It was New Year’s Eve and I was in a Parisian bar. My friend Brett was having a party popper battle with an aggressive French lady, whilst I was eating the most delicious engorged goose liver I had ever tasted. It’s not a bad way to see out the year, but I had unfinished business; a challenge to meet! And with only minutes to go, I could not fail…

All my life I had wanted to be a Parisian. Imagine a French accordion playing as you read the next bit, or better still play this french accordion music as you read:

As a young Australian boy growing up on a farm, I’d pretend the chickens were my French friends with names like Pierre the Chicken, Antoine the Chicken and Stevo the French Chicken. I used to pretend the pigs were French wait staff, and I’d giggle at their disgruntlement (which is funny coming from a pig). I used to eat snails from Mum’s garden and I’d pretend fish fingers were small baguettes. Wearing a shower cap as a makeshift beret I drank red wine and smoked and talked about Voltaire, just like any other French 8 year old child would. Over the years, my whimsy faded in and out, blurring with Monkey Magic and my other schoolboy interests… but I never forgot my Parisian dream. And now, as I sat in a random bar in Paris – it had come back with a vengeance.

I had set myself the seemingly easy task of saying something in French to a proper French person WITHOUT being detected as a foreigner – and I had to do this before midnight. I wanted to feel just for that one moment that I was French. To let them see me as one of their own. Pour me a cognac as if I knew how to drink it or serve me a snail as if I actually wanted to eat it. Yet over the last three days I had failed consistently. It might have been my thick Australian accent, or it might have been my choice of conversation starters. I had been studying for weeks, and knew how to say things like “j’aime vos chaussures” (I love your shoes) and “vos chaussures semblent intéressantes” (your shoes look interesting) with ease and confidence.

And now, as Brett and I walked into the busy bar, I realised that this would be my last chance.

“Table pour deux?” said a handsome yet flustered French waiter.

I pouted and nodded in a French way. It was working! So far, so good. He was mistaking me for a Frenchman! He muttered something and pointed to a table. Now all I had to do was say something… convince him. I opened my mouth;

“Shit!” I yelped knocking over the tip tray with my coat, sending about 80 euros onto the floor.

“Oh aucun vous imbécile!” exclaimed the waiter rushing to the floor and scooping up the coins. I squatted down to help.

He said in venomous English, “Don’t.”

Brett looked on; as did the rest of the restaurant as I absorbed the best humiliation France could offer, loudly bumbling like an English-speaking buffoon.

I looked up to Brett, “Two hours to go. There’s hope yet.”

_____

“Ten minutes to go. There’s hope yet.” Brett suggested whilst picking the contents of a party popper from his eyebrows. “Ha take that!” he said looking at the aggressive lady. “The English beat the French yet again!” he exclaimed.

“But you’re Australian?” I asked, quite certain he was.

“Not according to that woman. She’s just called me stupid roast beef!’”

“In that case, well done roast beef. Well done.” I winked to help make the joke funnier, then headed toward the Eau de Toilette, if indeed that’s what it’s called.

I walked down the stairs toward the bathrooms, and discovered a little queue. There was a guy and a girl waiting at their two respective doors. Maybe this was my last chance? Approaching men and women near toilet doors wasn’t my usual theatre for conversation but I was, well, desperate. Scanning for an ‘in’ I noticed – the man had the most interesting shoes! They were orange with a fascinating heel! This was going to be easy. My lips pursed, my eyebrows raised, I started smiling as if I could already hear the words flowing outward with a gush of French fluidity. Finally I would be truly mistaken for a Frenchman! I caught Shoe-man’s gaze and he turned to acknowledge me.

I spoke, “Vos ch –“ Suddenly both doors swung open almost simultaneously Shoe-man and the girl dashed away into their little cubicles. Foiled again! Maybe I could shout to him through the door? No that’d be weird. It was over, my chances were dashed again.

Standing alone on the stairs I heard footsteps coming down. Another contender! I spun around. Bum, it was the waiter from earlier… This was going to be awkward. He pushed passed me, aggressively tugging at the male toilet door.

“Oh that one’s taken.” I cautiously suggested, almost with a sense of warm anticipation toward the new friendship I was about to form with Shoe-man.

“Thanks for the TIP.” He surprisingly quipped. I began to feel alright that I had knocked over his coins.

“Ouvrez la porte vous IDIOT!” He yelled to Shoe-man through the toilet door. He aggressively yanked the handle. “Stupide! Faites-vous un SHITE?” I couldn’t believe this guy! Stevo the French Chicken would have NEVER behaved this way.

Poor Shoe-man inside the loo was shouting things back in defence, yet the waiter continued to bang on the door. Then I heard a flush… could it be over? Would Shoe-man now emerge and confront the waiter? No. It was just the girl coming out from the other toilet. To my surprise the waiter stopped banging, turned around and confidently walked into the freshly vacated girls toilet. This, was odd. Then… I heard the male toilet flush and the door latch rattle. Oh dear. Suddenly Shoe-man pounced out from the cubicle. Agitated, flustered and very ANGRY.

He got in my face and screamed, “COMMENT DÉFI VOUS! VOUS PORC GROSSIER!?” His fists were clenched and he wanted answers. I was speechless. It wasn’t me! The injustice! Why did I have to pay the price for that stupid insolent, arrogant waiter! Why did I have to be in the wrong place at the wrong time! Why did I have to be mistaken… for a Frenchman. Ah, funny how things work out. And with that, my challenge was complete.

Ten, nine, eight, seven…

“Happy New Year,” I said in a thick Australian accent as I ran back upstairs smiling.

Photography by Scott Jenkins (except the pic of Brett and the party popper. I took that.)