When we woke up on Saturday, I had one sole determination: getting us chouquettes for breakfast. Believe it or not, these airy choux pastries sprinkled with sugar pearls are one of the reasons why I moved to France. They just rocked my early childhood. Our bags packed with viennoiseries from awesome Eric Kayser, we sat for breakfast at the Palais Royal gardens.
I just love Parisian gardens and how people go about their eccentric business in all serenity. Next to the Tai chi apprentices, the Japanese photo students and the overcrowded families, there we were; three gals enjoying the nonchalance, the sun and the trivial chit-chat.
We then continued to the Colonnes de Buren, located in the Palais’ Cour d’Honneur, a controversial installation, deemed as “art for art’s sake”. If triviality is the word, we obeyed and took lots of whimsical pictures.
Sara and Eglantine, Egyptian remix.
Anita & Sara, the loonies.
The three musketeers.
Eglantine took us to the rooftop terrace of the Printemps galleries, near the Opera Garnier. With the breath-taking view came breath-taking prices: 5,5 for my tetra pack tea. WTF?! (Please pronounce as Parisians would: Wot ze föck).
But hey, on the bright side, we got some well-earned rest and another Japanese frantic photo session.
You know what they say: Nothing is certain but death and taxes. Well in the City of Lights, life seems endless. And ok, Hollande might make sure you pay your taxes. But a Cahuzac remasterisation of the saying would be: Nothing is more certain that if you evade taxes, you have more money for shopping! And the latter we did.
We went to hip Marais where boutiques gorge with beautiful objects and your pockets start fuming.
A huge hole in my wallet later, we passed by Berko, a lovely cupcakery, American style. We ingested some hundreds of calories more. Just to stick with tradition.
We went home and changed into our evening gowns.
And then set out for the , the sister restaurant from the Fish Club.
As we had guessed (& hoped), it was Oh so freakishly yummy. The menu was a tat more expensive than that of the Fish, but we went for Burgers. My mouth is actually watering as I write. The memories of that perfect burger make me want to go live in Paris. (Sorry Brussels).
Sara and I actually thought we would want to eat the burger forever. Like the myth of Sisyphus. Except in good.
Stuffed to our faces, we oozed to the Firemen Ball. Every year, on Bastille Day’s eve, firemen open their stations and host a ball, the famous Bal des Pompiers. Legend has it firemen are hot so we were half expecting a beauty parade.
Instead, we got shoved and pushed on an Old France music background. We could smell the fumes of karma, bursting to flames with laughter. No firemen came to the rescue.
For our own survival, we escaped and strolled to the Lezard Café on our way home. Was it the late night hour or the summer breeze, we will never know, one thing for sure is that we were possessed by the French intellectual essence, and started contemplating the meaning of life and discussing politics. No French bashing though ;)
Anita
