Fezzik In Paris

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

I had a religious experience on Friday.

Wandering through the Marais, our mission to procure more pants (ah, adulthood) complete, the Purrito stopped in front of the window of a Jewish bakery and pointed at a loaf of halle bread.

Having walked this road many times before, always refusing the offer, I was prepared to dismiss it immediately, but the bread called to me. Golden and shiny, I considered the rumbling of my stomach instead of dismissing it; we thus moved towards the entrance of the bakery.

The challah had served as my initial temptress, but upon crossing the threshold I found myself struck, like Paul of Tarsos, but it was a poppy-seed bagel that blinded to me, whispering only two words: eat me.

We paid for the challah roll, the bagel, and a pastry, and managed to walk a few meters from the shop when I bit into the bagel. Ecstasy overcame my tongue: this is a bagel, with this light texture, this almost layered inside, this more bread-like but still distinct taste? What the hell have I been eating all of these years?

The Purrito giggled as words failed me, as I struggled in vain to sing the praises of this newfound flavor, as the agony of the passing experience soon fell over my face: the bagel was now gone, its martyrdom complete as I finished chewing.

The enlightenment, however, endures.

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