Le Claque Croise

Last week got away from me. I have to catch up with myself. I did some of that this past weekend. In the East End.

The first weekend, pre-season, or of the season, really. The Savior had a tennis tournament - the ostensible reason to go - and he invited our friend, the (the definite article applies) gorgeous Frenchman to join. So Monsieur and I dashed off in the Audi S4 on Friday evening. Zoom. Or Z-umlaut-u-oom.

Two hours later into the night, we rolled into Sag Harbor, and met up with The Savior. His Protege was with him, holding forth, a right-regular raconteur. The protege's story went something like this:

"So, I was meeting one of those Argentine polo players to show him a summer rental. I figured it would be easy, and I rolled onto the playing field in the Scooby-Doo mobile (?)

"He was riding the horse like he was riding a tricycle, the wind whipping through his hair like Fabio. He's wearing those tight, white, riding breeches, those tall boots, but on top, just a raggedy t-shirt. He had more muscles in his hand than I have in my whole body. He trotted the horse right up to me, then descended like Christ getting off the cross. Then he popped the horse on the butt, with one of those fast hand slaps, you know the kind that hit and pull back in the same fraction of a second.

"'Paco,' he says, 'Go over there.' And that two-thousand pound animal goes all docile, walks away, drops its head, and starts munching away on the grass. I had to change up my attitude. Get serious. This guy has so much game, he's gonna get laid all summer.

"I gotta learn how to do that. Not polo. I gotta learn how to ride a horse."

Monsieur countered with a story of his own:

"We have this saying, this phrase , in French. Le claque croise. This polo player, he slapped his horse, yes? So, I have this friend, back home, since he is sixteen years old. Then, he was a virgin, but he had his girlfriend, and he was going to have his 'first time,' you know?

"And I this other friend, he is a wild man. He tells my virgin friend that when he is there, with his girlfriend, doing you-know, he should flip her around, from behind, and then do this, le claque croise."

I tried to repeat the phrase, le claque croise. (Pronounced: Luh klahk kwahzay.)

"Yes, in English, it is like...a crossed slap."

Another fast slap, I thought. And then Monsieur demonstrated. He held his arms up at chest level, crossed them from the elbows, so that each of his hands was almost under the opposite armpit. Then he flattened his hands, palms facing downward. And then - he mimicked slapping downward, fast and sharp.

We all could imagine in that split second the sound, the smack, the right hand on the girl's left buttock, the left hand on her right.

I thought: uh-oh.

"So, my young friend - he does it. Le claque croise. And the girl? What does she do? She jumps away from him, turns around, and she slaps him right across the face!"

Yes, she did, I thought. Yes she did.

Monsieur looked at his left thumb. "I think," he said, "I don't know, I think I just hurt my thumb."

Oh my.

Strained thumb or not, the next day, Monsieur was overcome with the spirit of the kitchen. He wanted to make dinner. My feeling is this: when a man wants to cook, let him. When a European man, with generation upon generation of family recipes and and flavor secrets, offers to cook, then get out of the way, and let him run the joint.

Clams, lobsters, steak, ribs, fresh vegetables, sauces from scratch, a tampenade, and more. Heaven.

And then there was this.

Take a gander. Make a guess.

The next day, the fun didn't stop. And for no particular reason, The Savior tried on Monsieur's classic Ray-Ban aviators.

At Poxabogue.

We stayed Sunday night. Monsieur has it in him to be a PBI: a Professional Bad Influence.

We drove back way early Monday morning. And I was tired all day. In a good way. Good tired.

Comments

[La Latina]

Maybe I need to try French again? I think I may like Le claque croise!! Sounds like you guys had an amazing time!!! Glad to hear it darling. We NEED to catch up!