BCBG•NYC was born on my first trip to Paris in the mid nineties. I was in Belfast for a family affair and hopped over to Charles De Gaulle for a quick few days in the ‘City of Love’. I strolled for days up and down and in and out of its charming streets through Quartier de l’Opéra, Monmartre, Saint Germaine des Pres Quartier, Rive Gaudre and others. I walked for miles and miles from the Louvre, to the Eiffel Tower, from the Place de la Concorde to the Grand and Petit Palais. I discovered the evolution of Paris and its history from my walks along the  River Seine. I visited The Cathedral of Notre-Dame, Sainte Chapelle and of course, Morrison’s grave. I walked the length of the Champs Élysées and bought a $1000 pair of Gucci boots in Le Marais.

I popped into a brasserie the first morning for a double espresso and a croquet monsieur. I believe I was in the Jewish Quarter. The barista was a tall exotic black-haired, green-eyed beauty. Halfway through my breakfast, she put on her leather over her skin tight white top and leather pants and grabbed her helmet. She glided across the floor as though she was barely levitating with her head tilted ever so slightly down and to the left, her hair 2 feet long and more. It was enigmatically hiding her face. She made  her way out the door and onto her motorcycle and away she went, never to be seen again. She was stunning. I was stunned. I’d never seen anything like her in my life.

Dizzy, I departed and dipped down into ‘Le Metro’ to endeavor alone through my new favorite city. It was the ‘Concorde’ station, the tiles in the station adorned with the letters of the alphabet, still to this day, my favorite station. I ventured out into the mild night. The entire city was a museum to me; the people, the buildings, the road ways and signs, the sidewalks, the cars, mopeds and bicycles and motorcycles, and of course, the people and their Parisian fashion and swagger. It was surreal and glorious. I was in awe.

I had to figure a taxi to my fondue dinner in Pigalle. I got to talking with the driver and he agreed to pick me up again after dinner to show me the city by night. Redouane, originally from Morocco, was a local and knew all the spots with spectacular views. He was a unique man. He adopted me and showed me the way. We drove the night away through the streets of gay Paris; to the site where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake and where Marie Antoinette was executed at Place De La Revolucion after conventional wisdom records her declaring, “Let them eat cake!”. We traveled Princess Diana’s last ride from The Ritz to where she met her fate at Pont De l’Alma tunnel. We were smoking Morrocan hash and Gauloises and listening to Serge Gainsbourg singing “Harley Davidson” and his duet with Jane Birkin ‘singing’ ‘Je T’aime Moi Non Plus’ and the Brigitte Bardot duet “Bonnie And Clyde.” We rocked out to Johnny Hallyday and Chuck Berry and the beats and sounds of Morocco. I was high on life and drugs.

After the ‘tour de Paris’ with Redouane to all the spots, he exclaimed that we would now go for a night cap to Le Bain Douche, Paris’ most exclusive night club. We were greeted by the famous gate keepers- a man in his 60’s with long white hair donning an all black superhero outfit, and his partner, an elegant woman of about the same age with long dark hair in a full leather catsuit, wrapped in a long black veil. They greeted us as though we were Hollywood stars. The rope opened and we were whisked inside through the masses. I’d never felt such a sensation before. I immediately sensed the exclusivity and pretense and loved every second of it. We reveled through the joint. Redouane called and motioned ‘Pierre the bartender’ by name. Pierre presented Redouane with a bottle of Johnny Walker Black with his name on it, literally, his name was written on the bottle on a piece of tape with a magic marker. It was classic. He gave us two low ball glasses with two big round ice cubes and away we went into the club. We ventured to a VIP section that was roped off and heavily guarded. We were granted immediate entry. It was obvious to me that my Parisian host was ‘in the know.’ We joined two of his friends at their table. Their names were Itachiaia and Ingénue. I fell in love with the two of them on the spot whilst still considering that I was still in love with the barista from the brasserie. We ordered two bottles of Dom Pérignon and at some point I was walking around with the bottle of DP in my hand drinking from the bottle, à la Douglas, Steven and Lon Ballinger at Webster Hall NYC circa 1994. (I saw those three maniacs drinking DP out of a bottle before I ever saw any hip-hopper doing it. They were the owners at Webster Hall, ahead of their time in so many ways).

We left the VIP section and went upstairs. Redouane was wandering and I had both of the girls on either arm. As we entered the next room, seemingly on cue, the music spun dead. The lights went dark and out of nowhere, an electric guitar ripped through the darkness and strobes. Above us, on a perch, lightly lit, stood a girl and her guitar in silhouette. As the cleave lights focused, I could not believe my fucking eyes. It was the barista with the Harley Davidson. It’s the last thing I remember from my night of partying like a rockstar in Paris.

I woke in the morning on a chaise lounge with the one of the girls next to me and the other on the floor next to us. Upon ‘waking’, the party continued, smoking Gauloises and hash laced spliffs  and drinking freshly ground espressos and belinis with fresh cut peaches. All I could think about was heading back to the brasserie so that’s what i did. I was obsessed. It was not an easy feat getting out of that apartment after the night before. It was hands down, far and away, the best night of my life.

I felt the anticipation physically in my body and brain. As destiny would have it, the motorcycle riding, guitar playing, bombshell barista was there. I sat at my table and told her in terrible french,  ‘Give me the usual’. She smiled and turned to tend to my request. She brought me water and set the table. I was in complete awe. When she returned with my order, I did the most bold thing I had ever done. I introduced myself and asked the most beautiful girl that ever walked the planet her name and if it was possible that she sit and join me for a few moments. Much to my amazement, she acquiesced. She said, “Of course I will sit with you when my shift ends in 30 minutes. And my name is Erin Émilie”. I told her that I would wait and to keep the double espressos coming.

When she finally joined me, I told her about the impression she made on me the day prior. I explained to her how I spent the rest of the day and night before. I tried to articulate my astonishment when I recognized her at Le Bain Douche. She giggled and smiled and said, “You are so BCBG”.  I looked at her inquisitively and asked her what that meant. She exclaimed, ‘Bon Chic, Bon Genre’ which translated to English means “good style, good class”. She invited me to join her for the day. She tossed me the keys and she hopped on the back and I drove off on her Harley. Erin Emilie and I  had a 48 hour Parisian romance. Words could not do this ‘dream’ justice. For once in my life I had my cake and ate it too. As I departed Charles de Gaulle for my return to reality, I could not comprehend my four day jaunt to Paris. 2 weeks later I had my last drink and smoked my last joint. Of everything that happened to me, I could not get the term BCBG off my mind- and then it dawned on me;  BCBG•NYC •. Brewed Coffee By Gerard • New York City.

BCBGERARD is my email address since that day. I replaced my alcohol addiction with a coffee obsession. BCBG was born…
Paris, France
January 1994…