During the taxi ride across the Pont Neuf, I could see that he was trying to impress me and that the price of the cab would likely cause him not to eat for a day, so this gesture was touching. We arrived at the First Arrondissement and the entrance of Les Halles, a hint of the bone-colored stones of the imposing Gothic Église Saint-Eustache shining above the pavilions of the central market. Even though it was two in the morning, the market still buzzed with activity.

Men were steering carts—trucks and black cars were weaving among horse-drawn carriages—all with buyers and sellers either loading or unloading crates of apples, cauliflower, meat, potatoes. Boys held empty baskets on their heads while weary women wandered around with full ones tucked under their arms. And throughout the crowd, men in evening coats guided women in ball gowns and furs, smoking long cigarettes, through the halls.

When I normally left the circus, I did so with Sylvie or Esmé. I had never ventured this far on my own. From the expert manner that he turned past the carts and wove through the crowds, I could tell he came here often. We cut through the opening of one of the marts.

“Have you been here before?” I could see hints of his breath in the cold air.

I shook my head.

“My mother had a flower and fruit cart,” he said. Counting off on his fingers, he walked backward like a tour guide. “There is a flower and fruit pavilion; a vegetable, butter, and cheese pavilion; fish and poultry and then charcuterie, of course.” He pointed to the farthest structure. “My father was a butcher. He was in that pavilion over there.”

Looking up at the ceiling, I could see the moonlight shining down through the windows. I couldn’t imagine growing up so free, running around the different markets under the iron-and-glass pavilions all day and night.

“I never…” I stood there in the center of it all, amazed.

“It’s my favorite part of Paris,” said Émile, grinning. “It is Paris, to me.” His hair had just a touch of curl in it, like he’d missed a few weeks’ worth of haircuts. “Here.” He pointed to a restaurant at the end of the block. The sign read: L’ESCARGOT.

Tucked inside the market, the restaurant was a gem. Its black ironwork facade recalled the Belle Époque period. Inside, the restaurant was warm and cozy. We took a seat in the corner.

“Their onion soup is the best. They use red, not white onions.” Émile ordered two glasses of champagne and a heaping single order of soup.

The wood ceiling with its low chandeliers as well as the intimacy of sharing this bowl of soup with this man had been such an unexpected pleasure. This curious order had me wondering if he couldn’t afford two, but when the soup arrived, I understood. The waiter carried a giant pottery bowl with bread and melted cheese spilling out. The cheese was stubborn; it clung to the bread, so I wound my spoon until I got a good chunk of it. The country bread was more than a thumb’s width thick. The soup was too hot, but the first taste of the salty-sweet broth on my lips was heaven.