Wanting a nice cool cocktail and a place to rest my head for a second, I made my way over to the VIP area. Once again – a new locale, a new atmosphere – the mix and match of people dressed in costume and in regular present day clothing surrounded the buffet table where the delicious smell of French food wafted into my nostrils. I craned my head to look over the velvet ropes and saw people spread out on red velvet sofas savoring their food and having serious conversations. I glanced around and saw how much the interior seemed to fit in nicely with the theme of the party. Several antique chandeliers hovered above the dark wooden bar; the lights were dimmed that emphasized the red light bulbs that interweaved on the bars in the room. This area appeared as though it was separated by the dancing sector with a large pane of glass. People at the bar watched the dancing crowd with a bemused smirk on their faces.
If I had been in a French lounge on the first floor, then a cabaret club on the second floor, then on the third floor, I felt I had entered a French café. The rooftop terrace was decorated with French flags trailing down a string from all four corners of the venue. The rooftop had benches that went all around the edge of the room with a brightly lit tree that had colorful lanterns pinned onto it. In the room right inside, a French singer named Christine Capdeville sang over the chords of the accordion as people drunkenly swooned to her melodic voice. The crowd here wasn’t as energetic as the crowd below, rather more subdued and mellow. No one seemed to have a care in the world and time seemed like a distant memory as people sucked on cigarettes with a cigarette holder and took pictures in front of a gaudy red windmill on one side of the room. All the benches were overcrowded with women in flapper dresses, rubbing their necks with the feather boas and adjusting their flapper headbands. The men as well seemed to be more dressed up here with vests, long jackets, flat caps and hats that were referred to as “Venice Boater Hats.” As the smoke cleared after a woman ever so politely blew it out in my face, the scene seemed to transform and I felt as if I was officially in another era with the French flappers of the 1920s.
The night dwindled away with empty champagne flutes ornamenting the bar, and feathers from the boas covering half of the floor. Reminiscing about the music, the performers, the food and the ambience made me long for another night of drunken debauchery with the French. And as a drunken patron yelled to me, “Viva la Francaise!*”
Long live the French, indeed…
Go to Scallywag’s Photo Gallery.
