The smell of fresh baked bread filled the air as we entered our street. it smells like those mornings when you think there's a fire somewhere but with the added smell of cinnamon and ginger. We followed our noses to the local bakery and got Solomon a few soft bread rolls which were glowing with the freshly baked glazing over the top. After Bec ate half of his breakfast, we headed for for a breakfast cafe, which in paris seems incredibly elusive as no one wakes up until noon.
In a sea of closed shutters, we found an open cafe serving petit dejeuner (breakfast) and we sat down. I think traditionally, for breakfast, Parisians have a wholesome meal of a short black coffee and a cigarette- get on the phone to Kelloggs about that as a cereal- because there was a few locals sitting in the cafe wearing only their T-shirts and nothing else, sipping coffee and smoking (of course they were clothed, but they had that frenchy 'i don-caire' slouch in their seat). The menu consisted of two items, either 'breakfast' or 'breakfast international'. The normal breakfast was a croissant, coffee, bread stick and orange juice. the 'international breakfast' was exactly the same, but with eggs. Way to smash through the barriers eggs!
The breakfast was actually very tasty, the croissant was crispy and melted in your mouth but was not sweet, the bread was soft but crunchy and the eggs were, unsalted eggs. Instead of a coffee, i got a hot chocolate, which is also very traditional, and i was not disappointed. warm chocolately goo which was not too sweet and not too watery. I was enjoying it until Bec got over excited that Solomon was eating (for the first time in Paris) and the small victorious clapping quickly evolved to full fledged, Hi5 style, dancing with singing and kicking which evolved further to a full Burlesque performance in front of the pram, leaving the other restaurant patrons severely confused. Its these little victories only a mother understands.
We than headed off to the gothic cathedral of Notre Dame. The cathedral is more incredible than any photo could ever illustrate. towering like a huge terrifying skyscraper, a religous symbol carved intricately in stone adorns every inch of every single wall and alcove of this great structure. Flying buttresses fly past the extremities of the building like an organic limb as they slam into the ground in solid chunky columns, requesting a cautious eye as you pass lest they move toward you. Gargoyles fly off the face of the facade and linger in mid air with snarling shrieks. you could literally stare at one single corner of this incredible building for a day and not have deflated your amazement. As you stare in amazement you cant help but wonder what horrors this mysterious titan hides behind its stone carvings and spires.
we were going to wait in line to get to the top of the iconic bell towers but, yet again, we were thwarted by the lack of mechanical ascension, though this time we did not expect an elevator to the top of Notre Dame which was built almost a THOUSAND years ago.
Every single eatery in Paris is exactly the same, a brasserie cafe which serves the exact same typical french cuisine and i was sick of it. i wanted something greasy and americany. As we walked searching, the only alternative to the french brasserie was turkish salmonella kebabs where the rotating kebab stick is like a metre in diameter. Seeing as i have a pregnant wife and infant son, we decided to stick to the french cafe. We found one, much to my delight, that served cheeseburgers. Eager and excited, we went in only to be told we had to sit at a special seat because we had a pram. We sat down at some couches which were actually very comfortable and cushioned the blow from the angry waiter who saw us enter with our child. I ordered a cheeseburger and milkshake and Bec ordered a ham sandwich with an egg on top.
Starving, i stared at my order eager to taste the French version of a cheeseburger. there are two main differences between a French cheeseburger and a normal one. 1. instead of a cooked beef patty, theres a mushy watery clump of raw meat, and 2. the meat is shell fish. The cook took personal and great offense to the fact the most american item on his menu was ordered and he wanted to kill that person.
Still, i sat eating my chips and nibbling on my burger whilst bec fed her egg to Solomon, much to his disapproval. After he had finished eating, with a pronounced and sudden roar, Solomon projectile vomited everything he had eaten for the last 2 months. It was everywhere, i dont even know how it got behind his head. We fussed about cleaning it all up as the waiter, earnestly approached to see what the commotion was about. when he peered over the pram to see the carnage below he, uncontrollably, yelled out 'oh my god' and ran away mumbling what i could only assume was a french prayer. he returned in a minute with a single white serviette- i dont know if he was helping us clean or surrender.
i didnt really get that upset, even though, in a defiance of physics, a sizable portion landed inside my sock, because i felt the exact same way after eating my burger. this was one of a million brasseries we would not visit again!
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