Henry pushed his way past the papparazzi that were crowding the front of the restaurant. Unfortunately, he'd been wrong, as it turned out-- he owned the restaurant next door, which meant pulling up to the valet parking up front. Their flashing lights and questions were relentless, and Henry answered without thinking.
"What? No, I haven't been in Paris in ages," he told one. "I'm not voting for anyone until you restore the monarchy," to another.
Finally, he entered the building, leered at the cocktail watresses' skirts as he was shown to his son's-- still such a strange thing to think-- table. "Henry," he said in greeting, extending a hand. "At last."