Fred Francois

I stood before the restaurant staring up at its strange sign. It really wasn’t like back home; it was gaudy and unsophisticated. I learned that its theme laid heavily on “Mardi Gras”, The American Version of Carnival.  It did grow on me, however.  This place wasn’t France French, but Louisiana French. Much like how Quebec is ‘French’.  I could see well inside the establishment from its large windowed storefront.  I was curiously excited to see its Carousel Styled Bar.  I yanked open the front door and strolled into the fine establishment, making eye contact with a young woman behind a podium buried in menus.  “Good evening, Sir. Welcome to Fred Francois. Would you like a table, or there is open seating at the bar?” she happily recited her canned welcome. Not to be critical, she probably has to welcome many people and that would make me exhausted. Frankly, all service and hospitality jobs sound exhausting.  I asked for a table. I wanted to have a little room to record my notes. “Just one for ya’?” I nodded following her then to a nice line of tables for two along the far side of the dining room. Now, the dining room was really just about two dozen tables between the window and the large circular cocktail bar. Beyond the bar was a bussing station then a double swing door to the kitchen.  It set in that this restaurant may be simply a gussied-up bar with a French Gimmick, but damn it, I was determined to enjoy the tangentially French atmosphere. “Is it your first time here?” – “Yes, it is.” – “Oh, then welcome. My name is Dana, and I’m your waitress this evening. The front of the menu you will find our Appetizers and Entres and on the reverse our extensive list of classic Cocktails, though, don’t feel like you’re tied to what you see. Our Mixologist doesn’t mind going off script.” I looked at her blankly and replied, “Mixologist?” – “Yeah, uhh, she has formal training in making Cocktails.” She replied quietly. Being the clever man I am, “Ahh, so a drink Chef.” I said loudly.  The tattooed woman behind the bar smiled while wiping down her workspace. My waitress, Dana, rolled her eyes. “I will leave you to look over the menu…”

As my lovely waitress left me, I gazed upon the menu.  I was delighted to see entries familiar to me. The list of Hors d’Oeuvres made my stomach groan. A Mushroom and garlic Crab Bisque was first on the list. “A delicate blend of mushroom and Garlic carried by a forward note of Black pepper evolving into the relaxed savory citrus note of Thyme.  Crab Morsels complete this Classic dish. To round out this delicious Bisque, please ask our server for its hand selected wine paring, Sauvignon Blanc.” I read aloud the description that I also copied down precisely in my notes.  Quickly scanning the rest of the entries, I knew I’d have to try their whole list; Swiss Canapés, Socca with Olive Oil, Fromage Sampler, to name a few.  Though the list was not extensive, it did seem to capture a broad landscape of flavor. Dana, the waitress, returned; my appetite led me to order a Blackened Salmon Fillet dinner, preceded by the bisque and glass of Savignon Blanc.  Her service was more than pleasing.

The Carousel bar was fun. I kept noticing detail after detail within the many realistically carved figures and paintings.  The food arrived in about twenty minutes.  The menu description surely matched what was served to me.  Lucky me, as I don’t have to explain it again. My waitress returned, notepad in hand.  “Hey, how was your Sauvignon Blanc?” – “Grassy, Herbal, Crisp and Highly acidic.” – “in a good way?” – “Yes.” I could tell she was not has well-versed in French wine styles as I. I’d be surprised if she was.  Admiring the décor, I continued, “Your restaurant is quaint. I have never been to French Louisiana, but French France and it’s nice to find a place that reminds me of it. It Feels like forever since I’ve been home.”

“Oh.” She paused, “heh, yeah. I’m actually from Browning, Kentucky. It’s a little ways from Bowling Green. I moved here a couple years ago.”  She took my plate.

“I grew up in a village outside of Le Havre, a large fishing town in Normandy. I came here a couple days ago.” I smiled, attempting to relate though it didn’t seem to make her happy.

“We had a Baseball diamond, a Fire station and a Fishing Supply store. I don’t care for any of them, now, since my Dad stopped taking me Fishing.” After a moment, she smiled again, “hey, sorry, just wave me down if you need anything else. Theresa doesn’t look to busy. Maybe you can make her work for a change.” – “Thur-AY-Suh?” I said to myself under my breath.

It turned out, that Baseball is yet another yard sport invented by the Brits. The local baseball team is the Chicago Cubs and boy are their fans something else.  I found my way to Wrigley Field. It’s crazy how rich you can get in America selling Chewing Gum, of all things.  I left for my apartment after my meal, and a second glass of sauvignon Blanc. I decided to go back tomorrow night for different entre, or maybe some of those cocktails.  Every moment of my day is incredibly interesting and worthy of novelization but in the interest of time, I will keep it specific to the highlights. I’m joking. If our brains did that we’d be insane with information overload that nothing would be coherent. As a matter of fact, memory of our personal history is a discussion of myth, a synthesis of meaning from perception.

So, anyway, I went about my day of wandering the wilderness in search of “lifestyle”, of which I will do much. I arrived at Fred Francois to a much busier atmosphere. It turns out that Thursday night dinner is not as busy as Friday night. From behind a small line I could see Dana, the waitress from yesterday, hustling to get customers served. I did enjoy talking to her yesterday but I’ll try not to be a bother. “You again?” She nearly shouted plopping down a tote full of napkin wrapped flatware, sliver in appearance only, upon the Host table. I was shocked and, frankly, a little embarrassed until I saw she was not serious.

