All Hail the Queen

Queen Ann is my Arnold’s, the first hangout spot I automatically invite anybody to for lunch in Paris. Their hot chocolate is the best I ever tasted in my life, it’s like a g’damn soup. (In Venice years ago, I got lost in the rain following some winding cobble- stone roads and stumbled upon an Italian stand that made even better hot chocolate, then I could never find it again.) In the past two months, poet Sharrif Simmons came to town and we built a cipher up in Queen Ann with expat MC Mike Ladd. Funniest anecdote: a casual George Clinton alledgedly popping crack rocks like Pop Rocks in the presence of somebody at the table.

A week or two back, cutie-pie Princeton alum Alexis Tucker and Angela Jackson (a mutual friend of Tai Allen back in BK) met me there for some Bordeaux. Alexis put me up on French hiphop duo Oz & Vz; Angela gave me hope that there are still courageous souls willing to drop everything to up and move to gai Paris for the fuck of it. I’m halfway through Alexis’s college thesis, “From Baudelaire to Bling: Hiphop’s Role in French Politics and Culture,” and lovin it. She’s got a grant, she’s here to learn a lot more on the subject. And just today, Claire Sulmers met me at the Stravinsky Fountain so we could walk over to the Marais bistro and rap about how to expatriate in five easy steps. She’s a Harvard grad with a French degree, a writer up on the ins and outs of fashion; she’ll do fine. (And speaking of fine, yes, she is.)

Not to mention my man Thierry and me over there hatching top secret plans not too long ago. With my book proposal done, I might work on a film project while waiting for the Random House (f’r instance) accountants to let the hounds loose. Queen Ann boasts two sexy waitresses: one from Eritrea, the other an alluring blonde. They know me up in there, know I’ll demand hot chocolate the minute I sit down. If you’re in Paris, it’s at 5 rue Simon-le-Franc. Don’t tell ‘em I sent you, just order the chocolat chaud.