March 29, 2012 |
[ September 29, 2011 / 22:03- 22:13 / 12 Rue de Richelieu / PARIS ]
We’re in Paris. When in Paris, do as the Parisienne, we say, and eat Chinese. To be honest, we’ve been hankering after some fired rice ever since we had to stand at the Balenciaga show. Who knew standing could make you so ravenous? That was over 12 hours ago. The water we’ve been drinking and 40-odd cigarettes we’ve smoked have done nothing to curb our appetite. Even our fail-safe trick of dipping a cotton-wool ball into some orange juice and sucking on it has only caused the growl to grow. So we have no choice. We’ve come to Davé for some steamed rice and steamed edamame. Yes, we mentioned fried rice, but you see that’s why we love Davé. He has Polaroids of us on his wall. More of us than he has of that Naomi Campbell. We counted. But we’re fat in them. In our 1980s heyday we were huge. Like two plane seats wide. So when the 1990s rolled around we started to shoot up because, you know, it was the cool thing to do at the time. Then we cleaned up and ballooned again and then, well, just had seven-eighths of our stomach removed. Apparently, you can’t get rid of the whole thing, but Davé told us, just two minutes ago, that he knows someone who knows someone, so we’re keeping our fingers crossed. Anyway, back to the Polaroids. Apart from his food, they’re what he’s most famous for. If the walls could talk an’ all, oh my, the stories they’d tell. Many involving us. But Davé never tells. He’s safer than Fort Knox. Unlike us. One cocktail and we won’t even ask how much you’re willing to pay and, on that note, our half edamame is here, so really must dash. Toodles.
by Natalie Dembinska
