Most of the young people in the queue were Iranian like him, but the bouncer in the three-piece suit wasn't letting anyone into the JetSet cafe. Paris's Iranian exile community knew this would probably be their last World Cup celebration - Germany were sure to win - and they didn't want it spoiled by rabble-rousers from the Mujaheddin Khalq.
Tucked away amid the river front high rises of Paris' 15th arrondissement, the Jet-Set even looks like the cafes of North Tehran. Across the world on Thursday night, in Toronto and Los Angeles too, the estranged children of the Iranian revolution revelled in their reconciliation with the homeland they fled 19 years ago.
Nargues, the 22-year-old daughter of a close Iranian friend, spots me through the plate glass window and pulls me by the arm through the crowd at the door. "This is Iran City!" she shouts over the din of several hundred Iranians chattering in Farsi, English and French, chanting "Iran, Iran, Iran" and blowing party horns. She pulls out red, white and green make-up pencils and asks me to paint an Iranian flag on her face.
The banner of the Islamic Republic of Iran is everywhere - and no one has cut the post-revolution, onion-like word "Allah" from its centre. As soon as I complete the flag on Nargues' cheek, her Aunt Soudabeh leans across the table and asks me to paint her face too.
When I first met this Iranian family in Paris in the early 1980s, they were deeply involved in opposition to the revolutionary regime. But nearly two decades after the earthquake that transformed their country forever, they travel freely to Tehran, and even have friends in the government. Many, like Soudabeh's husband, have fought successfully through the courts to have their confiscated factories returned to them.
Soudabeh went back to Iran for the first time last year, and now spends most of her time there. "After 10 days in Europe, I can't wait to go home," she says. In Tehran you would never see a restaurant full of bare-headed women, let alone bottles of red Khayyam wine lined up on the tables. "It's our country - you get used to it," Soudabeh shrugs.
The noise goes up several decibels when the Iranian football team appears on the giant screen at the end of the restaurant. "They're so cool!" Nargues shouts in my ear. "I'd like to meet some of them - to kiss their hands!" She was three years old when her mother, Manigeh, brought her to Paris. Manigeh knows I am surprised by their enthusiasm. "It's the first time in 20 years we've had something to celebrate - something all Iranians agree on," she explains.
For the first half of the game, the mood is euphoric, as goalkeeper Abedzadeh keeps repelling the Germans. "Don't let the evil eye touch Abedzadeh," the audience shouts.
Karim (37), Manigeh's younger brother and a banker in California, is on holiday in France. "This is David and Goliath!" he tells me at half-time. He hasn't seen his country for nearly 20 years, so what can this championship mean to him? "Everything" he answers. "Germany is one of the strongest soccer nations in the world. Saudi Arabia and Japan spent tens of millions of dollars on their teams and they've already been eliminated. The Iranian team have nothing. They're playing with their hearts. Just the fact that they're holding their own is awesome."
There are shouts of "No, no, no", grimaces, hands clasped to heads and even a few tears as Germany score two goals and win the match. Iran have been eliminated, but the crowd applauds good-naturedly. A rock band starts playing and the women are dancing.
"We won, we won," Nargues tells me. "It was a moment of joy. The entire world was behind us - we won a new image."