My Café in Paris

It didn't take me long to find "my" café during the week I spent in Paris last December.

My hours at the fromagerie meant that I was up and out the door before most of the city's inhabitants had even gotten out of bed. That first freezing cold morning I simply made a beeline for the only open café in the neighborhood.
I knew I would need a serious caffeine jolt and some filling, buttery pastry before jumping on the Métro and heading to work.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

The second morning I came in from the dark, snow covered street and the waiter immediately recognized me (and my accent, no doubt) and we started chatting. By day three I was a regular.
"Un café crème et un croissant, comme d'hab'?" he would ask as soon as I walked through the door.

We shared stories all week long and after hearing about my apartment hunting woes, he offered to give me the number of his friend who was vacating his place. Unfortunately it was a small, very expensive studio in the Marais, so I politely declined.

At the end of the week I said goodbye and told him that I would be back for un p'tit café as soon as we found an apartment and settled in.



As you know, we didn't move to Paris in the end, so I've never had the chance to go back to the café and thank him for my morning coffee, croissant and conversation. It was only a small part of my day, but it made the week's frustrations a bit more tolerable.

Now what is all this nonsense about rude Parisian waiters? Pin It