The Gilded Youth of Paris

by Allison Lightwine

It was my friend Stephanie's bachelorette party. In France, it's referred to as "L'enterrement de vie de jeune fille", or the funeral proclaiming the life as a single girl over as the life of a married woman begins. In Belgium, they simply call it "brûlage de culottes", burning the panties. Slightly less dignified, but perhaps a more apt description. As a bridesmaid in this Franco-American wedding, I was aiming for something between the two — at one extreme, something genteel as befitting the group of young ladies, some of us married or mothers, and at the other, a paint-the-town-red all-nighter, hitting all of Paris' hot spots.

With this in mind, I booked a table at the city's latest "ultra-branché" restaurant, another of Philippe Starck's many ventures in the Parisian see-and-be-seen arena. Kong would satisfy chic criteria while providing an excellent cocktail and halfway decent food. (One of the first rules to be learned about Paris nightlife is that the hippest restaurants don't necessarily serve the best nosh.)

After a sumptuous dinner, the French girls politely bowed out, tired after a long week, but the Americans were ready to party. The city beckoned to us as we hailed a cab and sped to Maxim's, the venerable Belle Epoque establishment that first opened its doors in 1893, now owned by the internationally recognized designer Pierre Cardin. With a smile and a wink to the bouncer, in no time the three of us were sipping delicate flutes holding Maxim's own champagne, poured from enormous magnum bottles and surveying the crowd that by all standards were what the French call "le jet-set". "These guys fly to St. Tropez for lunch and then come back to Paris the same day to go out," whispered Steph.

It's true that in this opulent setting, everyone looked like a millionaire, and an exotic French one at that. For the men, the evening's uniform was a well-cut dark suit with an open-necked shirt. To complete the ensemble, virtually all of them had chin-length hair gelled back into a semblance of order. The casual-yet- refined look gave the impression that the gilded youth of Paris liked to at least take a stroll on the wild side, if not the entire walk.

As I goggled at the tab for the round of champagne I had bought, I figured the game plan for the evening would be to dangle my beautiful unmarried friends in front of the jet-set, hoping to attract a millionaire or basically anyone who would pay for drinks. Normally rather egalitarian about this sort of thing, I figured, hell, we were in Paris, the epicenter of modern-day gallantry and besides, I would be damned if I was going to go bankrupt just because we were thirsty.

As we drained our flutes and Beyoncé and Jay-Z pounded over the speakers, we made our way to the dance floor and were soon in the middle of a sweaty, albeit well-bred, throng. Hands in the air and hips in full sway, Steph, Sabina and I made such a stir that within seconds, men surrounded us much as sharks approach at the scent of fresh blood. Heads back laughing, we were having such a good time that we barely noticed. Soon the pointed glares of French women standing at the sidelines brought us back to reality, but by that time men were leaning over and shouting over the din, asking our names and leading us to the bar.

Mission accomplished and the bubbly flowing, I leaned against the bar's polished zinc to survey the scene. Steph was being chatted up by a remarkably good-looking blond guy while Sabina's waist was encircled by the long arm of a slightly sleazy-looking Italian. Content to people-watch, within seconds my reverie was interrupted by a seductive whisper in my ear. "Tu as des très belles épaules," confided a man who had sidled up to me. With the ocean of background noise, however, my normally adequate French failed me. I had what? Belles imprimantes? Lovely printers? At a loss, I turned to him and said I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. It turns out that far from complimenting me on any kind of printers I might have, he was speaking of my beautiful shoulders, a part of my body that no one has ever commented upon, either positively or negatively. After several minutes of harmless flirtation, I politely disentangled myself and went in search of my friends.

The blond was still engrossed in his conversation with Steph, clearly charmed. As I approached, I realized he was speaking an accentless English, not a small accomplishment for a Frenchman. After introductions, he went back to the bar for more drinks as Steph whispered that he was an international polo player working for Citibank, thus explaining the worldly aura. Polo Boy rejoined us with a friend in tow, another polo player-cum-banker with flawless English hailing from Mexico City. After more dancing, champagne, and witty banter, the two guys were clearly smitten. Not wanting to give any false hope, I informed the Mexican that I was married. "I hear that being married doesn't hinder the French," he said with a wicked grin. "You're forgetting one thing," I replied, "I'm still American!"

A quick glance at the clock confirmed that we were due at our next appointment at Castel, one of Paris' most elite nightclubs. Bidding farewell to the Polo Boys, they acted like we were Cinderellas quitting the ball but declined to come with us due to an early morning match in Chantilly. Nonetheless, as soon as we had gotten rid of our would-be suitors, Sabina befriended a couple of Spaniards in the coat-check line, heirs to a pizza empire in Madrid. Up for the weekend to see the tennis at Roland-Garros, they had no qualms about joining our bachelorette party at our next stop.

Sabina, a regular at Castel, got us in with no problem despite the fact that entry is reserved for a select few. The subterranean halls lined with plush red carpeting, mottled mirrors, and low banquettes have been the playground of the rich and famous for over forty years. On any given night you could rub shoulders with anyone from the supermodel Linda Evangelista to Jamel, one of France's premier comedians. On this particular occasion, however, the dance floor was packed with sixteenth-arondissement BCBG men in blue blazers with brass buttons and high-heeled women getting their groove on to Diana Ross' eighties anthem "Upside Down." One thing was clear about Castel...it wasn't the place to go for cutting-edge music or the latest in fashion, but it exuded a sort of exclusive Frenchness that was hard to put a finger on.

The Spanish brothers, gentlemen that they were, slaked our thirst with more outrageously overpriced champagne as we laughed and shimmied into the wee hours of the morning. Suddenly, the music changed and the distinctive rhythms of Marvin Gaye filled the rooms. "Let's get it on," crooned Marvin as a tall Frenchman with unruly locks led me onto the dance floor. "You know what I'm talking about," the Frenchman sang, gently but firmly guiding me across the floor. Somehow the moment seemed perfect...giddy from champagne, dancing to the best of American R&B in Paris' most exclusive hideaway with a dashing French guy who miraculously knew all the lyrics.

As the rosy fingers of dawn began to illuminate the stately buildings on the rue Princesse, the three American girls trudged home, me in bare feet with high-heeled sandals in hand, stopping off for a sack of freshly-baked pains au chocolats at a bakery whose protective gate hadn't even been completely raised. This would definitely be a night to remember. That said, I thought it was only fair that Steph had two fêtes since she was technically getting married twice, in both California and in Lyon. Luckily she has me as a bridesmaid to organize the next night out on the town.

Maxim's
3 rue Royale
75008 Paris
01 42 65 27 94
www.maxims-de-paris.com

Castel
15 rue Princesse
75006 Paris
01 40 51 52 80