Here is the photo and my story:
On Irene’s 13th birthday we took the streetcar, downtown, to see another Clint Eastwood movie.
“After this,” I said, “a fancy lunch.” I squeezed her hand.
“Oh! Let’s go lunch at Maison Blanche!” Irene’s eyes lit up.
I giggled. It was no intention, of mine, to take Irene to some department store for lunch. I was welcoming my best friend into her teens.
The movie was so Clint. Then we headed out, down Royal Street and right into Brennan’s Restaurant.
Irene pulled me aside. “We can’t afford to eat here, Sissy!”
“I’ll just sign the bill,” I said.
“Sure. That’s what Dad always does.”
Some of the staff recognized me. They called me Mademoiselle Cici. I cringed. I was moving away from Cici and into Sissy.
When the menu came, it was in French.
“Let’s just order hamburgers,” I said. “Hamburgers on french bread. The french bread is really great here!”