SCENE ONE. (Wednesday evening, 19h00. Lights fade up on A Certain Journalist, who is sweeping the floor, down left. Patrick and The American Demi-Cook, both clad in aprons, are standing around the bar, stage right. A bottle of Chardonnay, half-full, sits on the bar, surrounded by three full glasses. Every now and then A Certain Journalist crosses to take an anxious sip from hers, which Patrick refills immediately after, each time. The kitchen, up-center-left, is separated from the restaurant by a steamy window and a saloon-style door. We can hear, softly, the sound of food simmering on the stove from within.)

It’s a charming little place, La Sauterelle. In a charming little workaday neighborhood up in the 18th, on rue Montcalm, between Jules Joffrin and Porte de Clignancourt. All faux finishes and mood lighting and mismatched furniture and antique lamps and old photos and etched wine carafes and a map of the Parisian Métro, circa 1948. Done up traditional-style without playing at it. . . though there’s something playful about La Sauterelle all the same. As in play-ful. As in when you’re there, right there, in there, right there inside La Sauterelle, whether at the bar (stage right), or at one of the tables along the wall (stage left), or in the cubbyhole of a kitchen (up-center-left), you feel like you’re in a play. You are in a play. As in the theatre. As in high drama and high kicks and laughs and slapstick.

And stage fright.

Patrick (slowly rolling his last cigarette before opening time at 20h00): There is no need to be nervous, Caro-leen. You must remember if it is hell tonight, it will be hell only for a couple of hours.

The American (raising his glass): Yeah, don’t worry. He hardly ever throws any plates when it’s someone’s first shift. (He finishes his wine, sets the glass down and disappears into the kitchen.)

Patrick (calling over his shoulder): It happened only one time. And Princesse Sondra – the last waitress –that evening made four mistakes.

The American (reappears with a basket of cutlery): Boy, I remember those beautiful gambas sailing through the air in slow motion. The arc was perfect. (He hands the basket over to A Certain Journalist, center.) They landed behind the bar. A beautiful presentation.

A Certain Journalist (to herself): Oh god. (Starts setting the tables, clumsily.) What happens if I only make three mistakes?

It was the cork that had her worried. Last night’s cork. Last night’s cork that ripped in half. Last night’s cork from last night’s bottle of wine that she served at last night’s dinner, last night at home. Last night was, after all, like any other night. And like last night, like any other night, she was charged with uncorking the wine. She had done it hundreds – hell, thousands – of times. It was one of the things that she had been properly taught to properly do when she was properly partying in Paris. When it came to uncorking wine she was, properly put, purely and positively proper.

Probably a fateful omen. Last night’s cork ripping in half probably signified something, something significant, something tragic, something dark and ugly and bleak. Some impending significant doom. Because here, at La Sauterelle, she would have an audience. A Parisian audience. A whole restaurant’s worth of Parisians who loved and ate and knew about wine and food and cuisine and gastronomie and the whole bit. And because Patrick, the patron, the boss, the chef, the chief cook and dishwasher and bottle-washer, too, had learned his métier at The Ritz. The Ritz as in Le Ritz – you know the one. And at The Ritz, pardon, Le Ritz, you see, corks just didn’t rip in half. At The Ritz, pardon, excusez-moi, Le Ritz, you see, this quite simply just wasn’t done.

So it was a damn good thing this wasn’t The Ritz. It was a good thing it was La Sauterelle. But still. And it was a good thing that this whole uncorking/cork-ripping exercise was just practice, when you thought about it, that there had been no big Parisian audience, aside from a certain Frenchman, that a certain journalist had done this at home. It was a good thing that, last night, she had decided to stay in, that her personal bar was well-stocked. And that two, three, five, well seven bottles later, she had this uncorking thing down in a snap. A sort-of snap. Or a pop. A sort-of pop. But definitely not a rip. Sort of.

But still. . .

