Sleepy Sunday

Understandably exhausted from the previous night’s shenanigans, we decided to skip the morning market in favor of falafel in le Marais. The Jewish Quarter on Rue des Rosiers is the only place still bustling on a Sunday, when the rest of Paris shuts down. This past weekend was Sukkot, so rabbis shuffled through the narrow street holding lulavs and etrogs, weaving in and out of the throngs of people lined up for falafel.

Conclusion to the Controversy of the Century: The King of Falafel serves the exact same falafel as L’As Du Falafel. They are identical. And yet, the line outside of L’As is three times as long. Waiting is for the weak, we got two perfect falafels at The King and searched, face in pita, for a place to sit. These babies are loaded with the works: Israeli salad, hummus, red cabbage, tahini sauce, fried onions and eggplant. Wipe your mouth, you’re drooling on the keyboard.


The next important thing on our list was coffee, so we wandered (all the way to the Pompidou) until we found a satisfactory café that was open and friendly. I bought a pastry from a bakery that was bigger than my head and filled with Orange Plaisir. Happy tummies.

We started out thinking we could afford a relaxing stroll to the Cimetiere de Père-Lachaise, but sadly, as we reached the gates we found it was closed. Heads hung, we looked into a guidebook for dinner plans. On our way, we walked down La Rue du Faubourg-St-Antoine, which hid beautiful courtyards behind hole-in-the-wall doors. I think we might have trespassed, but I know where I want to live when I grow up.


Dinner plans were demolished. How was I to know the Grands Boulevards would be so… grand? Très commercial. Theo thought that Le Chartier, despite the excellent prices, seemed snooty, so we headed towards the side streets. At the end of a particularly dark one, a neon red sign read “Les Noces de Jeanette.” Ahh, character. A good menu, a good wine list, and quiet, with only a few couples there; the place had just the right amount of class to make you nervously excited about the prospect of eating there.

I had try blood sausage again, and to my delight it was prepared differently here. Ground up and served on a bed of mashed potatoes, it tasted like meatloaf on steroids. Theo’s steak was saignant and topped with a sweet sauce that managed to not overpower the meat. For dessert, we decided to be daring and order framboise à l’eau de vie to go with our raspberry mouse cake. It was like drinking perfume. It was like getting punched in the throat by a gigantic raspberry. However, it did expand our appreciation of the fruit in our cake. Job well done.