I wandered into the back streets of Paris to find a true French restaurant. Not a touristy version. By the time I found one (that wasn't full of Americans) I was starving.
‘Bonjour, parley voou Inglash?’ My French had marginally improved since I had arrived, but my Australian accent made it sound woeful even to my ears. The matron smiled and replied ‘Oui, would you like to see a menu?’ I smiled, finally a friendly Parisian. ‘Oui!’ I said a little too excited. Unfortunately the menu was in French. I could read enough to guess what I was ordering, but not everything. The hostess saw my struggling and was happy to translate. I ordered a cappuccino, roast duck and a salad. Like I said, I was starving! I took a seat at the front of the restaurant. Most cafes and restaurants in Paris have rows of wicker seats facing the street where people can sit, eat, gossip and watch the world go by. I sat and watched the rain fall down from the candy stripped awning and on to the street. I couldn’t help think that it was all so romantic.
I removed my map from my bag and started thinking about my return to my hostel. I had three hours until my airport pick up was due. I had seen a large amount of Paris in the last 2 days and I wasn't sure what I wanted to see next.
A man behind me asked if I needed help with directions and introduced himself as Pierre. Strange how he didn't even try to speak French to me...
He was in his late thirties with olive skin and think black hair. Although he was a Parisian, he had worked in New York and had a delightful French American accent when he spoke English. He told me about living in Paris and we discussed the celebrations happening around the city for Bastille's day.
My lunch arrived and the conversation halted while I ate. Perhaps a little rude, but French food deserves your full attention. Delicious is an understatement.
The duck fell off the bone and was extremely succulent, yet not at all greasy. The roast potato had a crisp outer with an inner consistency of creamy mashed potato and hint of rosemary. The salad was fresh with an amazingly tangy cream dressing. Even the cappuccino was incredible. I ate until I couldn’t put another bite in my mouth for fear that it would all come out. My eyes begged me to stuff more of it in and I was contemplating staying at the cafĂ© until I was hungry again.
Pierre interrupted my thoughts of gluttony with a suggestion that we visit an art gallery not far from the restaurant. An elderly Parisian lady sitting in the row in front of me commented that it was a beautiful art gallery and, in a way that only the French can, told me I absolutely had to go! Pierre offered to take me there. Although I would have loved to go, I declined as I had something else I wanted to do in Paris, that definitely couldn’t involve Pierre. Buy French underwear! And besides, after Spain, London and Italy, I was kind of at the end of my art gallery limit.
My stomach bulging and my appetite sated I said my Adieus and waddled off along the cobblestone streets of Paris.
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