Woke up with a wine hangover but no alarm. A blessing and a curse. Those of you in the know are aware that a wine hangover is up there amongst the worst of them. To clear our heads, we went for a run around le Jardin du Luxembourg. It helped but the coffin-sized shower cubicle attached to our room and the almond-scented shower gel took care of the rest.
We walked north, found a food market and beside it, La Maison D’Isabelle, a patisserie that is listed in enough of the top places to get croissants in all of Paris. That was good enough for us and along with two baguettes, the stodge helped settle our stomachs and the flat whites from Le bon moment on Rue des Bernardins woke us up. Stopping in the park besides S&Co, we watched some French boys playing football with their dad and dipped our fresh pastries in the dregs of our coffee. That’s French living. The breakfast of champions.
Further down the river, we queued for Musee D’Orsee, which, thanks to Brexit, we were told we had to pay to visit. Just when you think you’ve got your head around the losses that came from that absolute misstep, here’s another. The museum was amazing, with beautiful marble statues, huge tableaus, Whistler’s Mother and a Van Gogh room full of chancers taking selfies.
We stopped for a beer and a cigarette in a brasserie before walking to Le Marais in the 4th, where E kept talking about the best falafel she had when she was last in the city. She couldn’t remember anything about the place but said she would recognise it when she saw it. We put this to the back of our minds until we got there, searching frantically for somewhere to get falafel on the busy streets. Ducking out of the way, we found Chez Hanna, which not only did the best falafel but was also the place E had been talking about all morning. She was right, of course. The food was amazing and we timed it perfectly, with everyone else seemingly finishing up their lunches before we were served.
We had been recommended Canal St Martin so walked there for a negroni and to be bide our time before we could fit in another meal. Paris is for love and Paris is for eating. We then had a couple of Old Fashioneds and I had two limoncellos for some reason before dinner at Le Verre Volé, which Anthony Bourdain recommended in Parts Unknown. We sat out on the street and had another bottle of wine, getting pissed enough before our food arrived that I wasn’t sure I could taste it. When E refilled my glass, we were rightly chastised for not doing it in the French way. It was very much a megapint. After a misstep where we queued for a club we were unlikely to get into, we got an Uber back to our hotel and fell into a drunken sleep.
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