Part 11: Fresh Off the Boat Americans
A small, older, shy man who spoke no English and had no interest in pleasantries placed five square plates on the table. They were too large and cumbersome to fit comfortably on the small surface. On four of them large buckwheat galettes with fried eggs and ham flopped over their edges. A fifth plate overflowing with shining, gooey, bright red, strawberry jam on top of a dainty crepe was placed in front of Gianna. The three children were pinned against the wall on one side of the four-person table. The proprietor had pulled it out to allow them to carefully squeeze in behind. Stemmed glassware and heavy silverware competed for space, and I feared the worst with six small hands and elbows attempting to make work of their first real meal in more than a day.
It had felt good to finally reach our hotel after the long day of travel and it was tempting to take a leaping swan dive into the bed. I’m sure everyone shared that slightly fractured feeling that accompanies air travel that I acutely suffered from. But I knew that sleep could have proven disastrous. I didn’t even want to be in proximity of a bed for fear of temptation. We quickly changed clothes and returned to the small square with the fountain. Some say the best cure for jet lag is fresh air and walking. I couldn’t have thought of anything better. Though, technically, jet lag was the least of my worries as shear lack of sleep was what plagued me.
We had headed in the general direction of the Eiffel Tower with no real plan in mind. After a block it became painfully clear that we’d not eaten a proper meal since leaving home. We had ducked into a small, three-table creperie hopeful that the menu would be foolproof for our first foreign restaurant experience and the service may be quick.
As we shoveled the flaky pancakes into our mouths a young man came to the old man’s aid. The hassle of dealing with a table of fresh-off-the-boat Americans, three of them children, was possibly just too troublesome for his current mood. We certainly tried our best to be low maintenance.
The young waiter was quite the opposite. Each time he came by he offered us a wide smile and observed us closely with great interest. He spoke with his joyful countenance because he spoke no English either. We lapped up as much of the sweet and savory dishes as we could and fumbled through paying our first restaurant bill. It was probably the ideal easy entry into the vast French ocean. The glassware survived and it was consensus that the jam crepe was the superior.
