Bestie, the Man Dreams Are Made Of

Some girls debut at Bal Crillon.

Others, such as myself, debut at La Perle.

For those unfamiliar with iconic Parisian destinations, La Perle happens to be big, smelly bar in le Marais, conveniently located around the corner from my building. Once popular amongst fashion insiders, it is now more of a neighborhood landmark, known primarily for the infamous anti-Semitic rant of a certain designer. Despite its fading glory, it certainly hasn't lost its clientele: every weekend, hundreds of hipster wannabes and lazy locals flock there in pursuit of cheap drinks and quasi-profound conversation.   

After living in the mind-numbingly boring Financial District in New York, I was all too excited to suddenly find myself within ninety-second proximity of a bar. I envisioned it as becoming my own version of Central Perk, or McLarens, or any other ground-floor bar where the majority of sitcom action takes place. This never actually happened – to this day, the owner pointedly ignores me when I try to give him that familiar “hey buddy” nod. However, I have had a fair share of interesting nights there, particularly during my first few months in Paris.

The beautiful neighborhood bar. Photo courtesy of Ten Days in Paris

It was during those early days at La Perle that I met Bestie, a cute thirty-something-year-old Jewish guy who charmed us with his decent English and fluent knowledge of Seinfeld. To add bonus points, he drove a car and had door cred at Le Montana, a tiny club in St. Germain with a door policy reminiscent of the glory days of Beatrice Inn. On the night that we met, he won over our hearts (and earned his nickname) by driving my friend to her booty call somewhere in the boondocks of Paris, leaving me confident that I had hit the jackpot of casual dating.

Map ripped off from Vogue. In case you want to re-trace our route, stalk Bestie, or do something more productive, like go to Dries van Noten.

I envisioned us having a light, fun fling that would help me settle into Paris, leaving nothing but fond memories in my then-emotionally-ridden heart. Oh, how naive I was, how unprepared for the complex nature of the French man, he who does not do light and fun, choosing to overcomplicate everything with loaded words such as ‘feelings’ and ‘discrespect’.
 

Since Bestie clearly possessed no feelings towards me, he decided to lay it on really heavy on the 'disrespect' part. This applied to virtually everything I did, from asking for a ride home at 3am (how dare I disrespect his beauty sleep?), to suggesting we go out for a normal dinner (what grave disrespect towards his mother’s frozen meals!)

I must elaborate on the frozen meals, for they were most definitely the crème de la crème of the entire experience (food pun unintended). You see, throughout the entire duration of our two-week courtship (if one may call it that), the guy fed me exclusively food that originated from his freezer. 

As bizarre as this sounds, the explanation was fairly simple. It seemed as if Bestie's mother, who lived outside of Paris, liked to ensure that her 33-year-old baby does not go starving in the streets of Paris. As a result, she regularly stocked him up with containers full of carrottes rappées and other homemade delicacies, which Bestie kept in the freezer to preserve their freshness (and seduce potential dates, evidently). 

As much as I applauded Mama Bestie's nurturing spirit, I never had it in me to indulge in any of her semi-frozen delicacies. This led to more pointless arguments between the two of us, after which I would drown my frustration (and hunger) in bottles of cheap red wine, while Bestie sat next to me feasting from his Tupperware containers, clad in nothing but his plaid pajama pants.

Eventually, I started feeling like I was dating a sulky ten-year old. Around that same time, my friends began referencing to him as Picard, a European supermarket chain specializing in frozen foods. They also posted things like this on my Facebook wall:

Just to add insult to injury.

Although I had a hunch that Bestie wasn't the one, I kept a steady stream of WhatsApp communication going until my birthday in December, when I invited him for celebratory drinks at Candelaria. Bestie arrived in a giant bubble jacket (completely understandable, given the weather), which he did not remove for the entire twenty minutes that he was there. As my friends began to grow concerned for his well-being, Bestie jumped up, proclaimed that it was way too hot, and ran out. As much as this shocked my married girlfriend (she tends to expect more from men), I didn't even take it personally - the guy clearly had an aversion to restaurants.

To this day, I often see Bestie and his buddies at La Perle, having the time of their lives. Sometimes he asks me why it didn't work out between us. I never really know what to reply, except that I genuinely hope that one day he will find a woman who can make carrottes rappées as fine as him mother’s.