Ever inspired by French language and culture, I secretly obsess over the pages of Paris Vogue and Le Monde and have isolated conversations with myself so I can practice my accent. On my own I speak impeccably clear and unforced; in front of native speakers (and being in New York City, native can mean either Quebecois or European dialects) I tense up and decline. “Salut,” says some Frenchie, “Hi,” I respond. With Balzac’s “Le père Goriot” in my hand, the question ”Do you speak French?” has come up once or twice this month,”No” I reply. And this is true, I don’t speak FLUENTLY unless I’m describing objects like a white horse or a green bike, which is rare in daily conversation. But I COULD carry on a slow conversation, if I wasn’t so intimidated and had a native with patience. A former friend of mine (he’s Canadian) sat down in the most marvelous French diner (for lack of a better word) and I, so unsure of my accent, made him order for the both of us. Now I remember spending a good month in high school French class on how to order at a restaurant, but I refused despite going over the words in my head as he spoke them.

When I made reservations at Jadis and left a voicemail, I was happy to get a call back with a message entirely in French. Now I could practice my translation on my mobile! I was still a closeted Francophile, so I was shocked when I called Cafe Un Deux Trois to make reservation for lunch on Monday and threw caution to the wind. “Bonjour,” said the gentleman.

“Salut, ca va?” said moi.

I panicked, knowing that I unwittingly set myself up for a conversation in French. Merde. I wasn’t at all prepared. “J’aimerais faire une réservation de déjeuner pour deux,” I interjected before he could respond, just praying that he understood at least some of what I was trying to say. And so continued my very first, non-classroom, non-tutored, French dialogue. I successfully made reservations for two and hung up the phone, “You speak French?” and intern asked. “No,” I answered.

…But maybe I’ll start to try….