approaches

I’m eating dinner late, at my same old place. I like it here. Why? It’s all about the waiters. No no, don’t get me wrong, they’re not hot or anything, they’re just so fast and professional. They make the entire dining experience a tour de force indeed. I choose the smoking section which has 100% French customers, as opposed to the ugly upstairs non-smoking rooms which are filled with 100% foreigners. The waiters (therefore) assume I am French. Everyone else does as well.

Madame et monsieur are at the table next to mine (oh so close – you know how it is: one big comfy couch for the ladies, then chairs opposite small tables for the men). Madame is eyeing my dessert. She throws one glance, then another, then another. Finally she can’t stand it and asks what I am eating. You know what she really can’t stand? Monsieur’s monologue about the reasons behind the falling dollar. We talk about the loveliness of serving warm winter fruits with a delicate sorbet. Monsieur does not like this. He has lost Madame’s attention. He coaxes her to try a more intricate chocolate dessert. She hesitates. The waiter comes. She gives a wisp of a smile and says: I will have what madame is having at the table next to mine. I leave before Monsieur shoots me or slashes my throat with a bread knife. But damn, I feel French! Stripped of Polishness & Americanisms for a brief minute, I am stateless, nationless, I am nothing. I may as well be French.