Something's Gotta Give

So why is a Jack Nicolson/Diane Keaton movie on a blog abou Paris?

There is a scene...in Paris...at a bistro to die for...with golden light and warm charm and steamy meals.You want to go there. And it's your turn to pick the restaurant. This is looking good. Your Stanford friend sends you a list of fine restaurants he got from another professor. This bistro is on the list. This is now looking fabulous. You look it up in your book of historic Paris bistros. It is there - and the review is fabulous. You look it up online. It still looks fabulous. Fabulous.

You ask your friend if she has seen "Something's Gotta Give." Nope. So you just don't mention that you want to go to a restaurant that was in a Hollywood movie that your Stanford friend recommended that was in a great Paris bistro book.

You ask the concierge to make reservations. He says, "So you are going looking for Jack, then?" You pretend you don't know what he's talking about. Because you are, of course, above going to a restaurant because it was in a movie. You are above thinking that you will see a typical bistro. You are above thinking that you will meet someone romantic there, too. You are not, by anyone's definition, Diane Keaton. Although you do have her glasses..

So you and your friend get all dressed up, because this is the place you plan to spend some serious money. You get in the cab. The cab driver, once again, has never heard of the restaurant or the street. What is it with you and Paris? No Cordon Bleu. No trendy bistro. He drives around aimlessly, eventually turning down a tiny street behind the gardens of the Palais Royale. There it is. Le Grand Colbert. Fabulous.

So here is your fabulous evening out at a Paris bistro.

1. They tarted the place up. There are theatre posters all over the place. It looks tacky.

2. There is a banquettte to your left that has a movie clap-board next to it. This is where they sat, making the movie. The seat is now occupied by, not Diane Keaton, but an 80-year-old tiny silver-haired French woman holding a tiny, yippy dog. She is wearing a silver fox jacket. She is the best-dressed person in the place.

3. People behind you are wearing jogging suits with the white stripe down the pants, or jeans and T-shirts, and generally looking K-Mart-ish.

4. The girls across from you are smoking. Heavily. This is bothering you. You want to go over to them and snatch their cigarettes and smoke them all yourself.

5. You order lamb because you adjore it. Upon arrival, it looks like an incinerated pack of playing cards.

6. Your friend orders "ragnon de veau." She knew it was some kind of veal. What kind is a mystery, as this is perhaps the foulest tasting thing you have ever had. Later, back home, while reading Julia Child's book, My Life In France, you realize that it wasn't "ragnon," but rather "rognon," which to your very great dismay is translated as kidney. Veal kidney.

So your Big Night was a bust. You feel terrible, as this choice was yours and neither you nor your friend had a good time. You both did get a good story to tell, though. And a great many laughs.

And to my friend: I am sorry I didn't tell you what I was up to. It just didn't seem important at the time. I hope your feelings were not hurt when you found out.

And here is the travel tip of the day: Skip Le Grand Colbert. Life is not like the movies, no matter how hard you try.