She had been a waitress once before, you know. Another time, another continent, another town. A bar for frat boys and tanned girls and cheerleaders and jocks. It was the Nineties. She was the alterna-chick. The alterna-waitress. As in when no one could find a real waitress, they came to her, as an alternative. She slung beer. As in she spilled beer. She spilled beer on the bar and on the floor and on the clients, too. She mixed T&V’s. She spilled lots of gin. On the bar and on the floor and on the clients, too. She poured lots and lots of cranberry juice into lots and lots of vodka. She cleared all of the tables of all of the empties before they were really empty, before they could be held at interesting angles by people in interesting positions to make interesting shattering sounds when cracked, interestingly enough, over someone’s head. The bouncers were boxers. It was a helluva party. But no one ever ordered food. And especially no one ever ordered cuisine. And no one gave a damn about gastronomie. And no one – no one – ever ordered wine.

So when Patrick – originally from Normandy and formerly of The Ritz, pardon, Le Ritz and now, for the last eight years or so, the patron of his own 22-seat establishment, as well as the boss, the chef, the chief cook and dishwasher and bottle-washer, too – called to inquire about a certain journalist’s disponibilité for the following night, said journalist decided it was time to get to work. Or at least practice getting to work. A whole twenty-four hours early.

He said he needed an extra hand, Patrick, but what he really needed was an extra leg. Or a new one, a new left one, one that went from the mid-thigh on down. One that complemented the perfectly good one he had on the right. The victim of an illness, you see, an illness he managed to fend off for a good couple decades before it got him, Patrick had spent the last two years or so suffering the adjustments and modifications and testing and tweaking and prodding and poking that accompanies being the proud owner of a prosthetic leg. In a country that had spent centuries at war, wars in which hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands and millions and billions of men lost arms and legs and toes and teeth and fingers and various other extremities, in a country famously celebrated for its famous healthcare system, a famous healthcare system one would expect to be not only famously proficient at, but damn near famously perfect at, the adjusting and modifying and testing and tweaking of prosthetics, the doctors can’t seem to get it right. The adjustments and modifications and tweakings and tests on Patrick’s prosthetic leg, that is. It really sucks. And so, on some days, on some good days, on some good days when the painkillers actually work and therefore the leg does, too, Patrick assumes his duties not only as patron and boss and chef and chief cook and dishwasher and bottle-washer, too, he’s also head barkeep and server. And there are some other days, some other bad days, some other bad days when the painkillers don’t do a thing and therefore the leg doesn’t do much, either, he needs an extra hand. And an extra set of legs.

La Sauterelle. Means “grasshopper” in French. Don’t worry – Patrick has already beaten you to the irony.

SCENE TWO. (Wednesday evening, 22h00. The restaurant is at half-capacity. We hear soft piano music playing in the background. There is a rowdy table of four well-dressed businessmen seated at the table at the foot of the bar, down right. A quartet of giggly young women are seated directly across from them, down left. It’s clear that the businessmen are trying to get the girls’ attention, and as the lights are fading up one of the men crosses to their table and squeezes onto the banquette that stretches along the wall to sit beside one of the women. A silent couple sits directly beside them, the man hunched solemnly over his meal, the woman tall and regal as she cuts her meat between throwing disapproving glances at her neighbors. Another couple is seated directly under the kitchen window, up left. The man signals to A Certain Journalist for wine and then gets up to sit beside his date, also on the banquette. They kiss. We can see Patrick and The American in the background, up-center-left, working in the kitchen. A Certain Journalist is behind the bar, nervously attending to the wine. She pokes it with the corkscrew, reconsiders, pokes it harder, twists, stops, twists some more, stops again, reconsiders again, untwists, recommences, stops, looks around guiltily, takes the bottle off the bar and turns her back to the clientele, sticks the bottle between her knees and begins yanking. Not entirely succeeding, she stashes the bottle under the bar and tiptoes into the kitchen. She reappears with Patrick in tow. He stops in the kitchen doorway and uses his apron to mop his brow.)

There is a type of Frenchman, a certain type of Frenchman of a certain type of mind at a certain type of time that certainly almost always compares certainly almost everything to making love. And on almost certainly all of these occasions, all one can do is stand back or stand aside or stand up straight or sit up straight, uncertainly. In some cases, one may lay back and think of England. But no matter the position, one just has to take it and let your Frenchman finish. Otherwise, on certainly almost all of these occasions, one is, as they say, screwed.

Can you guess where this is going?

Patrick (retrieving the hidden bottle from underneath the bar): Timidity is très mignonne, Caro-leen, but too much timidity is not very interesting.

A Certain Journalist (nodding, standing up straight, standing back, standing aside): Oh yes, I agree. Certainly.

