Sloane crosley essays7/7/2023 ![]() ![]() “You look ’ungry,” he said as he set the plate in front of Nick. ![]() He returned bearing a huge plate of those airy fried potatoes and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The waiter studied him for a moment and disappeared. “It might be OK,” he admitted, looking around the small, crowded room with coats piled on racks above the tables. Nick edged in, sniffed the oak-scented air and watched a golden heap of French fries make its way across the dining room. Since 1924, the restaurant has steadfastly resisted change even the waiters looked as if they’d been there since the beginning. L’Ami Louis is a famous paean to the past. In the end, they grudgingly agreed to come along. “Another overpriced French meal,” he grumbled, making it clear that this was his idea of hell. Michael, my husband, was only moderately more enthusiastic. He frowned as he watched me dance around our hotel room, thrilled that I had managed to snag an impossible last-minute reservation at L’Ami Louis - a restaurant I’d been vainly trying to get into for years. He missed his friends, he missed his room and he missed familiar food. By the time we got to Paris - our last stop - all he wanted to do was go home. My 8-year-old son, Nick, was tired of traveling. ![]()
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