The Great Parisian Plate Debate

Some winding road on a hill in Montmartre…

The butte of Montmarte in the 18eme arrondissement has traditionally been the stomping grounds of those creative bohemian artists, carousers, seekers of illicit adult-themed entertainment, and Russian invaders who not only bombarded the city during war time but also started the first ever bistro. So it’s no surprise that our visit to the summit turned into one of the more bizarre and entertaining Great Parisian Plate Debate experiences.
We – Dan, Matt, and me - initially began at a non-descript bar along one of the main drags, where the tables are stacked several deep along the sidewalk and fully occupied by revelers enjoying the sights and sounds of the night under the impressive visage of the gypsum white basilica of Sacré Cœur. Our conversation soon transformed into a lively forum on the subject of emo-rock bands with a table of three girls who had been sitting near us, their mood slightly indignant at our collective ignorance toward a group named The Lawrence Arms. No argument about The Lawrence Arms has ever been solved with just one bottle of wine, so the six of us gathered our jackets and set off in search of another.
Although we did in fact conquer a bottle of wine at this initial bar, therefore fulfilling the GPPD’s requirement for the 18eme, we have chosen to include the surprise next stop as the representative in the challenge. It just so came about that as we were stumbling about the narrow streets of Montmarte, searching for another bar that had not yet shuttered its windows for the night, we found a bodega. And this bodega had a certain appealing aspect to it – highly visible from the street was a case of Heineken, lovingly placed inside a small dorm-sized refrigerator, patiently waiting to be rescued from its chilled purgatory. We entered the bodega as liberators, but remained as friends.
That’s right: friends. Friends of the Heineken, to be sure, but also of the employees of the Bodega, who, for reasons beyond us, were happy to welcome a slightly inebriated pack of six Americans into their shop. This was not your run of the mill bodega, mind you – this was a one stop shop, the bodega to end most other bodegas. This is the bodega that, if you had a son, you would want your son to own this bodega. Not only did this bodega offer all the necessities to fill your pantry – Pringles, packaged cheese, Coca Cola, various spices – it also boasted a griddle for delicious crepes. And not only did this bodega operate a griddle for crepes, they had a resident keyboard DJ who sat in the back corner, entertaining fellow bodega employees and the occasional passer-by with his sweet electronic siren song.
Nothing would please me more than to fully explain the transition from innocent customers, intent solely on procuring a cardboard case of Heineken supplemented by a bottle or two of champagne, to welcome guests with keys to the bodega kingdom. I believe it began with Matt – humbly, I’m sure – requesting a turn at the ol’ keyboard, but in truth I cannot recall how this portion of the night kicked off. There were simply too many events going on at the same time – the “champagne vs. Heineken vs. why not both?” debate, residual shouting about The Lawrence Arms, the bodega guys wanting to know where we were from, buying little plastic cups…it was a maelstrom of conversation swirling about in a sea of wine.
Like a rotund penguin rolling down a slippery glacier, things soon rapidly took on a life of their own. With Heinekens doled out, we took turns making banana and Nutella crepes under the tutelage of one of our newfound friends, who I shall call Yellow Hat. Not only am I thankful for Yellow Hat’s hospitality, for I believe he owned the bodega, but with his guidance the unique tool used for spreading the crepe batter (which we will call the “crepe rake”) was mastered. Soon we were encouraging potential customers to venture in off the sidewalks and taste the magic of the bodega crepes. While crepe classes were distributed amongst our ragtag group, others exuberantly toasted anyone fortunate enough to be holding a cheap, white plastic cup – which was filled with fresh from the bottle champagne. Still others sat down next to the keyboard DJ and learned to play some Pakistani songs, the performance of which left much to be desired, although our friends in the bodega were kind enough to let us stagger our way through the lessons. The most intriguing find on the keyboard was the button one could press and which triggered a pre-recorded song. The allure of this feature is that you could bang away talentless-ly (but with much gusto) on the keys while still enjoying some semblance of music.
My time at the bodega ended with the last gasp of champagne and the last can of Heineken, accompanied by a last stroke of the keyboard keys. Like any good GPPD night, mine ended atop a Velib, slightly lost and inebriated amongst the unfamiliar streets of one of the world’s greatest cities. Dan chose to continue the night’s festivities, where and for how much longer I’m not sure, but I’m sure his night concluded in a similar manner: Velibing somewhat unstably back to his Parisian apartment but filled with the memories of one of the more unique times in Great Parisian Plate Debate history.
I can honestly say that the bodega guys had as much fun as we did on this particular night - which is saying a lot, because we had a grand time. Unfortunately I do not recall the name of this bodega, or even the names of our gracious hosts, so I can’t specifically recommend it. However, if you find yourself strolling about the Montmarte neighborhood, keep an ear out for danceable Pakistani music emanating from a well-lit bodega. If there happens to be a friendly gentleman with a yellow hat griddling up crepes, standing in front of a diminutive refrigerator packed with Heineken, stop in and say hello. You won’t regret it.