I looked behind him. Glasses covered the bar, drops of red or occasionally gold lingering in their bottoms. Napkins were scattered here and there, crushed between half-empty bottles. This wasn’t a good sign in a bistro, where the glasses are normally whisked away the second you set them down.

“Thanks, but we live quite close to here,” Sébastien said. “République.”

Marcel drew back, baffled at why that would make us forgo an illicit tryst above a bistro. He caught my eyes to see if I was going to take this unromantic prosaicism sitting down.

“Merci,” I agreed with Sébastien, having mastered the paradoxical French word for “No.”

He shook his head in faint disgust and wandered back toward the bar, leaving us among the debris of previous diners: a half-full wine bottle, two empty glasses with red stains in the bottom, a glass of red wine, crushed napkins, bread crusts, and stained paper place mats. We waited ten minutes before Marcel thought to start clearing off our table. He caught up the full glass of wine and wandered over to the next table to sit down and drink a toast to them from it.

Sébastien bit back a grin. “You know, tonight might not be the best of nights to eat here,” he murmured.

“The review’s due Monday. I don’t want to be late on the first one.” Besides, I liked Marcel’s style. It seemed a shame to waste it and come back when he was sober.

Sometime before Monday, Marcel got our table cleared off. To celebrate, he snapped three clean wineglasses down in front of us and eased the cork off a bottle of champagne that cost twice what my publication had allotted for this meal. “On va fêter ce soir!” he said and squeezed in beside Sébastien. Sébastien met the wall with an oof. Old Métro benches aren’t known for their roominess, and Marcel wasn’t small.

Not one of those sissy flute men, Marcel filled the full-bellied red wineglasses to the brim. “To smiles.”

I never would have thought it possible when I was scaring women in the streets almost two years ago to find myself toasting smiles with two Parisians. Unfortunately, a bistro owner’s work is never done, and Marcel only had time for a few swallows before some starving diners succeeded in a desperate attempt to catch his eye. He abandoned his champagne on our table and wandered agreeably over to sit and drink with them instead.

“You know what,” I said, “I don’t think he’s picking up some-one’s unfinished glass each time. I think he actually has his own glass of wine or champagne on every table.”

Sébastien did an expert scan of the glasses on the other tables. “I think you’re right. I hope you’re not too hungry.”