Page 18 of French Escapade

Ken

Jimmy and I shake our heads. Tuxedos are not part of our usual travel bags.

“Well, there’s plenty of rental places,” Élodie says. “The problem is that I’m not sure they will have your size.”

“I think I have an idea.” I dial a number on my phone while we walk out on the immaculate red carpet the crew has finished securing to the floor.

Élodie looks at me and I raise my hand to ask her for a minute of patience. I’m calling Ted, our friend who is now a local. Ted used to work with us, and now he’s into security and protection. He’s got a business called Riviera Security.

He’s the one who told us to leave our luggage in a locker at the train station, and he’d prepare a care package for us. Two or three items we could have a use for, should our extraction plan require a little friendly persuasion.

I imagine the bodyguards he hires to protect his VIP clientele are built like us. He should have what we need.

“A tuxedo?” he repeats when I ask him, after telling him about our near miss at the hotel.

“Two, actually. One for Jimmy and one for me.”

“For tonight?”

“Yep.”

“And where do you want me to deliver those?” he asks.

“Well … that was going to be my next question.”

“No worries. Just to be sure you wouldn’t be stranded, I picked something for you in a boarding house in the older part of Cannes. The reservation is in my name. I’ll meet you there at 1800.”

I memorize the name and address of the place and hang up.

“All good. We’ll have our tuxedos tonight.”

Élodie whistles to show she’s impressed. I know it’s childish, but I’m proud my efficiency impresses her. I bow like a star at a curtain call.

“All you need to do is ask,” I say, before getting back to business.” How far is the Suquetfrom here?”

“On the other side of the Croisette, why?”

“A friend got us rooms atchez Josette. Do you know the place?”

Élodie nods. “It’s no palace, but it’s a well-kept boarding house. Also, it’s right next to where I live. I’ll have to go home to change after I’m done at the station. The three of us can come back here together.”

“In the meantime, do you think you could find us a nice place to eat? I know I keep talking about food, but now I’m really …” Jimmy stops searching for his words.

“Famished? Starving? Could eat a horse?” Élodie suggests.

“…hungry like the wolves!” he adds, proud of remembering the colloquial expression.

“Okay, follow me, I’ll take you to a nice little place where they don’t charge an arm and a leg.”

We retrace our steps until we reach a café and take a seat at a sidewalk table.

“It’s a regular hole in the wall, but the food is really good,” Élodie explains, turning into our tour guide.

“Do you know the origin of the word bistro?” Jimmy asks, studying the menu.

“Yes, of course! It started with the Russian occupation of Paris at the end of the 1814 campaign. The legend says that the Cossacks would leave their station to go get a drink and, because they didn’t want to be caught abandoning their posts, they would tell the waiters to hurry by yelling “??????,” which, pronounced the French way, becamebistrot.”

Jimmy puts his menu down and stares at her. I’m impressed with the perfect accent she used to pronounce the wordfastin Russian.

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