Fezzik In Paris

Two Americans, three cats, and too many places named "de Gaulle"

It (for that ever-nebulous definition of “it” which is still better than “they,” I suppose) has been quiet.

As a result, I’ve been quiet.

The Purrito was gone, and the Purrito returned the Thursday before last.

We had plans for that Saturday (what probably would have been a hilariously lame historical thing), but the cold, the rain (I don’t know that I have ever felt more like a duck), and general fatigue all conspired to turn our weekend into a pleasantly lazy experience, though food, wine, and a bagel were procured, as was a saint-valentin pastry from Le Nôtre. While we’d probably both agree that we struck out on food (the salmon cooked strangely, the pastry suffered from an overly-floral cream and a weirdly-textured crust), the wine was good and the Purrito’s st-jacques-based winning streak continued, despite an encounter between an unfamiliar butter brand (in my defense, the butcher otherwise tends to stock solid dairy products), a hot pan, and the smoke detector.

The highlight of that weekend was probably our impromptu Friday night date during which we saw Deadpool. Our catalogue of French vulgarities grows ever-longer, thanks to the continued magic of VOstF, and my only complaint about the movie was its use of Juice Newton’s Angel of the Morning, as it remains stuck in my head.

As for this weekend? We went back to Ralph’s on Saturday (tuna burgers! tiger shrimp! raisin-less carrot cake!) and promptly abandoned our plans when Saturday proved to be wet and dreary. We’ll venture outside once more, but not this weekend.

But hey, life, right?

It's a pastry.

It’s a pastry.

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