Rain and cold have chased the tourists away.  Even the Lucchese are staying tucked inside their homes in warmth and comfort.  Being housebound for twenty-four hours we take the plunge and venture out.  I think Michael is tired of cooking — it is his week — and I can understand. 

Earlier in the day, I made reservations at Paris Boheme, a Bistrot, specializing in Mediterranean and French cuisine.  Curiosity propelled me.

Parise Boheme

We walk in the door, and are warmly greeted, “Miss Charlotte!  Here you are…”

Seated at a doll-size table in the front of the bistro, we are tucked in between a display case full of pastries, another doll-size table, and two lovely upholstered chairs that beckon and call my name. Summer fantasy surrounds us — the paraphernalia of sun and surf.  Beach balls, white rocks, photos.  Strung from the ceiling is a giant immobilized mobile.  A canvas beach chair. Large wooden oars. A cutout of the word Paris. Beach balls. Flip flops.

A soft sultry seductive female voice singing familiar lyrics wafts and swirls from hidden speakers.

Michael orders a bottle of Chianti and continues with, “We want to share…”

Stepping on his words, I chime in, “Wait, I want my own appetizer.”

My waiter frowns when I order the Quiche Lorraine with salad, saying, “It will take time, a very long time — thirty minutes at least.”

“We are in no hurry.”

Dinner

Paris Boheme doesn’t disappoint. Michael’s appetizer arrives first. We should have shared. It is a meal! A plate of beautifully arranged mixed Italian meats and cheeses — the prosciutto is among the best I have sampled — scattered with slices of assorted fruit and dotted with berries. There is a small dish of fig jam to go with the cheese.  It is heaven.

Time flies. I check the clock and can’t believe it is so; an hour and a half from when we first stepped foot in the restaurant, my Quiche Lorraine is set before me.  The garden-fresh mixed lettuce is perfectly dressed and a wonderful foil for the rich individual quiche encased in puff pastry.  I know there is more to come, but I devour every crumb.

Sated, I take my last bite of veal scaloppini with porcini and receive a thumbs up from our waiter/owner of Paris Boheme when he retrieves my plate. The last drop of two espressos sends us on our way. As we open the door to leave, we still hear voices in the back room, where there are adult size tables.

Seemingly alone in this small world of Lucca, we study Puccini’s statue, taking a path we have never walked before to wind our way home.

Dark. Cold. Damp. Deserted.

Lucca — lovely.