For my sojourn to Paris, I am relaxing and roosting in the Latin Quarter, which, frankly, is more than a bit of a tourist trap, however, ideal for me, given the convenience and price of my accommodations. This evening, despite promising to never feed my stomach to grotestque volumes again, after the fresh prawn, salted sea bass, and general seafood bonanza of last night in Rome, I treated myself to dinner at a quaint, unassuming neighborhood place. I, for the first time in years, used my French and had the lovely staff fooled, until they asked me a few more involved questions, in which I sheepishly relented, admitting my loyalties to the union and the English tongue. As a proverbial cherry on top, following my meal of delightfully rare filet, I had a heaping mound of profiteroles; they were so rich, a succulent interplay of warm chocolate and soft, cold ice cream, light puff pastry. Delicious. After a week here, the clothes I packed may need to be discarded, as they may no longer fit around my cream-filled and cheese-sated hips; I believe I can accept this fate.
(image taken from Williams-Sonoma)