"The French are getting to be a royal pain in the derrière," I said to the elegant demoiselle, whose chic visage had drawn my eye. We were in Clermont, where I had recently settled, at a soirée feting her uncle, a citizen extraordinaire. Having sent my RSVP, I took the occasion to make my social debut and, well, chercher la femme.

"Touché!" the petite blonde said. "They are insufferable." We sat on a chaise by the faux-decorated armoire. We had just visited the buffet and were sampling the hors d’oeuvres. "It’s all déjà vu – the French have been enfants terribles practically since the revolution," she said with audible ennui. "I wish they would be more like allies, but c’est la vie."

As she spoke I sipped an aperitif and enjoyed the delicious pâté. She worked on a Dubonnet, a mini-soufflé and some crudités. I learned her name was Jeanne Martin. She was born in Coeur d’Alene but moved to Baton Rouge before taking up residence here. My rendezvous with her was purely by chance. To me she had that certain je ne sais quoi. Was it her femme fatale looks, her poise or simple savoir-faire?

A glimpse of black chemise peeked out from the valley of her turquoise blouse. Over that she wore a prêt a porter suede jacket that couldn’t disguise her très belle figure. Looking attractive against the parquet floor were her strappy sandals that matched her black culottes. Her coiffure was finished with a soupçon of mousse. All I could think was, vive la difference.

Her uncle, our host, was a real renaissance man. He had been a lieutenant colonel in the military, serving in the Judge Advocate General corps, attending to courts martial, before retiring and becoming a noted entrepreneur. He was involved in a local cause célèbre and hence everyone’s presence for the evening.

I suggested a sortie to the dessert table. "You’re clairvoyant," she declared. "Give me a minute in the ladies’ lounge." "You have carte blanche," I said, intensely interested in continuing our pas de deux. Meeting Jeanne had ignited a small éclat de coeur in me. Suddenly I was left standing there like a papier maché statue. She left without so much as a souvenir. Would she return?

"Don’t be so naïve," I thought to myself. "Dating her is almost a fait accompli." Apropos of that, I knew she could appreciate me for my joie de vivre. After all, I am a bon vivant, gourmet chef and wine connoisseur.

Breaking from my reverie, I couldn’t help surveying the confections, particularly, the petits fours, the gâteaux and the tour de force – the chocolate éclairs.

Fortunately, Jeanne returned toute de suite. Her perfume had the unmistakable cachet of citron. Our tête-à-tête continued.

"Bon bon?" She motioned toward the festive potpourri of madeleines, meringues and napoleons. "This is quite a repertoire. It looks like the French will always get their ‘just desserts.’"

French hauteur remained the filament of our conversation. I resumed, "Yeah, what have they done for us lately? They can’t stand the influence of the English language on their culture," I said. "They’re just being dorks – if you’ll pardon my French."

© 2005 Nicholas Walsh