Patrick (slams the bottle down on the bar, untwists the corkscrew that’s still stuck in the top): You must be bold!

A Certain Journalist: Bold!

Patrick (reinserts the corkscrew): And forceful!

A Certain Journalist (shakes her fist): Forceful!

Patrick: But at the same time, très délicat. (He begins slowly twisting the corkscrew.)

A Certain Journalist: Oh yes. Yes, of course. That’s really my favorite. . . I mean my preferred. . . I mean I like it like. . . I mean it’s the best way. Certainly.

Patrick: You must be gentle. . .

A Certain Journalist: Oh yes. . .

Patrick: And patient. . .

A Certain Journalist: Mmmm-hmmmmm. . .

Patrick: And then when you wrap your hand around it. . .

A Certain Journalist: Oh yeah. . .

Patrick: . . . like this. . .

A Certain Journalist: Oh! Yeah. . .

Patrick: You must be firm. . .

A Certain Journalist: Oh, I like it firm. . .

Patrick: That way you will feel that little spot. . .

A Certain Journalist: Oh, that little spot. . . I love that little spot!

Patrick: And then you give just a little tug. . .

A Certain Journalist (breathless): Yeah?

Patrick: Oui. And then. . .

A Certain Journalist: And then. . .

Patrick: And then. . .

A Certain Journalist: And then. . .!

Patrick: And then. . .

A Certain Journalist (slams her fists on the bar): Oh My God!!

(Cue popping sound.)

Oh, my. . . and then there’s the food.

There’s a dirty little secret about Paris. Not a sexy one, not a sensational one, not a sordid one, not a salacious one. . . not even a naughty one. A dirty one – one that Parisians and non-Parisians and locals and non-locals and tourists and non-tourists don’t really want getting out. In Paris, you see, Mecca of food and gastronomie and cuisine, there are a lot of bad restaurants. In Paris, a lot of the restaurants just aren’t up to snuff. In Paris, you can pay a lot of money for not a lot of food, or a lot of money for a lot of bad food, or a lot of money for food that’s not really very good, or average, or just plain rotten. Or just plain. The consistency lies in the price. And in the choice. Or lack thereof. Just can’t get enough of pavé de rumsteack à la sauce au poivre ? No worries – you’ll find plenty of that here. Restaurants-full of it. Streetsful of restaurants full of it. In the winter and the summer and the fall and springtime, too. Same goes for salade au chèvre chaud. And salade Nordique. And salade Niçoise. And soupe à l’oignon, and gratin Dauphinoise and cassoulet and poulet confit and canard confit and escargots and entrecôte and tartare de saumon and tartare de boeuf and terrine and foie gras and. . . and. . . You get the idea.

So it’s kinda new, kinda nouveau, and kinda sexy, even, when you find a place like La Sauterelle where the food has real distinction and the prices feel like a distinct deal, too. There’s something to be said for the ol’ bang for the buck, the ol’ rapport qualité/prix. And for a joint where the patron, the boss, the chef, the chief cook and dishwasher and bottle-washer, too, chooses to change it up to adhere to what’s in season. Or to do things, as they say, à sa sauce. In his own particular way.

SCENE THREE. (Thursday morning, 12h30. The customers are gone. Dirty glasses are lined up on the bar. The tables have been cleared, save for the one at which Patrick and A Certain Journalist are seated, down left. The American enters via the kitchen, carrying three plates, which he sets down on the table.)

The American: How’d it go tonight, Patrick, even if we weren’t full?

Patrick (breaking off a bit of baguette, yet shrugging): Not bad. The clientele ordered a lot of wine.

A Certain Journalist: (Standing, not thinking of England.) Tell me about it. (Corkscrew in hand, she reaches for the Gaillac that’s on the table, slowly strips it of its foil, pierces the cork boldly, then delicately begins twisting. She gently sets the bottle back down, strokes it, gathers a firm grip around its neck and lifts the lever. Cue popping sound.)

The American (sitting): I don’t know if you noticed, but when they ordered the rognons, I put some champignons on the side. Thought it’d give them a bit of choice.

Patrick (pausing diplomatically; then points with fork): This is acceptable, but you must remember one very important thing. Be careful about giving people a choice. When you give people too much choice, you give the world la merde.