l’Entredgeu (formerly Le Petit Laugier)
83 rue Laugier
75017, Paris
This little bistro l’Entredgeu replaced “1880” and has taken the same location of a bistro that I dined at a few years ago where I experienced a very unusual evening.
We were just beginning to eat the amazingly sublime chicken liver salad, one of the dishes this small bistro, Le Petit Laugier was known for. I lifted the first forkful of the warm, pink, and peppery liver that was a perfect contrast to the crisp and cool, bitter and vinegary greens. At the same time, a couple was struggling to leave the long, crowded table next to us, which was difficult from their position in the middle of the banquette. Somewhat trapped standing halfway out and halfway in an attractive women with long brown hair was being playfully groped by another woman who would not let her pass. She was protesting slightly and laughingly crying out, “rape, rape.” At this point the other woman became more aggressive and put her hand under her skirt, she struggled free and started to kiss and pet her long-haired lap dog, cuddled in the arms of the man accompanying her. The other women, in a final gesture, lifted her own skirt and exposed her frontal area; she was not wearing anything underneath! I had no idea what was going on, it was totally unexpected, as I had not been briefed about what went on here. I asked my dining companion, an old roué and longtime resident in Paris (of course, it was his suggestion that we dine here in the first place) “What goes on in this crazy place”. He explained to me, “Sunday nights are special nights with a special crowd. On other evenings during the week, it becomes just another quiet neighborhood bistro but on Sunday night anything can happen, and does.”
He went on to tell me that years ago it was the meeting place for vintage Morgan automobile owners of France. He motioned toward two middle-aged ladies sitting chatting at one of the window tables. “They must be the wives of two of the Morgan owners that used to meet here.” They were so engrossed in conversation that they were unaware of what was going on around them. My friend, hoping to spice things up, said something in French to the woman who had just lifted up her skirt. She came over to me and put her face down close to mine as if to kiss; I could smell the rancid odor of cigarette breath, stale garlic and perspiration and turned my head away from hers.
Has anyone else ever been to this place on a Sunday night?
2-1-19 Kita Aoyama, Minato-Ku, Tokyo 107
