Lunch in Paris.
Ask for a table on the terrace. And if it rains? Even more romantic.
Warm and stuffed with cheese. The waiter called this a brioche, but I’m fairly certain was a popover. Or at least a cross between the two. A serious combination.
Tomatoes, three times. A yellow tomato gazpacho, a green tomato tartare, and a red tomato sorbet. Toast, rubbed with garlic, and then topped with more garlic. All finished with a lemon-thyme reduction.
A little drizzle of olive oil and we are all set.
Salad niçoise, broken down into the elements, chicken in place of the traditional tuna. I don’t know what it is about the chicken in Paris, but I just can’t stop eating it. The chicken here, the chicken (with caper, chives, and mayonnaise) at Cuisine de Bar, even the chicken from that rostisserie on rue Mouffetard. How can it always be so perfect, so juicy, so tender. And the skin! Oh man.
A café express to finish, and the whole afternoon, free and open.