No one does nightlife with more panache than the Parisians. An evening there recently reminded me that whenever anyone complains that after-hours action in New York, Miami, or L.A. isn't what it used to be, they're not whining—they're right. Parisian nightlife, on the other hand, is still reassuringly underground and uncorporate, even if velvet-rope burn is an occupational hazard. Club Sandwich is a classic example (pictured above, a scene from the party earlier this year). It started as an invite-only bash but has now morphed into a hundreds-strong megaparty attended by the fashion elite (among them: Kris Van Assche and Matthias Vriens). Club Sandwich celebrated its third anniversary in late June; the theme was Golden Jungle, and indeed there was so much gold—lamé, glitter, leather, and feathers—that the dance floor looked like a Francesco Vezzoli-directed version of A Chorus Line. The whole shindig (complete with a gold sequin-wrapped transsexual stripper) unspooled at Espace Cardin, a manse on the same road as the fortified American embassy. One highlight was watching gun-wielding guards prowl the street, weaving through the Sandwich crowd waiting to get in: Treating this lot like potential suicide bombers was about as absurd as holding your breath and waiting for a rapprochement between Sarko and any of his ex-wives.