The Frenchie
Things with Mr. ESPN have been progressing slowly. Almost too slowly for my liking, but that of course isn't going to stop me from keeping my life exciting. I managed to make it out on Friday to one of Downtown Chic’s fabulous rooftop parties. A summer staple of for our weekend antics...I arrived at her stoop, ventured up the five floors to the roof and stepped out of the top floor door to a 360 view of a clear Manhattan. The Empire State and Chrysler buildings to the North. The trendy, mirrored and brand spanking new lower east side hotels just across the street. To the Southwest, a full view of the Financial District, shining with all it old world flair, pomp and circumstance. I spun around to a perfect New York night - with a view.
Vino was consumed and conversations were had. Eventually, I was introduced to a tall and friendly Frenchman named Pierre. Pierre just happens to be the son of a prominent French Chef, born and bred in Paris. To sum up the evening…Pierre had eyes only for Elle. We talked of food and wine, dining and enjoying life. I was quickly consumed by the eloquence of his demeanor, his polished (and very French) way of picking up women. Despite the obvious, I was hooked.
The night wore on and we talked and secluded ourselves to a corner of the roof top. I told him I loved to cook. He told me he could make homemade fois gras. I told him I loved food and wine pairings. He told me he loved American women with an appreciation for the culinary arts. Then it hit me. The more I talked to him the more he reminded me of The German. It was the same free-spirited, suave and calculated persona that – sadly – was the downfall of my last love interest. At the same time, I was hooked, yet cautiously unoptimistic.
As the night wore on, I realized he had dismissed his friends entirely and had remained on the rooftop to keep talking to me. Knowing my track record with foreign men, combined with the fact that Downtown had left her own party and I had no wing woman left to speak of, I knew I was obliged to leave.
With two cheek kisses for Pierre and a hail of a cab, I was gone and on my way home. As I drove the way up the West side highway, I thought of his accent, his smooth and nonchalant way of speaking so emotionally, yet remaining aloof. In a split second, I snapped out of it. “Elle!” I thought. “He’s a total Euro. You know what they can do to you!” I stepped out of the cab and into my apartment, and forgot all about him...
Until he called me this afternoon...
I saw the strange number pop into the window of my cell phone, I was curious and picked up.
“Bonjour Elle! Comment ca va?!” Oh, that accent!
I was entirely shocked by his call, as I had not given him my number, nor had I intended to. In fact, he had gone out of his way to contact a mutual friend to track down my number. We’re going out this week.
Mr. ESPN had better pick up with the pace or he'll be "une invention."
posted by Lisa @ 12:06 AM
3 Comments:
oh wow! The Frenchman worked his magic. He sounds hott, but maybe it's just the assumed accent;)
Oh that is so so Carrie Bradshaw!!! Damn - I gotta move to Manhattan!
Hi, new reader to your blog. I hope things work out with the Frenchie. This posting strikes a cord with me. No offense, but you remind me of myself, especially my affinity for foreign men. Check out "French Lover" in my July's postings. I was also involved with Pierre (a different one! obviously).
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