Paris is burning
by Jon Worley

Crab dip tastes best when served hot. Warm is acceptable, though only barely. Once the tasty goo has surrendered enough heat to approach room temperature, even the dog will sniff at it and walk away.

Luckily, I don't have to suffer cold crab dip. At the other end of my block there resides a place called the Philly Cafe. Philly, I assume, because we both happen to have addresses on Philadelphia Street. Cafe because, well, they serve food and beer and such. The Philly Cafe specializes in hardshell crabs, which is the one sort of seafood that's easy to find fresh here in not-quite Amish Country.

And so, after watching France thoroughly dismantle Brazil 3-0 in the World Cup final (and wishing I had that $800 for a ticket to Orly and that $239 for a left-bank hotel room and $45 for that Metro pass), I baked some beer bread and whipped up some pan-fried barbecue shrimp (a personal invention which incorporates the wonderful seasonings of not one but two real-live Kansas City barbecue sauces). Barbara scored some crab dip from the Philly Cafe ("Youse wantin' crabs or dinner?" is how you're greeted at the door), popped open a couple of well-aged homebrews (Fresh beer is better? What are you, stoned?) and we settled out onto our deck overlooking the Muzak dish on the roof of another restaurant.

An altogether nice afternoon, really.

But back to France. Paris, in particular. The French team, underdogs in the extreme, managed to parlay a relatively easy path to the final into ultimate victory. They won in the ugliest ways possible. After 114 minutes "Les Bleu" (specifically, Laurent Blanc) dumped in a goal against Paraguay to win 1-0. Next came a mind-numbing 0-0 tie with the Italians. The French won on penalty kicks. Then finally a win in regulation, 2-1 over Croatia, a team which was just happy to be in the semis.

After an easy 4-1 dumping of Chile, Brazil had to struggle to a 3-2 win over Denmark (probably the best match of the tourney). Then came a 1-1 draw with Holland (Brazil went through on penalty kicks) before the final. This supertalented Brazilian team, with so many high-priced strikers, the team that invented the beautiful game (a style of playing soccer, by the way, and not a reference to the sport itself), couldn't score against a France defense which was missing one of its top defenders, Blanc, due to a red card given in the semifinal match with Croatia. And even after the French went a man down (two yellows make a red, and Marcel Desailly went off), the Brazilians couldn't score. What's worse, they gave up the final goal to Emmanuel Petit in stoppage time after the 90th minute.

So my month of soccer watching is at an end. Time to get back to my regular routine of working from three to five (or six, if extra time was needed) every afternoon. And I don't have to be getting up at the monstrously early time of 10:30 anymore, either. Nope, I can slip back into my usual nocturnal habits.

This return to normal is one reason why we had the little valedictory dinner after the final. I mean, you can't live on crab dip alone, and anyway, crab dip gets cold pretty quick, even on a pleasantly warm (but not hot) summer afternoon. You know what they say about cold crab dip.

Still, I would have liked to be jumping around with all the folks on the Champs Elysees after the match ended. I might have shouted a couple fake French phrases just for kicks. Like "Oui-oui, Maisoneauve" or "Je suis camembert puilly fuisse". Doesn't really matter what I might have said. There would have been wine. Lots of wine. Lots and lots of wine. A hangover to end all hangovers. Probably the best way to cap a monthlong soccer celebration. There's nothing like drunken revelry with a couple million of your closest pals, even if they don't speak your language. Though, to be honest, the Philly Cafe does make one hell of a crab dip. An acceptable substitute for a trans-Atlantic flight of fancy, if only barely.

Jon Worley took one year of French (seventh grade). He can still remember a couple of French cuss words, though he's pretty sure he picked them up from La Femme Nikita rather than class.

return to the Shut up, I'm talking page
return to the LIES home page
return to the A&A home page