I know it sounds like I don’t do shit but go to Paris these days, but, um.
Last Thursday evening after work I was outta here like, well, a girl on her way to Paris. Listen. This is Paris: Friday off and the world to see. Baobab juice and a green colombo curry at the Antillais place, while the shopgirl played tropical tunes off a cassette tape. The suited tea merchants at Mariage Frères, and the massive black tea tins, one after distinguished other. One day we are going to work chez les Frères, where we will sit in the back and come up with names for new teas. Teatime, then, on rue Ramus, up the stairs till you can’t get any higher. Tiled floors and a blue bathroom. At 10 Bar, chorizo tartines and carafes of cold sangria, and Panda with an idea for a brand new sandwich vending machine. The jukebox played “Isn’t She Lovely” once, and then, because the song is worth it, twice. Dinner, oh my word, but you have not had dinner till you have had dinner here, at Les Papilles, where twin olive trees mark the spot. And this was just the beginning.
Sit down. Here is more. Saturday, the morning existed only in our dreams. Sometime after midday, Rue Mouffetard scented roast chickens and viennoiseries. The hot chocolate at Angelina went straight to my head and I had to stop at one and a half. The façades of the cour carrée in lights, and the fountain, icy, and a boy, and a girl. At the wine shop, one of us looked at wines and the other of us looked at the spread of honeys and jams. We walked up streets and down streets and we were very happy when the bus stop indicated the number twenty-one would be along in three minutes. Rue Ramus—upstairs?, the tiled floors?, the blue bathroom?, also the thick-glass-paned kitchen door—for Champagne and chocolate cake. Quite late, asleep in the taxi, and the gentlest of wake-ups when we pulled up at home.
Sunday, quiet like Sundays. Inside the red doors, the flurry chez Gladines and a strong espresso. A confit de canard, then, passke ça fait longtemps que j’ai pas mangé du confit de canard. I wanted to know about this île flottante on the dessert menu, but there were Portuguese tarts awaiting at Ana and Bruno’s, with the wood floors and the praying nun squeaky toy. We took a left out of their building, and then the city, the city, the secret streets, the windows lit warm. Then one from a basket of baguettes hot from the oven, and in the street we tore into it. Too soon, the London train with eleven minutes to go.
The thing is, all of this: it is just the beginning.
Last Thursday evening after work I was outta here like, well, a girl on her way to Paris. Listen. This is Paris: Friday off and the world to see. Baobab juice and a green colombo curry at the Antillais place, while the shopgirl played tropical tunes off a cassette tape. The suited tea merchants at Mariage Frères, and the massive black tea tins, one after distinguished other. One day we are going to work chez les Frères, where we will sit in the back and come up with names for new teas. Teatime, then, on rue Ramus, up the stairs till you can’t get any higher. Tiled floors and a blue bathroom. At 10 Bar, chorizo tartines and carafes of cold sangria, and Panda with an idea for a brand new sandwich vending machine. The jukebox played “Isn’t She Lovely” once, and then, because the song is worth it, twice. Dinner, oh my word, but you have not had dinner till you have had dinner here, at Les Papilles, where twin olive trees mark the spot. And this was just the beginning.
Sit down. Here is more. Saturday, the morning existed only in our dreams. Sometime after midday, Rue Mouffetard scented roast chickens and viennoiseries. The hot chocolate at Angelina went straight to my head and I had to stop at one and a half. The façades of the cour carrée in lights, and the fountain, icy, and a boy, and a girl. At the wine shop, one of us looked at wines and the other of us looked at the spread of honeys and jams. We walked up streets and down streets and we were very happy when the bus stop indicated the number twenty-one would be along in three minutes. Rue Ramus—upstairs?, the tiled floors?, the blue bathroom?, also the thick-glass-paned kitchen door—for Champagne and chocolate cake. Quite late, asleep in the taxi, and the gentlest of wake-ups when we pulled up at home.
Sunday, quiet like Sundays. Inside the red doors, the flurry chez Gladines and a strong espresso. A confit de canard, then, passke ça fait longtemps que j’ai pas mangé du confit de canard. I wanted to know about this île flottante on the dessert menu, but there were Portuguese tarts awaiting at Ana and Bruno’s, with the wood floors and the praying nun squeaky toy. We took a left out of their building, and then the city, the city, the secret streets, the windows lit warm. Then one from a basket of baguettes hot from the oven, and in the street we tore into it. Too soon, the London train with eleven minutes to go.
The thing is, all of this: it is just the beginning.
posted by stellou at 11:28 PM
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