The waiter suggests not ordering the vino rojo by the glass.

The blanco is okay but does not go well with the pork loin.

It is a strange Thanksgiving at Immortales.

And the business crowd at three in the afternoon does not talk; it shouts. Not Death In The Afternoon but kind of depressing.

But it is not Thanksgiving exactly.

Which is the way things are supposed to be, or usually are, which makes them as expected.

Los Montanyas eran hermosas en la mañana.

And the Mediterranean climate. I prefer the cold and the rain but this is a nice change.

I'm disappointed. I had had a conversation with la femme noire the last time I was in Paris.

There is a tall, somewhat awkward women at the bar. She is one of the "girls" and is also tending bar. A drink is expensive: 20 Euros. I ask the prices and she hands me la liste. It's 140 Euros for a massage; it's 245 for la bouteille. La bouteille is a bottle of champagne and includes sex with la femme. She asks if I'm interested. I say no, Je suis simplement curieux. I ask who gets the 245 Euros, the house or la femme. The house gets it all, she says. Gratuiti pour la femme?, I ask. She tells me about 30 to 50 Euros is normal. I tell her that is the reverse in San Francisco. The house gets about 50-60 Euros , the girl about 200 Euros. She says she's worked Germany and Amsterdam and Paris is the best but she doesn't know San Francisco.

Au revoir, I say.

Au revoir, she says looking bored.

I walk over to Place Pigalle, then slip down a side street.

I walk into a bar where a girl sits in the window. The bar is bigger, nicer. There is a big parlor for sitting down with a bottle of champagne and a girl. There are more girls here than at Madison Garden. The bartender is a dignified older woman, not one of the girls doubling as the bartender. I ask her for la liste. It seems everyone has la liste. The prices are about the same as at Madison Garden. It is 20 Euros for a drink, 20 Euros to buy a girl a drink. I buy one for la femme noir who is sitting next to me. She tries to talk me into "champagne."

"Je suis pressé. Acune champagne ce soir," I say.

She is easy going, soft, sexy, and nice. We talk a little, then I head for Le Houdon Jazz Bar.

I learn more later.

Throw funky into the description too. She had suggested the week before that I might shoot video, so I do. (Distortion from the contrebasse on the video made the quality too low to use, but you can hear samples here.) She has with her the perfect blend of musicians for her style: Jobic Le Masson on piano, Peter Giron on contrebasse, and John Betsch on drums. Together they wrench the big emotions out of each song. But about 12:30 I wonder what is happening over a Le Houdon, which is not far away. I split for Le Houdon. There I encounter a real surprise: Philippe de Preissac, vocals and clarinet, and "Hot" Papaz on washboard. The sound is funky too but of another kind. It reminds me of New Orleans jazz with strong folk influence. It stirs real passion in the audience. Maybe it is the combination of instruments, particularly the washboard, which is played with little metal thimbles on the fingers. Maybe it is the clarinet, not heard so often these days, or the very French style of singing of Philippe, or the humor with which they play.

Later I talk with Philippe. "It is heart," he says. "That is what the younger musicians don't have." Well, some do but not in such unlimited quantity. But certainly it is heart, passion, feeling, humor, and a considerable amount of musical talent. It is also for sure the unusual combination of sounds from the washboard and the little drums and cymbals that surround the washboard played by "Hot" Papaz. It is wholly delightful and original. Philippe sings mostly in French but at one point he sings "It's a wonderful world," strongly accented of course, and you begin to really believe that it is.

This was good stuff. I left saying to myself, "Not in San Francisco." Was I becoming an expatriate? Was the city of gray overcast skies stealing my heart away? Was a river more enchanting than a bay? Shame on me.

On Tuesday I head over to Saint Germain and the "Latin Quarter," also known as the Left Bank. I think maybe I will find my perfect hangout there, even though I seem to have just found it over in Montmartre. I hunt down Rue Mouffetard, which I have read about. It is near Sorbonne University. I'm pretty good at finding it but then feel disappointed. I'm not into student places. And this seems to be both students and tourists. I buy a cookie from a cheerful woman in a boulongerie and retrace my steps down Boulevard Monge to Boulevard Saint Germain. Walking down Boulevard Saint Germain, in search of the perfect sidewalk cafe, I catch a glimpse of the Notre Dame—just a little glimpse down a side street but nevertheless there she is. Now I've see her before and I've even been inside but catching this little glimpse down a side street amazes me. So many amazing sights! Then I stop at a sidewalk cafe. Not a perfect one. I conclude after walking two blocks I'm not going to find one. But it is an okay one. It is not one of the many upscaled ones I have been walking by. It looks genuine. And right across the street is a place call PC Superstore. I have a not-particularly-good steak at Le Villon and an okay glass of wine. I think some of the food here has become too much of a formula. But I do get an amusing language lesson. For some reason the bartender, not the waiter, comes out when I'm done and asks if I want anything else. I say, "Je suis fini."

"Not 'Je suis fini'" he says. "'J'ai fini.'"

He departs to do "l'addition."

I think about it. Okay, "Je suis fini" in French probably has a different meaning than in English. It is probably more personal, meaning something like "I'm done for."

My waiter comes and I payer. But before I go I stop by the bar. The bartender is there looking amused. "'Je suis fini' means I'm terminal?" I asked. Yes, he said with a smile. "Merci," I said.

I walked across the street to the PC Superstore and started to go inside. There were little blinking pink lights all along the stairs that led up to the store. It looked sort of like the entrance to the Sexorama in Pigalle. I ascended until I could see inside the store, then turned and left. I was not impressed. I was accustomed to digital hype but not this degree of it.

The previous day I had gotten an email from Stéphane Cadé. He had just read Sidwalk Cafe: Hanging Out In Paris (Part I) about Enrico's closing. He wrote: "I think you must absolutely come to the Limonaire, because it is a very special place in Paris, a cabaret as in the past, but modern. For many of singers as i am, it is a very important place."

Now I who was looking for special places couldn't very well skip going, could I? Stéphane was signing over there in the evening, so I checked on how to get there. From the location of my apartment near the subway station in Pigalle, there did not seem to be a good route. So I decided to take a taxi. Linonaire was over near the Grand Boulevards. I headed over about 10 PM. Make that 22h.

According to the Limonaire web site directions, it was located off of Rue Montmartre between Rue Bergère and Boulevard Poissonière. The cabbie got me near it but not there. It was down an alley that lead to a hotel in an inner courtyard. Actually I heard Limonaire before I saw it. As with Living B'Art, curtains were pulled keeping the light in. As with Living B'Art, I waited for the right time to make my entrance and found a little space at the end of the bar. What can I say? The place was pure funk old cabaret. Again there were tables with bottles of wine and some some plates, and there was a small old bar and a lot of stuff on the walls. I quietly ordered Four Roses and soon felt intrigued and à la maison.