After a week of cooking for myself, I decided to treat myself to the little restaurant in town. I got dressed in something other than running tights, washed my hair, and set out to have dinner which I hoped might be steak frites. When I got to the restaurant there were a few people standing at the bar drinking espresso but the tables had all been pushed together for one long table. I asked Marie if dinner was possible “ce soir” and she said, “oui” indicating two small tables that were up against the wall.

I ordered some red wine and enjoyed a salad course which included the dreaded pate but also a yummy cucumber salad, and a shrimp and pasta salad. Lucky for me, one of the choices was steak frites and I chose some haricot verts as my green accompaniment. I watched the three people at the bar with interest. There was a couple who appeared to be in their sixties dressed up for what I presume was a night on the town. The man just looked to be wearing a suit coat but his date wore all black. Visualize this. She had on black fish net stockings, knee-high boots, a black miniskirt, a bustier top and the cherry on the cake……a black fur stole. Clearly I had underestimated the formality of Friday night attire in my little town. My own green dress felt dull.

After my entree, I did the cheese course and then even a chocolate eclair for dessert filled with chocolate creme. I practiced talking with the owner Marie and asking her what occasion she was setting the large table for. She told me that she had three big reservations for the following two days. Two birthday parties (one a surprise!) and an anniversary party as well. This would have been fine except that she also had a very sore shoulder which made the work difficult. I stopped myself from offering to help and instead wished her good luck.

I left the restaurant and regarded the bar across the street. I had a plumber over earlier in the day to give me an estimate on my second bathroom. He told me that the way he had really learned French was to go his village bar, listen, and occasionally try to get in on the conversation. Since it was only 7:45, I thought “what the hell” and walked into the bar. I recognized one of the guys as someone who I had seen at the restaurant having a beer. He waved hello and asked me if I had enjoyed my dinner. I told him it had been “tres bien”! I introduced myself to he and his friend, and they in turn shared their names. I ordered a bourbon and sat there listening to the conversations around me. I picked up bits and smiled a lot.

The owner asked me where I was from and I told him Maine in the United States. I told him I was new to town and blurted out my address as it is one of the few things I can say. He welcomed me to St. Denis. I then began to worry that I had disclosed my exact address and wondered if that was not sensible. The man from the restaurant asked if he could buy me a drink to welcome me. I accepted and another man brought his phone to me where I could see he had found a map of the state of Maine. He asked me to show him where in Maine I was from and I found Brunswick. He explained he had driven a truck from Quebec, to Florida and West to L.A. before returning to Quebec. Once he had told me his name, he moved on to talk to others.

I felt like I had more than enough to drink, so I wished my new acquaintances, “Bonsoir” and wandered home. I was proud of my courage and felt a bit accomplished. Maybe I didn’t make a new best friend or learn the language entirely but I had been part of something new. Now a few more villagers will know my name, They will know that this girl always running, biking and walking her dog is an American from Maine who loves bourbon!