Usually there is something debauched about eating foie gras in someone's office at lunchtime. The boardroom table was laid out with delicious olives, bread, tomatoes and saucisson. The wine was chilling well in the company fridge.
But this was Paris in August. The place was deserted. Everyone had left for the hoidays. The traffic was light and the parking was free. there were possibly more British tourists than Parisiens.
It was the perfect place to stop, being less than three hours drive from Calais. It is nicer to stop in an overpriced city rather than an overpriced service station on the autoroute. Even better when you were being given lunch by a generous friend.
"Oh it eez just a leetle picnic," he says. My mind tries to think of an English picnic like this, but fais when memories of soggy sandwiches, stodgy pork pies and ginger biscuits are brought to mind, with warm gassy beer which explodes when opened as a result of being shaken up on the car journey.
It is 26 degrees. We are in one of the word's greatest cities, eating some of the world's greatest cuisine. How can life get any better?
No comments:
Post a Comment