“Ma’am, I am simply here for the food, please don’t think of me as a stalker. Not that I don’t like you. Because I do.” She stared blankly at me, “As a waitress. You know what I meant!” – “There is about a fifteen minute wait for a table, but the bar has room for one, Mr…” It was then that I realized I didn’t, again, introduce myself. That’s so unlike me. “d’Evreux, Gustave.” – “Welcome back,” she smirked.

I cleared my throat and adjusted my jacket. I looked to the bar and located the empty seat in question, and strode to it. As I sat down, Theresa showed up, leaning over with her elbows on the countertop, crossed armed. “Hey.” She, too, yelled at me. “You were here yesterday; it’s too bad you didn’t come order something.” – “Well, I thought about it, but had just previously decided that I’d come back tomorrow anyhow.” Being mesmerized by the piece of gum rolling around in her mouth helped me successfully resist the curiosity surrounding what could be down her shirt. “Wrigley’s?”

She blew a bubble with the gum then popped it, “Are you asking me to a Cubs game?” – “Uhh” – “because it’d have to be a noon game because I’ll have to be back in time for Happy Hour.  Maybe by the time the season starts, I might let you take me.” She grinned, continuing to chew her gum that may not be Wrigley’s. She never answered my question. She handed me the drink menu, “Hey, I’ll come back when you’re ready.” I would have preferred a professional recommendation, so I had to base my choice off of what sounded appealing.  The commotion around me was actually not the annoyance I would have imagined.  The place seemed to draw more sophisticated locals.  Of course, my research had only begun so I didn’t know how to accurately compare it to other night time downtown bar scenes.  I was going to say “nightclub” but Fred Francois doesn’t consider itself a nightclub.  Theresa came back and I wasn’t prepared with an order. She said she wouldn’t hassle me like she would normally because I wasn’t “from around here”.  I tried to quickly explain that I’m not really sure what I’d even like and that if she just wanted to make me whatever, I would be fine with it. She agreed after I “opened a tab” and she started with a French 76, which I thought probably would have been good but I think she was just making fun of me. 1776 is close to my birthdate, though she probably meant 1976. There were a few televisions above the bar playing NBA basketball, among other sports.

A few hours later I was starting to feel the effects, as they say. (I don’t know if the ubiquitous “they” refer to being intoxicated that way, but they are all strangers to me.) I jotted down notes on how each one tasted and I’m happy to report they were legible the next morning. The crowd was dying down and I closed my tab to go outside for some fresh air and to probably make my way home.  The night air was cool but felt sublime after sitting in that Viking longhouse for the whole evening. I scanned the area for a place to sit after lighting a Turkish Royal cigarette.  To my surprise my waitress was sitting on the bench just outside, looking at a cellular phone.

“Oh, good evening, Dana.”

Looking up, she smirked, “hey, I’m off the clock. Hospitality comes off with the apron.”

She caught me off guard yet again. “whoa, I’m not trying to hassle you. I’m being polite!” – “I’m just messing with you, Gus.” She returned to looking at her phone. “I’m a little slow on the pick-up, here, Dana. Sorry.” – “I like you, Gus. Don’t make me regret it.”

She was waiting for an “Uber driver” to take her back home. I asked if that was some German company but she said its where people who have a car and time on their hands can take people around town for cash, like a taxi, but operate on a per fair basis when they want to. That type of novel idea surely came from a German, I reassured her.

“So, why did your Father stop taking you on fishing trips?” – “What?” – “Yesterday you said that and it just stuck with me since then.  Did he stop fishing entirely?” She was upset.

“Hey, I’m sorry I brought that up. When I was a kid, my father lost his job when the factory closed down and he gave up on a lot of things, like fishing… and our family.” She cleared her throat, “that was a long time ago and it’s whatever, I can’t do anything about that.” I just nodded. I don’t know what that’d be like, but I could tell she wouldn’t care for a pity party. The Uber driver showed up a few moments after.  “Have a good night.”

“Thanks, Gus. Take care.” She climbed in the car and they went off into the night.

That was more depressing than I had expected. People were clearing out of the restaurant, I felt it was a good time to head back to my apartment.  The night smothered the air, like a sheet held up by street lights. I stuck to the main roads and kept to myself on my short walk home. Walking alone at night is not the best situation, so my attire had been put to the test. I passed by people, giving them a nod had we caught eyes.  Not interacting with people is a good idea, but going out of your way to not interact with people will make you suspicious, as if you do not belong. [It’s a far cry from my home town. People cared about each other. I hope it’s something I can find here. I can’t imagine someone would last long if they always had to watch their back.]  Getting into my room after a walk in the cool night was relaxing.  There’s something special about taking off the outer layer and sliding into some clean sheets, warming up in a few moments to drift off to sleep. I can nearly perceive the mellifluous whispers of Josephine as I immerse myself in a reverie, imagining I am nestled within the comforting embrace of my own bed.