In the glow of streetlights
on Boulevard St. Michel,
he sits, a young wanderer,
maps tucked in his pocket,
the scent of history swirling
with the smoke of Gauloises,
Paris murmuring secrets
in the language of bantering couples
and clinking glasses.
The waiter, a figure of cool elegance,
leans in, an arch of brow,
and presents the dish,
a vibrant mound of crimson,
its sheen glistening like the Seine
under the watchful gaze of the moon.
“Steak tartare,” he says,
with the flourish of an artist,
a daring invitation
to plunge into the unknown.
He hesitates, heart racing,
the pulse of the city humming
in his ears, a distant jazz
echoing from a café corner.
It’s just meat, he thinks,
but in this moment,
it feels like a leap,
a test of courage,
a bite into the very marrow
of experience.
Fork poised, he relishes
the tang of capers,
the bite of shallots,
the whispers of mustard,
a symphony of flavors
unfurling on his tongue.
Each mouthful, a declaration,
each chew, a step further
from the familiar,
the mundane of Midwestern dinners.
Outside, life pulses—
students debating, lovers laughing,
the echoes of revolutions
still hanging in the air,
and he, in his own small rebellion,
savors the rawness, the edge,
the delicate dance of culture,
the heartbeat of Paris
infusing his very being.
Here, in this moment,
the world narrows to a plate,
to a taste that lingers
like the soft brush of a hand,
and he knows he is changed—
an American, yes,
but also a son of this city,
if only for an evening,
savoring life, one bold bite at a time.
*Tourist promo?
© 2025, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved. (1972)