First tango in Paris with Serge

SO there I am, strolling through Paris a couple of evenings ago, having collected my accreditation — a slight steam rising from my person, as happens with the well-fleshed Irish male in any continental city — when a sign catches my eye: mojitos available at a swanky Cuban-themed bar on Rue Tilsitt.

The bouncers eye me, and I eye the bouncers, and they manage to stifle their smiles as I approach, as clearly a faded t-shirt with sweat-stains growing from the armpits is not what the well-dressed Frenchman is wearing these days, but then we’re all distracted. Hopping out of a car nearby, gearbag slung over the shoulder, is the unmistakable Serge Betsen of Biarritz and France.

Professional resolve gone, the bouncers descend on Serge with many a “bonne chance” and a backslap. To my eternal regret, I pass up my chance to get inside for the fable mojito and amble along behind them, sticking out a hand and throwing out a “bonne chance” or two myself.