In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

her neck over her navy blue house dress. The vendor, who was more
old hippie than old salt, picked up each oyster, and placed them artfully
around the Styrofoam platter as if he were Manet arranging a still life.
The two exchanged some words, but money was not seen, and he
offered the platter to the androgynous page/maid/poor relation who
accompanied the lady to carry it back to their creaky historic apartment
nearby. The codger bowed low with the words, "Au revoir, belle
dame," to the older woman, and the two left, making a very
Renaissance cortège as they disappeared around the corner of the rue
Mazarine.
Penny took in this bit of street theater. Maia scanned the café
"Jaded" beyond, where the testosterone levels were advertised and
could be accurately gauged by the ring of motorcycles parked
conspicuously on either side of the seafood stand. The old oyster
vendor winked at Penny like an old satyr, or rather like one of their
flippered cousins in the myth-o-sphere, so she walked back over to
Maia and tugged at her mink thing to get her to move along.
At the corner of rue du Bourbon Chateau Maia strode under a
yellow awning and into the café, Le Chai de L'Abbaye. They sat down
at a booth under grape cluster sconces and a leering sculpture of the
god Pan who looked just like the oyster guy, minus the watch cap.
Grape chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, with painted vines
meandering from them down the walls. The place was set up for a
bacchanalia, not a quick bite on the run.
Doing a pretty good Brigitte Bardot moue, Maia checked her
appearance in the mirrors that were hung between the glowing grape
clusters and ordered a bière blanche and a salade niçoise from the
waiter, still breathless from his recent motorcycle commute. Penny
went for the charcuterie plate and a Perrier and watched the people
walking past the window in the little street.
"Be careful you don't ruin your appetite," Maia said, as Penny
let her eyes, ears and nose wander.
A long haired art dealer type dressed in a fancy but no longer
fresh black outfit paced up and down in the middle of the narrow
street, married to his cell phone.
The little waiter rushed in with their order, one eye on the shiny
motorcycle parked on the curb. Behind them the cooks were gathered
around a long table with a platter of broiled potatoes arranged around a
roast, a large salad bowl and wine - the whole nine yards.
"Pas mal, ces patates," muffled the guy in the apron. The others
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