Best pick-up, pick-me-up line of the year. So far. French flirting is alive and thriving in Paris:
Bustling lunchtime. I'm having a noix d'entrecôte at Café Le Babylone, next to Le Bon Marché. I ask the young guy at the next table if he could pass me la moutarde, s'il vous plaît. Under a curly mop of hair, his glance softens, and with a genuine but soulful gaze as he locks onto my eyes, he replies in a deep trill, "Ah, I knew this would be my lucky day." Then bien sûr, his hand lingers on mine just that extra brief second as he hands me the pot de moutarde. His engaging smile polishes our little duet.
How can this be so enticing? Oh, but it is. And we're just talking about a flippin' mustard jar! I hate to say it, but if Joe American had tried to pull off a line like that, it would have been icky. Laughable. This Adonis is a Grand Flirt Master. I'd have fallen in his lap on the spot if he hadn't been about half my age.
"Merci," I whisper demurely. What happened to my voice?
Worst on-ne-se-verra-plus-I-think line of the year. Same week. French gallantry is dead... or comatose:
Michel (who is my age) remarks, eyeing me as he smokes a Marlboro Light, "You must have been very thin when you were young."
"Merci ...a pantload," I grumble inwardly. Two birds. One stone.
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