Anyway, when I finally got accepted as a restaurant reviewer, I knew it was perfect. What better way to feed a romance than at Parisian restaurants?

“You don’t think you’re just a tad obsessed with food?” Sébastien asked.

My jaw dropped. “You’re French! How can you say that?” I couldn’t trust these people about anything. No one ever wore berets either.

He laughed. He loved the idea; he just liked picking on me more. When I received my first assignments in May, he bragged to all his friends about the job his fiancée had managed to bag. We both loved to discover tastes and places, and I hated to write but persisted in doing it anyway. I couldn’t quit my day job, because the publication didn’t pay me anything beyond expenses, but I’d take meals for two at Parisian restaurants over ten cents a word any day. Restaurant reviewing would be a romantic culinary adventure à deux.

“So are you ready for”—I peered at my list—“The Grouchy Bear?”

As soon as I saw that name among my first review assignments, The Grouchy Bear joined my favorite French restaurant names, right up there with The Crazy Elbow and The Fools Across the Way. We found the bad-tempered ours in the Halles, not very far from Le Relais du Vin, where we first met.

The owner meandered out to greet us in a red plaid shirt long since washed down to a dusky rose, an ancient blue beret cocked on his graying head, and a faded blue work apron covering him from waist to knees. He could have been working a market stall in the fifties Halles. Nostalgia for the pre-Pompidou era suffused the inside of his classic, dark wood bistro. Original, turn-of-the-century wood Métro benches formed the seats, and three large ceramic scenes depicted the way the world had been before officials took it into their heads to destroy the old markets of the Halles to make room for the street-side drug trade. When this bistro was founded, the unpleasant Halles area was still the living heart of a vibrant city, and as in Le Relais du Vin, these walls were a lovesong to that past. The whole place could seat sixteen recently showered, nonclaustrophobic diners.

Marcel, the owner, clapped Sébastien on the shoulder as we sat and leaned in close. “You two look like you could use my room for the night.”

We stared at him.

“It’s upstairs.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Keep it quiet, I don’t need to tell you. This is all au noir.” On the black market.

“Well, we . . .”

“I was going to give it to them”—Marcel waved a hand over his shoulder at a kissing couple who pulled apart enough to give him wary, harassed looks behind his back—“but you have the advantage.” He leaned down to whisper in my ear: “You’re smiling.”