by Wendy
Bar Hemingway at the Ritz was brilliant, but it was not our favorite bar of this recent visit to Paris. Harry’s New York Bar has its own illustrious past and list of notable patrons, including Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Gershwin, Rita Hayworth, and even James Bond.

I spotted the neon sign the evening we arrived in Paris from Beanue, just a hop skip and tipsy jump from our hotel. Jack and I hesitated briefly in the doorway of the crowded room, then one of the bartenders waved us over to two seats at the counter. Looking over the menu of signature cocktails with their date of origin, I chose a Boulevardier: a bourbon, vermouth and Campari drink from 1927. Jack ordered Buffalo Trace with a dash of bitters.

The dark wood paneled walls were covered with pennants from American colleges, a mix of prep school library meets Manhattan social club meets Gatsby’s study. The bartenders wore white coats with dark ties, reminiscent of chemists or doctors or psychiatrists, depending on your mood. They were stellar, switching between multiple languages and managing the room with courteous and jovial professionalism.

We were smitten with Harry’s Bar the first night, and returned twice more during the trip. I tried to talk Jack into a fourth – I wanted to try one of their Bloody Mary’s, one of many drinks invented there. Next time.

The most memorable visit to Harry’s was the same evening we checked out Bar Hemingway. After our stop at the Ritz, we went to a cafe near the Passages des Jacobines, a pedestrian square lined with shops and restaurants. We sat outside in the cool evening and drank another round of martinis at Le Nomad, each almost a third cheaper than Bar Hemingway’s price. I left my Ritz flower on the table after we paid our bill.

We walked through the beautiful streets of the Opera neighborhood. As we approached the intersection that led to our hotel, we decided one more drink from Harry’s was in order.

It was still crowded, even nearing midnight on a Thursday. The barstools were taken, but the young bartender who waved us in the other night approached to show us to a table.

I can’t remember which champagne cocktail I selected but Jack ordered bourbon. Another charming bartender walked over to check Jack’s order, remembering that he had requested a dash of bitters the evening before. We were impressed, to say the least, and it made us love this bar even more.

We had skipped dinner due to a late lunch at the super-famous L’As du Falafel in the Marais, but the light snacks at Bar Hemingway were wearing off. Luckily, Harry’s served a hot dog that would be acceptable at any American baseball game, and was sublimely delicious in the wee hours of a Friday morning in Paris.

Jack’s vantage point was of the bar counter, and he described a dude who was falling asleep, jolting awake, looking around dejectedly, and falling asleep again. I gathered a few of the cardboard drink coasters with the Harry’s Bar logo on our table. A stylish bartender appeared almost magically – and in her hand were extra coasters she offered as a souvenir.

Before we left, we may or may not have ordered another drink. We may or may not have been bestowed with a special lapel pin that inducted us as members of Harry’s secret organization of International Bar Flies. We may or may not have woken up before noon the next day. We may or may not have seen the ghost of Ernest Hemingway. We may or may not have channeled a bit of F. Scott and Zelda. But we definitely had a great time.