photo by Brooke Metayer

INT. FIGARO BISTROT - TUESDAY 5:13 PM - APRIL 

observing the patrons at An infamous cafe in los angeles. 

By BROOKE METAYER

05.10.2023

Figaro Bistrot is a French cafe and restaurant located on North Vermont Avenue in the Los Feliz neighborhood of Los Angeles. It has three rooms, stained red banquettes, perplexing paintings of Paris cityscapes, and tightly packed sidewalk seating. Figaro is infamous for its pseudointellectual and highly judgemental patrons. The following six were enjoying happy hour on one rainy day in April.

GWEN (32 years old) sits by the front window so people walking by outside can admire how European she looks in her linen pants and Reformation kitten heels. She is wearing a felt beret, which feels contrived, but she also has a pixie cut so you know she means it. When her last boyfriend could not recall her usual drink order, a dirty martini with six olives, she broke up with him and started a rumor that he was on a sex offender list in Russia. She doesn’t drink water and owns a vintage Volkswagen. People treat her like a movie star even though she works in retail. She gives bad advice but no one has realized it yet.

CARTER (23 years old) is sitting outside at the short tables lining the sidewalk, legs crossed tightly, bracing for the next gust of cold, unforgiving wind. A beige tote bag, containing only a set of Mercedes S-Class car keys and a pack of passion fruit Trident Layers, hangs limp on his shoulder. He orders a cabernet because it is the most masculine of the feminine drinks. He played bass in a band in college (USC), but they never released any songs apart from a cover of “Undone (The Sweater Song)” by Weezer. It has 1,001 listens on Spotify. He pierced his own ears with a sewing needle, and his parents are high school sweethearts. He is scrolling on Raya. His older brother, a DJ, referred him.

BETHANY (47 years old) orders a warm-up glass of chardonnay while she waits for a friend at a table under an impressionist painting of the Eiffel Tower. Last night, she took an Ambien and slept through her daughter’s ballet recital, and the nanny had to pick her up. Her hair has been chemically straightened from bi-monthly bleachings since 1997, and she pronounces “foyer” like “foy-ay.” She’s renovating her kitchen, wears skinny jeans from Anthropologie, and is currently planning a girls' trip to Punta Cana. She buys her Pilates instructor expensive Christmas gifts. She’s trying to seduce her chiropractor.

DAN (57 years old) charges past the hostess stand and takes a stool in the middle of the bar on the west side of the restaurant. The bartender greets him with a familiar high-five before getting to work on his vodka tonic. He has a soul patch and wears thick-framed glasses. His chubby, heavily ringed fingers struggle to pull his phone from the front pocket of his jeans as the custom Eminem song ringtone blares through the room. He discusses contract negotiations with a talent manager on speakerphone. Despite his loud voice and disregard for basic manners, he is charming and widely respected. His employees give him creative nicknames, and his wife gives him blowjobs on Fridays.

ANDREW (28 years old) is hunched over a rusty table in the back corner of the establishment, next to the swinging door that leads to the bathroom. He has scoliosis. It runs in the family. He is drinking a Coke out of a beer glass that is placed next to a water-damaged copy of a Stephen King novel. He sits here before going to screenings of old movies at the theater next door when he is avoiding his weird roommate: an amateur magician who is also his mother’s friend’s son. Square-patterned fold marks cover his white t-shirt, indicating that he has just taken it out of the value package. He lives in a gray apartment complex next to the freeway and prefers others to make decisions for him.

ISABELLA (63 years old) is barely five feet tall and knows exactly what everyone within her social circle is doing at any given moment. She is rearranging items on a small round table cluttered with half-empty glasses, waffles, and oysters. A plate nearly falls to the ground, but she catches it just in time. Her short, unpainted nails allow for agility and precision for that kind of thing—and for playing doubles tennis. She hates bad liars and thinks communists are scientologists. She has never heard of Tom Cruise, and the last time she saw a movie, Reagan was in office. She won her real estate firm in a poker game against an Irish man in the late 1970s.