Wendy, NYE
I’m not even sure how it happened, waking up this morning and finding ourselves well into 2014. I know it makes me sound like I’m a hundred years old, but it still feels like a young millennium to me. And here we are over a decade into it. Almost a decade and a half. The days of 2013 just slipped past, and it doesn’t seem like 2014 is slowing down. Proven by the fact that it has taken me 13 days to wish you all a happy new year.
David and I celebrated the birth of 2014 in Paris. I know. It sounds pretentious. So forgive me that. And it was strange not to be with our kids and our friends—and even our dogs—but that night, it was just the two of us in a tiny restaurant on the Rue de L’Eperon in the 6th arrondissement, Paris, France. This trip to Paris was an erstwhile honeymoon for us—let’s say several years and many tucked away nickels after the fact—and the longest stretch of time we had ever spent together without kids or dogs or jobs. It was just us, eight days, Paris.
We had heard all the stories about how packed Paris restaurants are on New Year’s Eve, and in the run up, the city was getting more and more full of visitors speaking every language we could identify and several we could not. So, we decided to stick close to home and celebrate in our own—albeit adopted—neighborhood. We made reservations at the tiny and charming L’Epigramme in the bottom of our apartment building. There are probably 10 tables in the whole restaurant, and all of them were filled. There was a Swiss couple who spoke some mixed-up version of German, French and English and a jolly family from New Zealand. There was a German couple next to us who laughed uproariously at each other’s jokes and an English pair that comes to Paris every year to ring in the New Year. Of course, there were Parisians, too, and the husband-wife-gorgeous-twenty-something-daughter team that owns and runs the bistro was gracious and friendly and darling.
David, NYE
The menu was prix fixe, most of it involving flesh. Although I am a vegetarian, I am also my mother’s daughter. In our world, there is no sin greater than being rude, and not eating something wonderful put in front of you is capital-R Rude. Personal preferences, dietary needs—whatever. It is more important not to insult the chef, especially in such a charming and intimate setting. But, on the other hand, I have been a vegetarian for 30 years, so I chose the obvious solution. I snuck my food onto David’s plate. After two servings of pâté, two trout in béarnaise, and two (tiny!) steaks in red wine sauce, he had about enough. Plus, I got sloppy. On the last pass from my plate to his, I got caught by the lovely proprietress. She was horrified and distraught that I might be starving right before her eyes. In Paris. On New Year’s Eve. Now she didn’t speak English, and at that point, her very fast and overwrought French was way above my grade level, but clearly she was worried sick about whether I was withering right in her restaurant. Over the next twenty minutes, every vegetable in the kitchen was hunted down, sautéed, and tossed with béarnaise before being delivered to our table, each time with an apology and a soft rub across my shoulders. By the cheese course, both David and I were afloat in butter and more than a few glasses of wine. As we ate microscopic bites of cheese to appease the watchful eye of our dear, worried friend, we noticed a little commotion from the kitchen.
The pans were starting to clatter and the music was inching up. The radio voices were getting louder and more animated. It was clear the countdown to 2014 was about to begin. The voices got even more excited, and the beautiful daughter dashed into the kitchen and blasted up the radio. Dix, neuf, huit, sept, six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un, zero! Bonne Annee! Bonne Annee! 
The kitchen staff flipped off the lights, and the proprietor—with his long white beard and big laugh—popped the champagne cork. Everyone in the room—with the exception of a few bashful men—jumped up from their tables and began to dance to French pop music. The proprietress and her daughter danced. We all danced with those we came with and those from other tables. Then, each person went around the room and wished every other person there a Happy New Year. A kiss to each cheek and a heart-felt Bonne Annee! It was high-spirited and Bacchanalian passing of the peace. And with that, everyone returned to their tables and their low conversations. We enjoyed a cup of coffee and a chocolate lava cake that was enough to require the whole first day of the year to recover from. After cake, everyone slipped away into their own, private beginning of 2014.
We returned to the blessed chaos that is everyday life – muddy paws, last minute homework, short deadlines at work. There are conference calls and laundry and dance rehearsals. It was, in short, just like we left it. Just like we like it.
So, with that I say to you – may 2014 be filled with the blessings of everyday life but also with solicitude and good food and dancing with strangers. Bonne Annee!
