Your Duck is Number 1, 203, 763

France. It's in Europe, you know, and somewhat unpopular with a segment of the American hoi polloi. Still, I found myself there with six friends last fall. Rive and Data finally got married, a Chateau marriage in France, and we met up with them in Paris to celebrate. Wanting to splurge, I selected La Tour D'Argent for dinner, on the advice of my hair-stylist who is French.

La Tour D'Argent (which translates to The Silver Tower, and more loosey-goosey to the Tower of Money) has been serving food in Paris since 1582. It is over-the-top elegant, with a ground-floor entrance and parlor which leads to a tiny elevator operated by a tuxedoed attendant, who lifts you up to the grand room of the restaurant, a giant window view of the Ile de Louis, the Seine, and Notre Dame.

It was our first night in Paris, and our French was not quite up to snuff yet, creaky and musty from resting unused too long in Texas. The staff moved about our large party with professional efficiency. While my companions looked at the menu, I asked for the carte des vins, which proved to be an encyclopedic volume of wine. Biting my lip, I asked the sommelier where I would find the côtés du Rhône and chateauneufs. He flipped to page 375 and sniffed as he pointed out the wines I was interested in. I scanned them quickly, noticed a good year bottle of Vieux Telegraphe and ordered it with my belaboured French: juh voodray uhn...uhn...oohn bootayeh deh veeuh telegraf, sihvooplay.

I must point out at this time that La Tour D'Argent is a palace of meat - duck meat, to be precise. Pressed, boiled, roasted, rolled - if you can do it to a duck, La Tour has probably done it. The restaurant invented canard a l'orange, after all. To this palace of ducky death, I had brought two vegetarians, the Cheese and his Missus. As I scanned the menu (no prices printed on it, by the way) for something - anything - not made of duck, my brow began to sweat.

Our waiter returned to take our orders, and I tried in my own way to explain that mes amis la were les vegetarians. The waiter cast a doubtful glance at them, as if perhaps they might explode any moment, but nodded and replied it would not be a problem. While the vegetarians fought their way to some veggie comestibles, Rive and Data ordered the canard a l'orange, and the Brain and myself decided to split le canard tour d'argent. Our waiter glanced at us and advised that the canard tour d'argent was a bit strong tasting, perhaps we'd like the a l'orange.

"Why say you strong?" the Brain inquired.

"Because, sir, it is cooked in its own blood, which becomes the sauce." the waiter replied.

The Brain smiled and says, "That's formidible!" The waiter nods and writes the order down.

We also ordered the fois gras for an appetizer.

It dawned on me that the proper drink to have with fois gras was sauterne, so I summoned the sommelier back to the table. The conversation went like this:

Me: Sir, we would like some sauterne with our fois gras, if it pleases you.

Him: Of course. How much?

Me: We would like a little...a little...a...well...a small half-cup each.

Him: (sniffing derisively) Sir, we do not serve wine in cups.

Me: (quivering) A glass. A glass, I say. If it pleases you. Thank you.

The sauterne - in glasses - arrived with the fois gras. The meal proceeded apace. The whole, uncooked ducks were brought to the table for viewing, Voici vos canards, mesdames et messieurs, then whisked away to the kitchen for pressing and cooking. When the ducks reappeared, they were cooked and sauced. Our blood-cooked duck basked in a shallow grey-black pool of cooked blood.

It was good. A little scary, but quite tasty.

While I was eating and talking to my friends, the owner of the restaurant, who must be ninety, came over to my side and asked me a question beginning with "How..." and ending with "...you?". My brain freezes. I barely even heard him. "How...blah blah blah....you?" What did he just ask me?

Two options spring to mind. Microseconds tick by. He's waiting for an answer.

"I call myself Blubrik."

I knew it was the wrong answer the moment the words left my mouth. I didn't need the Brain's cackling, choking sputter to tell me I'd just put a big sign around my neck - Hello! I'm an Idiot!

To his credit, the owner only smiles and shakes his head slowly.

"No, sir," he repeats slowly, "I asked, how does it go with you?"

"Oh!" I recover, "It goes very, very well! Very well! Thank you!"

The Brain wastes no time in telling the rest of the table.

As the cheese course approaches, I once again brace for the sommelier. For you pleasure, the conversation:

Me: Sir, with the cheese we would like some red wine, something a little rustic.

Him: Of course. What kind?

Me: I do not know, really. Something like a countryside wine.

Him: (sniffing derisively) Sir, we do not serve countryside wine.

Me: (quivering) A côté du Rhône would be perfect.

Him: (nose pointing to ceiling) Very well, sir.

By now, it's getting late and the restaurant crowd has diminshed to our table and one other. We sate ourselves on cheese and wine, stairing out across Paris at night. It's a lovely site, and no better city exists on Earth.

As we prepare to leave, our waiter brings us two postcards. On one side, a painting of the original canardier. On the back, an odd, freshly printed sentence:

Your Duck is Number 1, 203, 763.