PARIS
Le Fumoir is a melting pot for the mid-level hoi-polloi. At any given point, you might bump into the waitress who couldn’t care less, the impeccably-dressed writer who’s actually getting something done, the maître d’ who says ‘I am a snob’ simply in the way he adjusts the blinds, smiling bartenders, tourists who realized they’ve lucked into a good find and a woman who’s got a good 25 years on her lover, both looking happy as clams. (I’ve recently learned that her breed is known as a cougar. Rrrow!)
There are lots of non-client quirks for better and for worse: a Costes-brothers-of-the-1950s style space with big, beautiful lacquered bathrooms, paired with a vaguely Asian menu theme. And maté. Surprisingly good maté, served in a big gourd with a bombilla and a big iron teapot of hot water.
Most places have a clientele you can lump into a group, but here in the middle of town, a stone’s throw from the Louvre’s Cour Carré, it’s what the French would call Le Melting Pot.
It shoudn’t stick.
It sticks.
Pass the maté.
Food and travel writer and photographer Joe Ray is the author of the blog Eating The Motherland and contributes to The Boston Globe's travel blog, Globe-trotting.
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