It was Paris and the next table caught on fire. They didn’t want to serve us in the first place; expertly grumpy waiter let us sit in the empty patio just before closing making clear the severe limitations of the menu at this hour; it was barely 10 o’clock fer crisesakes this being June and being Paris I figured everything would be open late.

It was a bit windy through the curve of the streets flapping the paper table covers not cloth; those white disposable kind. And those little tea light candles sunk in a colored holder staying lit in the bit windy so that the corner of the tablecover could gently flap up and catch itself. It went up quick into a neat little fire.

So in my haste to be fireman, to possibly save the entire restaurant, I jumped into action grabbing the heavy water carafe floating lemon slices to dose the empty table next to us that was now ablaze. But grabbing I was not, knocking to the floor with a splash crash is more like it.

She was unimpressed with the fire but giggly fascinated with my clumsy water handling. The waiter was bored; perhaps of Paris itself by now; he deftly whipped the blaze off the table to the floor and stepped it out in a puddle of soggy lemon slices. A few minutes later he brought out our lamb or fish or whatever it was.