Conquering Vertigo

Yap le boom!

Just returned from two weeks in Europe. I haven't blogged in three months, and there is so much to tell, including my grandmother's death, about which I am still in deep grief.

So, let me tell the happy European Vacation "making the waiter blush" story.

Dateline: Paris, France, early February:

Ambience: Cold, sunny day, in the 6th Arrondissement, Rive Gauche, narrow cobblestone streets, the groaning stones of two thousand years plus of civilization leaning all around us.

We'd been at the Cluny museum and were heading towards the new Orsay museum, and Zut! were we hungry. Walking down the Rue des Saints-Peres, we spied a clutch of cafes. We had passed innumerable cafes and brasseries, but one of these seemed particularly inviting for lunch.

First, people were crowded around the sidewalk tables, laughing, drinking wine, working at laptops (many of them MacBooks, hooray!) -- always a happy sight. (The French pronounce wi-fi as "wee-fee" which charms me to no end.) Second, the inside looked equally convivial. Third, it reeked of a neighborhood hangout, not a touristy place -- so, real food for a decent price.

We ducked in and yes, everything we hoped for was true. After a brief wait, we were seated and served. Richard ordered a Croque Monsieur that bears no resemblance to the American fakes foisted evilly upon the unsuspecting US masses, and a frothy, wheaty ale drawn on tap. Robin had the veggie quiche of the day with fresh micro-greens and hot tea. Manna in the form of the Bread of the Gods (I'll write the French Bread of Life post later) and jazz music accompanied the simple, delicious meal.

While basking in the happiness and discussing our next stop (the gorgeous museum at the former Gare d'Orsay), we realized the chalk board on our left wasn't what -- at only a quick glance -- it might appear to be. In somewhat formatted handwriting there was a list of headings: Lundi, Mardi, etc., with brief descriptions following in a scrawled chalk-writing. But it wasn't the specials of the day, it was a narrative of riotous living.

We were able (particularly Richard, who is quite fluent in French) to decipher the slang-ish descriptions of too much drinking, hang-overs, the embarrassment of no money and the need to hide at home, etc. But the last two entries for Saturday and Sunday eluded even The Man. "Yap le boom!" it read for Saturday, and then again for Dimanche.

After counting out our Euros (and Robin's second visit to the WC, which we'll discuss in our forth-coming monograph on French Toilets), we prepared to depart. Richard called out with a musical parting in French, and I lingered at the beaten metal (copper, possibly, or zinc) bar. My spoken French had advanced to the point that this conversation was conducted in basic French. With brief exceptions, I render it in English as follows:

Robin: Thank you sir, and a question if you have time, thank you very much. (The waiter was ringing up a bar customer while saying good-bye to us)

Waiter: (A compact, rather handsome young man who seemed to love his job) Thank you for your patronage, Monsieur and Madame. But of course, Madame, what may I answer for you this afternoon?

Robin: We understand the chalkboard above our table except for the descriptions regarding Saturday and Sunday. If you please, what does it mean, 'Yap le boom?'

Waiter: (Thrown into great confusion, much blushing, while the bar customer bows his head in a newspaper and starts laughing.) Oh, ah, Zut!, ah, I ah, well, uh...

Robin: (Watches quietly, wondering if she should blush or go get Richard and let this translate mano-y-mano.)

Customer: (Playing with a coin) Five Euros ... indecipherable ... the lady.

Waiter: (More blushing and ignoring the customer) Well, ah, no, yes, ah...

Robin: (Inspired) A possible understanding of "Le Bons Temps..."

Customer: (Much laughter and nodding of the head)

Waiter: Yes, very true Madame, the very good times!

I walked out to Richard, who had been following the exchange via semaphore through the glass windows. "Did he tell you what it means?" he asked, amused.

"Not really, lots of blushing and stammering, finally an agreement of le bons temps..."

"Do you know you're blushing, too?"

"I'm sure I am! Look, when a Frenchman blushes, you know something's up!"

We still don't know what it means, but I have suspicions.

posted by Woman In Love @ 3:50 PM