More often in Paris than any other city there are restaurants that leave me feeling cold. It's as if the owners are cooking at home for friends and here I am, the uninvited guest, unexpectedly ringing the doorbell, brushing past them in the doorway, taking up space. They smile, they're polite but they seem scared they'll never get rid of you.
Go right upstairs and sit whereever you like they told me and I did, in the seat next to the window. There were about eight tables and only a few were taken.
I was calibrating my camera on the sugar cubes when he appeared and asked if I could move to another table since someone had a reservation in an hour. I was at a table for two and couldn't see a smaller one. As usual, when dealing in French, I was confused and getting confused-er. Don't worry, I told him, knowing I'd be long gone in an hour.
He seemed fine with the explanation but reappeared five minutes later, pointing to a table a few feet away. Same sized table. Away from the window. He was going on in French and I didn't really understand. I moved. I thought about it. There were no configuration reasons I could calculate. Someone else was coming, that's all. Someone window-worthy.
It's moments like these that something goes "click" inside my brain. They could've served me the best food on the planet but I knew I'd never come back. It was no surprise that their breakfast, at least the small bit I sampled, was consistent with their service. Please, I'm begging - if you don't know how to make or serve a scone, take it off the menu. No amount of butter or preserves could've saved this frigid lump of wood, but since I didn't get any I'll never know. It sat stubbornly on the plate, arms folded, starting a staring contest with me and winning.
I hate to admit it but the latte was very good. However, I later learned that the coffee comes from Coutume so I rescind any credit I'd almost given them.
I ripped the cutesie chicken cover off the egg and decapitated it. I dunked a few of the cold toast points and started to giggle. Ways to write-up this place started to dance in my head. I'd taken a recent vow to only post about places I like but this was going to be too much fun. Of course, as I got up to leave, the the three tables next to me were still empty. I'm sure it's just me. Wrong place at the wrong time. You'll go and have a wonderful experience. Perhaps you're in the "in" crowd. Me, I'll take my Euros elsewhere.
14 rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau