by Wendy
The weather is cool as Jack and I walk from our hotel to Place Vendome, a large fashionable square particularly striking as its lights glow against the evening sky. My heels click on the cobblestones and I pull on my trench coat, trying to channel a chic Parisienne. We are going to Bar Hemingway in the legendary Paris Ritz, one of the top luxury hotels in the world.

This well-known bar is on the Paris itinerary of many fans of both Ernest Hemingway’s brilliant writing and the drinks he loved. I know from research that it’s perfectly fine to visit the bar without staying overnight here, but am still impressed by the hotel staff’s cordial welcome as we enter through the revolving door.

It’s as glamorous as you’d expect. As we walk down a corridor, we admire the decor and windows displaying dresses that might cost as much as our car. This is not our usual scene, but that’s part of the fun. Like we’re crashing a party but are so well-behaved there’s no reason for anyone to know.

We reach the hallowed bar and are ushered to a round table in the center of the room. It’s after 9pm and almost at capacity. There is a row of people perched on barstools, while others lounge at the 10-15 tables that surround us. A short hallway leads to another room upstairs. There is an air of formality, but it’s not uninviting. There are photos of Hemingway on the walls; the renovated decor and name being a tribute to one of the Ritz bar’s frequent and notorious patrons. Rumor has it that he “liberated” the bar during World War II by storming in to drink 51 martinis.

A distinguished gentleman in a pristine white jacket stops by to take our order. We each choose a “clean dirty martini” and he nods approvingly. Shortly afterwards, we receive our drinks, gin perfectly chilled by an olive juice ice cube that slowly dissolves, as well as a tray of snacks. My glass is adorned with a flower, as are the drinks of other women in the bar.

We sip and take in the atmosphere. There are well dressed couples who might have met up after work, others who might be going to a discotheque later, and others a bit more casual. We are glad we stepped it up a notch and would have felt underdressed in anything less.

The staff are impeccable, swiftly seating customers, clearing tables, mixing cocktails, taking photos for guests, managing the room with gracious manners. Jack is entertained watching a queue that is now forming outside the door. A group of guys resembling 70s rockers are shown to a table, after politely asking if the teenager with them is allowed to enter the bar. Another guy with a sporty sweater tied around his neck is whining loudly that he’s been waiting forever.

Jack and I chat and people-watch and sip our drinks but when the martinis are gone, we decide to forfeit the table. As immensely enjoyable as all this is, the drinks are 30 euros apiece.

I stop by the toilettes and am only slightly exaggerating when I say the ladies room is bigger than some hotel rooms I’ve stayed in. Or when I say I think I’ve wandered into Versailles. Incidentally, there’s a story that Hemingway shot a Ritz toilet with a pistol after finding out his wife planned to seek a divorce and liberate herself from him.

As we leave the hotel, we see an accommodating staff member taking a photo with a woman’s phone. She is posing in a party dress, holding a giant bundle of pink balloons. No one is phased. This is the Ritz, not quite Reality.