Maxime Frederic of Louis Vuitton (LV Cafe)

I landed in Paris at approximately 11a in the morning. I made my way to Bd de la Chappelle which I had originally thought was walking distance to Sacre Coeur and central Montmartre, yet I was sorely mistaken. However, for myself, I am just so happy to be in Paris, that it didn’t really matter to me just how far away I was from my chosen destination, let alone that I was in one of the less safe neighborhoods in Paris. My friends would later make a point to escort me to and from my apartment at night just so that I was safe. A real testament to the traditional French chivalry that is apparently still alive and well.

So, as I made my acquaintance with Matthieu, my landlord who was much like an animated French archetype cartoon you might see in an old 1960s cartoon, he gave me some cigarettes, the wifi password and reminded me that the cold and hot running water faucet was in fact opposite. Good information to know, yet I would forget each time I took a shower. I dropped my luggage and immediately commenced my ritual of opening the window and smoking a cigarette which was soon interrupted by a call from my boss. She promptly invited me to join her for a coffee and some pastries at a cafe. In my mind I kept thinking it was 6pm in the evening despite it being close to noon, so I eagerly accepted and she said she would send along the address. I changed into some black, 3/4 black fitted capris, my Margiela Tabi loafers and my leather coat and threw on my headband so as to not have to deal with 11 hour bed head from my flight. I grabbed my phone and was surprised to see that the address was for the Louis Vuitton Cafe by Pont Neuf. Ok, I thought. You might have thought I would jump at the opportunity but I felt like my ritual of going to the nearest cafe and having an espresso and people watching was trumped by LV Cafe, and how could my local cafe compete?

So, I was off to the LV Cafe aka Maxime Frederic at Louis Vuitton, to meet with my director, a model and some others from a makeup academy that we would be working with that weekend. My director took it upon herself to order an assortment of cheeky Louis Vuitton themed pastries, six if I recall and multiple cafes with their signature logos etched into the foam. I have to say it was an experience that I probably would never have on my own due to the elitist nature and touristy nature of it, but I’m glad to say I went to say I experienced it. The atmosphere was class all the way but what I was most enthusiastic about was the showroom of Louis Vuitton trinkets, books and toys that were on display. Virgil Abloh’s influence was everywhere and it was a bit nostalgic to see how his work has lived on in this way. Of course my cynical self was thinking about how all of that creativity and genius now has a small space in a posh cafe where picture opportunities and selfies were of utmost importance. Mere memories to publish on Instagram or be stored away in camera rolls only to be showcased when clout is running low. Maybe I fall into this category myself, the category being one of those people who chase clout by sharing images, who knows. However, I appreciated the curation of objects as well as observing those who didn’t have cameras at the ready and like me, took time to read back of book covers and inside the sleeves.

Coffee and some couture, that seemed to be the foreshadowing essence of this meeting with colleagues that lasted about an hour and a half during which I was beckoning my friend and designer Leo, to come and meet us to be a part of the chat and insider gossip that is had at these gatherings. Unfortunately, he arrived just, and I mean just as everyone had taken their exit to go shop and sightsee. For me, being the arrogant person I am, I had no need to sightsee at this point visiting Paris for my umpteenth time. I decided to wait, and stare at the half-eaten cakes and pastries in front of me and I found myself thinking about gluttonous Americans and all of that “clout” talk again. I snapped myself out of these thoughts reminding my serious and sometimes too judgmental mind, to just live and let live. Oh. Leo has arrived. He is just on the other side of the cafe entrance but the various planters block us. He is wearing a painted one-of-a-kind leather coat draped over his shoulders and an all black ensemble. Always chic, statuesque and affectionate, we squeal and he bends down to embrace me. He bickers in French with the waiter about taking a cafe to go, but we can’t so instead we pay, using the boss’ credit card and then jet off a few blocks down an alleyway to meet a musician who will be performing at Leo’s show. I climb in the backseat and find a small child, a boy who promptly throws his booster seat at my head and we jet off to shop. Ah, I love Paris.