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Dinner at Frenchie

Just shortly before our 7pm reservation, I strolled up rue du Nil, spied Gregory Marchand in his office attached to Frenchie To Go, and gaped in amazement to see the excitable queue outside Frenchie Bar à Vins rushing in as soon as the door slid open. Luckily, I had secured a table at Frenchie restaurant a couple of months ahead (yup, that long) on La Fourchette, but what, or rather, whom, I was missing was my dinner companion. F had left his office a little later than planned, but on his way nonetheless.



Decided I’d be polite and not deemed as a no-show, I popped in quickly to let the staff know that I was here but would prefer to wait outside for F. It was all therefore very strange when she told me that if he was not here before 7.15pm, the table would be given away. Surely my level of French wasn’t that bad that mentioning a wait outside would be misunderstood as I planned to pull a disappearing act because F was late? I decided not to dwell on it and stepped outside anyway, and sure enough, F hurried along to greet me shortly thereafter. We even had five minutes to spare.

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