“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.

The last bowl of soup, the one Sylvie had sneaked out of the kitchen and into my room, had been the genesis of my metamorphosis. As Émile took his first spoonful and shut his eyes in ecstasy, I considered that this broth just might possibly change my life as well.

What is it about soup? “Magnifique,” I said, smiling.

Émile wound his own ribbon of cheese. “You have not seen much of Paris, have you?”

I ignored him. “I hear you paint long arms and legs on women.”