For the first time in twenty-three years, the L on the front window was missing—leaving only F ORENT.  And therein was the story.  After more than two decades of 24/7 service spent slinging bistro fare (and neighborhood civics lessons) to transvestites, club kids, celebrities, drag queens, and just about anyone who ever lived below 14th Street, Florent Morellet was closing his restaurant due to the latest wave of Manhattan real estate greed that sent his rent skyrocketing out of reach. 

And now it was the final twilight of the last day—and how very fitting that a steady drizzle of rain—and then sudden exclamatory downpours—splattered the cobblestones of the Meatpacking District.  Once upon a time, this was a working nabe of hookers, hustlers, and honest-to-goodness meatpackers, where nightcrawlers wore black leather chaps and harnesses—rather than a little black dress with Jimmy Choos. 

So there we were, at the last supper, as it were—although, oddly, not everyone realized this fact, in spite of the text on the front window, right beneath F ORENT, words that read “Serving 24/7 until the {bitter} sweet end: June 29.  Au revoir.”  Right to the point, and yet the yummy comely Ulrick, for example, and his five-month-pursued-but-finally-his-as-of-two-nights-ago galfriend—both of whom arguably might be said to represent the latest wave crashing through the MPD (though her shoes were Guess rather than Manolo, but still, they were leopard skin): neither of them knew this was the last tango.   Young, they were, both of them, and beautiful, of course, and carefree as they canoodled at the table next to ours, more than happy to pose for photos, such is their generation’s aptitude for self-knowledge.  “The last night?” Ulrick shouted, when at last he got up and read the text on the window.  His accent was as endearing as his smile. “No, it can’t be.  I love thees place.”

And so did the couple on the other side of Ulrick and his nymphet, both of whom were on the other side of thirty, for it had been nearly twenty years before that they had first glimpsed each other at Florent, late one night.  Wasn’t it always late one night at Florent?  Straggling in from bars and clubs, and sinking into the red banquettes, as you would in Paris, or slumping over coffee at the Formica diner counter, because this was New York.  It was the best of both worlds; the best of times… 

We talked of dead friends and old friends, no longer in our life—and of the first time we’d arrived at Florent, back when we barely had a clue how to pronounce Ganesvoort.  We’d had to trek through the netherworld, to finally find ourselves here, enveloped in Florent’s warm nocturnal embrace.  And oh, the frisson of entertaining out-of-town friends—  Friends torn between titillation and alarm as we directed a cabbie to a restaurant with the R & L above the window in the middle of an unforgiving block of the transgressive Meatpacking District.

And the year we headed to Florent after marching in the Pride Parade with our parents, carrying a sign that read MOM AND DAD AND ME AND HE, a sign we parked upright on the banquette next to us—and then for the next two hours, smiled and hugged as people from the parade came in and took our photos.  That day, there was a large drag queen who waited on us—as my father, smiling, ordered a beer and a burger.  He’d seen it all already, my father, and nothing about a wig and pasties was going to bother him now. 

All these days and nights, and those block-long Bastille Day bacchanals—and yet all that was sub-text.  For on this final day at Florent, at the last supper at Florent, there was still the sense of an ongoing all-day-and-night party.  The waitress in her safety-pinned t-shirt dress, flirting with Ulrick while his Lolita powdered her nose—and the shouts of joy when the latest guest came in from the rain.  A cheer going up in the kitchen—to which one waiter remarked dryly, “She just got out of prison.”  The strings of Christmas lights were still strung above the bar and there were bowls of moules on the counter and more than a few martinis.  Apart from the sign on the front window, there was one other telling fact: the number of cameras.  Some people were videotaping.  Otherwise, it was just another Saturday night—at Florent.

That’s how Florent wanted it to be.  The time for tears had passed. And so when we left, after hugs and kisses to the people all around us—because that’s how it was that night: as if you should embrace family members, as you might in a large Italian family—we left quietly.  We hugged the peroxide-blond waiter at the front door and said, “A bientot, a toute a l’heure.”  See you later—somehow, somewhere.  Thanks for the memories, Florent.  And then walking away down Ganesvoort, we tried not to cry.