In the summer of 1925, Scott Fitzgerald, with a raft of good reviews for The Great Gatsby but precious little sales, moved up from the French Riviera to Paris, joining the rambunctious American expatriate community, both literati and glitterati. He sat in Ernest Hemingway’s fireplace and later had to be picked up dead-drunk by Papa H from the sawdust floor of Dingo’s Cafe. “I had $1000 parties and no work”, he confessed. “ I parted with so many hours and so much money. But he boasted, ”My only claim to fame is that I discovered Bricktop’s before Cole Porter”. The red-headed half-caste American woman hosted a night club favored by café society, including Cole Porter, who supplied her with songs while she, in return, taught him the Charleston. The latest American jazz records were brought in by her mother but the black jazzmen at the club knew that they’d better blow watered-down jazz to please expats like the Fitzgeralds. Zelda F liked to demonstrate up her Shimmy. Hemingway felt that Zelda’s capers kept Scott from writing. Cocktailed heads may have been high but the creativity was low. Soon they were all back home in the USA. There true hot jazz was aburning—Ellington, Henderson, Satchmo. Paris had been only a party.