I once read some writing guidelines that said you shouldn’t write stories about moments in time that change everything forever, because that’s boring. Never mind. Isn’t that most stories?
Paris, my birthday, spring. We’ve torn through a poulet rôti in the park. And we’re all what shall we do now?
Do you want to look at clothes?
A chipsy, cigarettesy Marais pavement cafe for WiFi, Orangina and research. On my phone, the Independent says Echiré is a “stand-out spread” but you can buy it at Waitrose, so never mind Echiré, that’s not birthday butter. The smoky pavement WiFi wobbles its way to 10 Insanely Delicious Things You Shouldn’t Miss in Paris, a blog post by King David Lebovitz.
after I tasted this handmade butter from Brittany, I’m spoiled for life and won’t spread any other butter on my morning toast
There’s this butter called Bordier.
The Oranginas at this cafe are like 5 euros each, so I push the WiFi to its limits.
da rosa St-Germain
62, rue de seine
We start walking to the fancy bit where we were earlier. All the way back there to find this place that may or may not have this Bordier. It’s my birthday and this is what I want to do.
We buy five blocks, and when we get back to London, we get a crusty loaf. The Bordier is embarrassingly creamy. Rich, smooth, butteriest. Correctly salted. We hardly use the knife to spread it. There are toothmarks where I bite.
So, you know, then everything was a bit different and stuff. Lurpak lost its lustre.