Perfect Match


I have no need for matches (I buy only solar-powered incense and candles, and nothing smokable is allowed in this apartment), but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to pick up a pack on my way out of a restaurant. Matchbooks make great gifts for the kids.
Last week, after enjoying yet another one of our multi-hour lunches, my brother and I each pocketed (well, he pocketed and I pursed) a pack from Montparnasse. Sure, we liked the wide pack and the design, but we realized, that just like with people, it’s really what’s inside that counts:


What’s beautiful about this gimmick is that it not only recognizes but outright acknowledges the real purpose of matchbooks and makes the whole phone number “score” a lot cuter. (And let’s face it. Everyone likes “cute”. It’s just so … adorable.)
We can only hope that during these exchanges, no one dips into the realm of the woefully uncute, and says something truly soul-shrivelling, such as (a) “Come on baby, light my fire”; (b) “Speaking of ‘close cover before striking’, what do you say you and I get under close covers?” or (c) “You sure are smokin’, girl”, all of which guarantee that the object of your lust won’t be your lucky strike but that you will, of course, strike out. (Unless, of course, the lust-object is an absolute cretin.)
P.S. If you do pick someone up in a bar — any bar, not just the one at Montparnasse! — please heed the Montparnasse matchbook cover and BE SAFE.
P.P.S. Warm French bread. Crusty warm French bread. (Fuck that Atkins Diet merde.)