02 May: Rage Against the Omelette
We've encountered an abundance of great food on this trip, from the fantastic dinner at Le Reminet (with the tear-inducing beauty of that crème brulee) to the simply joys of falafel from Maoz. Today, though, my breakfast induced a near rage deep within me. Before setting off on a walking tour of some of the grand boulevards, we needed a little sustenance. Unfortunately, our recently discovered neighborhood patisserie (pastry shop) was closed and the tarte restaurant (full of beautiful quiches) wouldn't open for at least another half-hour. So we chose a more trafficked location on the corner right across from the midpoint of Notre Dame. It was filled with a number of American tourists and a bit more expensive, but every cafe we've been to seems to have offer a passable meal.

Not this one.

Our first clue should have been that it took well over ten minutes for the food to reach our table. Even at the busiest times of the day, food appears quicker than George Bush can say "culture of life." I ordered an omelette and Mrs. F ordered a vegetable tart. At first glance, my omelette seemed to be just that--an omelette that's been browned a bit more than typical. My first bite found that it was a bit rubbery. And as I continued to cut into it, I realized that this wasn't an omelette at all, but a construction of several fried eggs bound together with some extra egg--you could see the whites and whole cooked yolks of the fried eggs. Merde!

I decided that was that with that, and we paid the bill unhappily and trodded off, with me muttering "I bet they know how to make a frickin' omelette" as we passed each restaurant for blocks on end. Even at the amazing kitchen store Dehillerin, I was fuming and considering buying a whisk to present to our server with a message that he might pass it along to the kitchen staff.

Luckily, the memory began to recede (though Mrs. F continued to remind me that restaurants we passed probably knew how to make an omelette) and we made up for the morning's travesty with a couple of wonderful dessert tarts at the delightful Angelina's, near the Louvre, later in the afternoon. But I'm still harboring some resentment, and I don't think I'll let it go for awhile.