Sigmund Freud supposedly once said “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Freud was a cigar smoker, it was the contributing factor to the throat cancer that killed him. I’ve always wondered if he was trying to cover for himself with that remark, whether he was saying that his theories were fine for other people, but when it came to him, he was exempt.
Lately I’ve been staying in a lot; my habits are changing. I used to go to bars in the evening and though I was never “a regular” I came close. But now that I’m in my 60s I don’t feel “the call of the wild” as forcefully as I once did. I still get out, but I’ll usually go for a walk instead. At times I’ll still go out alone and get a beer.
The other night combined both diversions. I took a long walk and as the end point chose Harry’s American Bar which is down by the Opera. Each time I go there it has the same feeling, like I’ve stepped into an adult theme park. The bartenders wear white jackets and are very formal. The clientele, composed of tourists and businesspeople, look like the class of people usually described as “college educated.” That could be simply the way things look due to the décor; the bar has burnished wood with college pennants from every Ivy League University covering the walls. It’s a nice backdrop to sit in.
The specialty of Harry’s is cocktails. They also serve hot dogs. These are very realistic by which I mean, in keeping with the theme park idea, they’re American hot dogs. In Paris when you get a French hot dog it’s served in a hollowed-out baguette and is often smothered in Swiss cheese. At Harry’s the hot dogs are served on soft classic American white-bread buns with mustard and relish. When I’m there I always have one.
So it was last Tuesday when I walked down there via Les Grandes Boulevards, found a seat and ordered a beer and a hot dog. I hadn’t been there for a minute when some older businessmen, I distinguished three Americans and at least one German, came in talking in a very important manner, the tidbits of which I heard suggested huge amounts of money, self-importance and big international deals. One guy said twice that he didn’t need to work, he did it for fun now. Good for him, I thought. If I’d been drunk, I might’ve asked him for stock advice.
I heard two French women talking, both around 45, to the right of me. They were looking at me eat a hot dog out of the corners of their eyes. The bar is L-shaped: I was sitting at the short end of the L and they were situated just after the 90° bend. I could see that they saw me enjoying the hot dog. I also noticed that the two ladies were a lesbian couple corresponding to the classic Butch-Femme scenario, in a subdued, college-educated way. One had short hair, shaved on the sides of her head, the other had long hair. Both had tattoos on their arms which were visible protruding from the sleeves of their shirts.
About five minutes after I finished my hot dog, they ordered the same. When the hot dogs arrived, however, I noticed something curious. They looked down at them in disconcerted silence and then forgot about them. I had to suppress the urge to tell them that hot dogs are only good when they are hot.
Minutes passed and I stole furtive glances over at the waiting hot dogs. What was it, I wondered, about the hot dogs that had them so shaken up? Then it came to me. Taking all the evidence into account, it could be nothing less than a question of an uncanny resemblance that had thrown them into this quandary. What would happen next?
Then, one of them motioned to the bartender and spoke a few words to him. Soon he returned, carrying the solution to the dilemma, a knife and fork. They cut the hot dogs and buns into six even pieces each, buried them under an avalanche of ketchup, and ate them using the fork.