Paris Stays Up Late - January
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Once the blazer is on and the door slams shut, where do the Night Owls of Paris go? Here are the places, people, and works that made me forget that it was already tomorrow. In January:
— I sabotaged Dry January at Nonsense, the new club in Montmartre. Place du Tertre still harbours artists: those performing live during dinner (surprisingly good for a nightclub), those shaking cocktails as sharp as their outfits, and the one who approved the carpet. To dance with a crowd in the know, aim for weekdays and check the lineup (DJs and bands bring their own crews).
— I did some damage control with Iessi, discovered at the Monocle drinks during Fashion Week. Better than a Spritz (we are over those anyway) and not so far off a Negroni.
— I ordered the same dessert twice at Le Bistrot Ordinaire. Shan (ex-architect, ex-food trucker) has gathered instinctive recipes and an unlikely cast in the kitchen: a young Dutchman trained in Michelin-starred spots and a young Frenchman, untrained but a neighbor! They serve up oven-baked sea urchins and a fish with bouillabaisse sauce for the ages. But the final blow is the only dessert on the menu. An otherworldly caramel cream
— I narrowly avoided running on empty at 2 AM on the Champs-Élysées. Saved by Régis, the night station attendant, who had a more urgent problem than my fuel: a frozen computer. I stepped behind the counter to do some IT troubleshooting in exchange for a full tank. A night deal.
— I checked if Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. On a Sunday night, I put on this classic. From the American millionaire to the French butler, every look on the transatlantic crossing is worth hitting pause for (and I'm not even talking about Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell's cruise wardrobe). Proof that a good tuxedo crosses oceans and eras (available on Disney+).
— I had one last drink at Superfine, my cocktail bar of the moment. Why? First, the circular stainless steel bar and the candlelight. Then, the New College, a cognac and black olive cocktail that makes a serious statement. But mostly, the mixing deck that turns the "diner" into a dancefloor.
February looks promising. On the 17th, 51 Iéna opens—the private club Paris was missing to finally rival London. I stopped by during the renovations... I can't wait. And then there is this cryptic invitation mentioning 40 "chosen ones", a secret dinner, and a dress code that forces me to find a "flamboyant headpiece" to match my tuxedo. I’ll tell you about it if I make it back.
Good Nights,
