Anisette

I flew to Paris last week for dinner. That’s right, the City of Lights, the city that birthed a famous revolution and surely inspired countless others. I wanted to rub shoulders with the luminaries of the literary world, the ghosts of a bygone era that still live in books. I drank absinthe and ate onion soup with the great Somerset Maugham as we discussed the art of Matisse and Gauguin. Of course I must recommend this French café which served the soup as soon as I remember its name. Ah and I stopped at that French bistro where John Fante (or was it Bukowski, or Burroughs, or neither) ate a post drinking binge snack with Ernest Hemingway. Suddenly, Fante got up from the table and broke for the street. Paranoia seized him (three days of non-stop drinking might do this). When he stopped running he looked around and suddenly realized he was standing in a graveyard. It is a good story but sometimes I wonder if it is just a story. Still, the roast chicken was excellent and the bread to sop up its juices was firm but tasty. I capped off my night exchanging stories with my favorite satirist Joe Queenan. He ordered a latte (who knew Queenan even drank coffee) and I had the crème brulee and an espresso shot. What was the name of that joint? Hmm. Oh heck, just visit Santa Monica’s Anisette like I did recently and dream of the literary ghosts. It is almost good enough.