Have you ever read a novel that retrieved a long ago memory? I’m willing to bet more than a few virtual hands went up with mine.

My reader rule of thumb gives each book 50 pages before it’s thumbs up or thumbs down to turn another. The memory I’d buried resurfaced at page 50 of “The Paris Novel” by Ruth Reich.

Stella’s uncharacteristic behaviour and outrageous adventure in the City of Light transported me back to a place in my distant past that has since burned, been torn down and likely forgotten.

I was between careers and back in the Iowa hometown I thought that I’d left in my rear view mirror. The dazzling dream of a climb to fame had flamed and fizzled. I’d fallen off the ladder and landed in a lobby and dining room seating guests at an upscale restaurant.

After our shifts ended, staff would kick shoes off aching feet and lean back in chairs at tables in the bar to brag about tips and gripe about guests that didn’t leave much more than piles of dirty dishes. Two guests who had tipped exceptionally well joined us in the bar and silently picked up our tab. The well-dressed 30-something gentlemen ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon chilled and served in an iced bucket. I complimented their good taste. They asked for another glass and offered a pour for me.

The bottle emptied. The bar was closing. They asked where I’d go next on a Saturday night. We drank beer and ate the best grilled burgers in town at a jazz bar and club on the opposite shore of the Mississippi River. I paid for nothing. The chauffeured limo ride to and from the lot where my car was parked was short yet as sweet as the companions whose names I don’t remember were ever shared.

That was the one and only time I ever enjoyed a glass of pricey champagne. Chauffeured limo rides since have been at weddings and funerals.

As the author’s Stella described the sensation of her first raw oyster sliding down her throat while under the spell of a magical dress, I savoured the memory of that serendipitous Saturday night.