~ blog ~

We are what we eat.  So I keep getting told.  So what am I if I’m addicted to yoghurt?

I even have my own yoghurt lady here in Paris.

I nearly wet my pants when she said she remembered us when we shuffled through her fromagerie door, tired and in need of a hit of dairy.  She didn’t know that of course, as I like to think I played the aloof, professional and worldly traveller.

I love the white stuff so much, I have the tiny little glass jars it comes in at home to prove it.  Some people collect stamps or teaspoons.....

Is it sad to admit that they filled a whole box when I recently moved house?

There are moments in life when you have to throw away all of your rules.  Suck up the suffering and pain for later and simply jump head first into the unknown.

This was what I did today.

I don't have an overly sweet tooth.  I tend to avoid refined sugars (in fact all sugars) where I possibly can, and you'll rarely see me order dessert (unless it's a latte or cheese platter).

But today.....

Today I took part in a taste bud journey.

Today I ate 5 desserts....in a row!

With the Marais street market bustling away just outside its door, The Broken Arm is a little refuge  away from the noise, elbow pushing and cigarette smoke.

I've got my vintage teaspoons and the most gorgeous old ceramic coiffure jar tucked safely away in my bag.

Ella Fitzgerald is playing.  Slabs of lemon poppy seed cake on the bench.  The coffee is REALLY good.  

REALLY good!

With 7 hours of solid walking under our belt, a big degustation lunch (which was pushing out said belt), and a few chosen treasures, purchased by moi, safely ensconced in my bag from the big street market which happened to be going on in the Marais, we decided that we deserved it to be wine o'clock time.  Right now.

La Manger du Marais was our wine bar of choice (well, truthfully we just happened to be walking past it when wine o'clock hit).  

With its welcoming cushioned seats, big smiling (kinda cute) waiter, delicious rose and jazzy tunes it was the perfect choice for these two weary chickadees.

Ah Paris.  Part II is definitely off to a good start.

The waiter, who only spoke to us in French must have actually understood us as he arrived a moment later with exactly what we’d ordered … two bowls of taboule aux legumes du marche and a bottle of rose wine.

Holy shit…I think we’re finally French! 

Earlier today I fell in love.

The most gorgeous vintage teapot, made in France, is now settled snuggly in my suitcase.  With its gorgeous flower detail and dark green leather handle, I handed my 30 euro over to the old French monsieur who’s cigarette hung comfortably and expertly out the side of his mouth.

Only in France.

To celebrate my new love - we ordered our third coffee of the day.  In fact, it turned out to be the best coffee of the day.