Brrrrr....

I love recent immigrants. No matter where they are, they always seem to the hardest working individuals in any economy. And especially in France were it is practically de rigueur to be closed, bored, or striking. The other day, we were waiting for Ribka’s friend, Mickey, near the Garre du Nord, the train station that would deliver her ex-college mate fresh from London (thanks again Stanford and Chunnel). Despite him being of the ‘Asiastani’ persuation (and moreover a London resident), we decided on a relatively nearby Indian restaurant, full of the aforementioned.

As expected around any European train station, the neighborhood was a wee bit ‘dodgy.’ But my initial apprehension of the approaching sunset melted when I inhaled the oh-so-familiar smell curry, masalas, and naan. Let’s keep in mind that we are still in baguette and aperitif Paris. So, of course, I spill my requisite polite French to try to order a mint tea (as I had the unfortunate habit of doing so) with the South Indian waiter with his pen in hand.

With a quick shake of the head, he replied, “Non, monsieur. Nous ne l’avons pas (Sorry sir, we ain’t got it, yo).”

Add a momentarily perplexed countenance, followed a knowing sigh at the prospect of NOT ordering chai at an Indian restaurant. “Do you think they have chai?” I quickly relayed to an amused Ribka. I was clearly off my game.

A clear, “Yes, we have it” came from the waiter to his now excited albeit cognitively maladroit patron. Within moments a delicious ginger chai in a tiny white cup met my lips. “Merci...er....thanks a lot” I stumbled. I clearly hadn’t had a recent situation where the waiter and I spoke the same language natively in a while. It felt great. Especially since I’m a known Indophile. Although terribly confusing to use casual English to a French worker, it was soooooo nice. As a random Black guy I’m not sure he felt the same sort of lingual, and much less likely, cultural relief as myself, but he nonetheless obliged my next request for a mango lassi without further look at the menu.

In short, its so strange to go to Indian restaurant in France. That pesky French here seems nearly as disingenuous as the governments desires to assimilate its immigrants. The language just seems so needlessly formal, especially when ordering 'Poulet' Tikka Masala, or ‘Poulet’ Tandoori. Its perhaps simply that I hadn’t been accustomed to a fluid English conversation.


“[Mickey]! What’s up? I haven’t seen you in forever!” Ribka’s high-octane friend arrives (with equally enjoyable and witty English), to further this dizzying mélange of culture, language, and nations. After some catching up, and howdy-dos. We were off to the subterranean bowels that is the Paris Metro.

An Abu Dhabi-native, ethinically Italian/Ethiopian friend of Ribka (like all of Ribka’s friends apparently) recommended that we try Ice Kube Bar.

As with any place in Paris that is neither student-laden, gay, ethno-centric, or terribly run down, you’ll have to imagine the requisite level of Parisian pretense. After a huge 9 foot gate, manned by a rather well dressed yet surly West African, you enter a giant glass cube, not unexpectedly, in a magnificent small courtyard outside of the boutique hotel. The deal is you pay for 30 minutes in what is essentially a bar made of ice just inside. Wow. The kicker? All the drinks your want. The caveat? All within those precious 30 minutes. The thought of such burgeoned our desires and expectation for a great evening out.

Now, all of us had pretty low levels of European ancestry so our speed of consumption was set accordingly. Absolutely amazing though how even the glasses were made of ice. I took it relatively slow, but I must say, at some point I was teaching the avid students Ribka and Mickey how to properly Electric Slide. This is all while my Asics shoes kept temporarily freezing to the ground. The other Western Europeans, and bartender just smiled in puzzled amusement. Would I do it again? Probably not, but certainly nice to say that I’ve done it.

So, what better way to top off the evening with La Boîte à Frisson, which roughly translates to the shivering club. This is a bit of a misnomer: Its pretty flaming, though we did just come from a bar made of ice to be fair. You see, Ribka and I decided not to drag our Mickey friend to a hetero club in favor of experiencing a (very tame) club ‘of the homo persuation.’ Mickey was delighted. For good reason. The music was actually amazing. I rarely get to hear both decent American rap AND Jamiroquai in the same sitting. After garnering our fair share of attention (we were all matchless dancers as compared to the docile Frenchmen and Frenchmanwomen), we tried out our new Electric Slide moves (as any Black ambassador must), but the French seemed a bit hesitant in joining our melanin trio. Perhaps they were a bit nervous.

Ribka related that someone asked if we were American; as if that would be the only circumstance that a Pakistani, Black guy with locks, and a Jewish/Ethiopian woman could ever reasonably find company with one another. Well actually...perhaps so. That not withstanding, our French spy probably heard our accents as we sang all the Rap/Madonna/old school rock songs. All. Just a thought. Would I do it again? Probably not, but certainly nice to say that I’ve done it.

In any case, an amazing evening, which I tend to have with Ribka (1, 2, 3), to say the least. I'm a big fan of Mickey as well. They both have the sort of energy reserved for those patients I see in Taubnotch Hosp after a painfully positive U Tox. Hopefully we can recreate the aforementioned exercise in another European capital of hedonism another time.

After a short cab ride with a chatty and equally warmhearted Algerian, we found respite in a very satisfying slumber. A job well done.