Derrière

So it's impossible to single out a favorite night in Paris, they have all been spectacular, but last night was quite special.

I went for a late dinner at Derrière in the 3eme. Nestled between two known resto-bars, 404 and Andy Wahloo, it sits behind a heavy green door at the back of a shallow courtyard warmed by heat lamps and fashion types sipping cocktails. According to the NYT, Derrière is at the head of Paris' anti-fine dining movement. Highly conceptual and painstakingly boho, it's laid out in the style of a funky, Parisian apartment with each dining area simulating a room in a home.


Upon entering we found ourselves in what must have been the "rec room," admiring the 4" heels of a particularly stylish femme somehow elegantly exchanging a ping pong ball with her scarf and blazer donning date across the net. Low tables with mismatched chairs and ottomans littered the floor, a map of the world, odd posters and an extensive record collection hung from the walls. We leaned against a shelf full of North African and Italian cook books, vintage coke bottles and other knick knack while we awaited our table.

After a short time, not nearly long enough to absorb all of the Parisian glitter, the hostess informed us we'd be dining upstairs in the "chambre" or bedroom. We climbed a winding wooden staircase and were tucked into our table, right at the foot of a fuschia, velvet-covered bed. Quite a sexy space but a bit too bright, we asked to be moved to the boudoir. Dark, caramel, even sexier. We'd found our spot.


From time to time the other occupants of our little den would rise and exit the room, suspiciously leaving behind all sorts of valuables - lush coats and scarves, pocketbooks, cell phones and cameras. A scene you'd normally only witness in the home of a trusted friend. Foreigners in an unknown land, curious New Yorkers at that, we looked around for cues, for an invitation to join the ritual. It came after a dinner of Quelque Légume, Crabe, St Jacques (scallops) and Joue de Boeuf (beef cheek slowly cooked in a caste iron pot with potatoes = yum). The waiter brought us a robin blue box filled with candies, asked us to choose a sweet and told us to follow him. We crossed the rickety stairwell and walked down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. At the end of the hallway sat a stately armoire with a mirrored facade. As he instructed us to open the armoire and push its back wall, I started to tingle. For any of you who were obsessed with The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe as a child, you know what can happen when walking into a stodgy-looking piece of furniture from a previous century. Magical things! And this was no exception.


With a lean against the wooden slats, we stepped through the armoire and entered into a secret room which can only be described as a wreck, but a well-heeled wreck. Like a closed off wing in a grand maison long ago abandoned by stuffy adults, recently taken over by irreverent yet particular teenagers. Precious chandeliers teetered precariously from the ceiling. Book laden shelves were tacked haphazardly into the walls in a diagonal freefall. A rounded sofa made from speakers and foam held a smooching couple. Cigarettes dangled between every first and second finger in the room. The secret chambre is Derrières response to the relatively new smoking restrictions. Leave it to the French to make "no smoking" chic and elusive.


We finished the evening sipping wine and cafe amongst strangers turned friends. We chatted with one couple in particular who were surely clandestine lovers, a gratuitous but welcome detail that enhanced the random, authentic feeling of the evening.

Hidden away in a secret room behind a whimsical antique on a ripped leather sofa with a penciled nude overhead. This is exactly how I wanted to see Paris.