We first met Cyrille last October; the French friend of a French friend, he came to Bali for a holiday. His visit coincided with the rugby world cup final – New Zealand versus France – and he joined us as a guest at our Kiwi dominated party. France lost the championship by a single point, but it didn’t spoil the show for Cyrille; with a Gaelic shrug he continued to party with us ’til late into the night. He told us if ever we came to Paris, he would return our hospitality by treating us to a barbeque on the balcony of his apartment, which overlooks the Moulin Rouge.
A few months later we decided to incorporate Paris into our Europe trip so we facebooked Cyrille and suggested a catch up. Cyrille replied with affirmation of his promise to welcome us with a barbeque.
About a week before our arrival in France we received a Facebook invitation to an event – ‘Terrasse Barbecue Gambas à la Maison’, and noted that 57 of the 91 invitees had already confirmed their attendance. What we thought was going to be an intimate gathering of about 10 friends had escalated into a Parisian extravaganza.
We met up with Cyrille briefly on the night before the party and invited him to join us for dinner but, although happy to see us, he declined on the basis that he had to be up early to go to the market to buy fresh ingredients for the barbeque. The entry fee for each guest was a bottle of Champagne – there would be no other alcohol available. It was at this point that we learned that Cyrille’s parties were legendary.
On the evening of the party, our posse of four turned up at Cyrille’s small-yet-chic apartment a little bit earlier than the official start time because we had been commandeered to lend a hand with the preparations. The furniture had been pushed back against the walls, the bathtub had been filled with ice, and already a table had been spread with canapées. We sank our bottles of Champagne into the tub of ice, and helped load marshmallow mushrooms and candy fruits onto wooden satay sticks, which we then planted, in accordance with Cyrille’s detailed pictorial diagram, amongst the geraniums and herbs in the terracotta pots that graced his 5th floor balcony, just 50 metres from the red windmill of Le Moulin Rouge.
Gradually, the guests started to arrive, each depositing their Champagne offerings into the bathtub before greeting us, individually, with a kiss on both cheeks, “Bonjour. Ça va? ” Gosh these Parisians were so charming, so polite and yet so informal. With a French flourish, Cyrille popped the first magnum of Champagne, glasses were filled and glasses clinked as expressions of “Cheers!”, “Santé!” and “Tchin” were exchanged. More and more people came through the door, worked the small room and the breezy balcony where we were standing, some of them greeting us as if we were old friends, others inquiring if we were the Europe-trotting journalists – that they had been told about – from Bali.
The balcony became more and more crowded as more and more guests spilled out from the jam-packed room in search of fresh air. The music got louder, the barbeque was fired up and Cyrille’s 850 previously-prepared satay sticks – containing shrimp and courgette marinated in curry paste, and chicken marinated in Coca Cola – were cooked, distributed and consumed, along with copious quantities of Champagne. Then, slowly, very slowly, the sun set, dusk fell, and the neon lights of the Moulin Rouge shone red in the darkness; what a shame about the broken lightbulbs in the first three letters, it seemed rather odd, and a tad tacky, that such an iconic sign had been so poorly maintained.
There was nothing tacky about the partygoers, however, the Champagne and the conversations continued to flow; these charming, well-dressed French people, all of whom spoke perfect English, certainly knew how to enjoy themselves.
Shortly before midnight, just after the Champagne ran out, a significant number of guests departed, these were the folks who were aiming for the last Métro train – often called the “balai” (broom) because it sweeps up the remaining passengers – to grab a few hours sleep before work in the morning. This partial exodus gave the rest of us some space to move around a bit more, converse with some of the people we had not yet had the chance to meet, dance, and search the apartment for more Champagne. Happily, we found a secret stack of wine. The music changed with the mood and the party rocked on. We finally left at 4am, the party was by no means over but we decided it was the right time for to depart as those left were the remnants who had not yet found someone to go home with.
Thanks Cyrille, for inviting us to one of the best private parties we have ever had the privilege to attend. It’s not often you get invited to a party where you know less than ten percent of the 70 guests, where everyone is French yet speaks perfect English, where everyone has something fascinating to say, where the food is top notch and the only available beverage is Champagne. . . and there’s plenty of it, and the location is a tiny balcony overlooking the Moulin Rouge.
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