Nothing but the Start

Recently, I found myself in Paris on a Friday night with no plans. One thing was certain, though – a proper French dinner was on the agenda, and being alone was not going to stop me. And so, full of determination, I set out into the Le Marais area at about 8pm to check out the restaurants for a suitable place to dine solo.

Eating alone is all fine and good when it’s breakfast or lunch, but dinner on Friday night tends to exist in pairs and parties. So, as I made my way through the 4th arrondissement, I admit that while my hunger grew, my courage waned.

When I was about to give in to street food or, worse yet, the mini-bar, I remembered something a friend had told me. (Funny thing about friends.) She had once been inspired (somehow, by me) to book a table at a swanky restaurant when visiting friends on the west coast… and to go there alone. She admitted to being nervous and self conscious, but she still did it. And you don’t have to guess that it was a good experience.

Shame can work in our favor sometimes. There is no way I could get around that compliment of compliments and so I forged ahead and went into the next place I saw. (No, it was not McDonald’s.) And let’s face it. We are talking about dinner in Paris. We are not talking about jumping out of a plane or a relationship, or giving a speech to an audience of five hundred.

Turns out the patrons of Cafe Le Bouledogue Brasserie are locals, the staff is attentive (funny thing about a woman dining alone) and the food comes to the table at just the perfect pace. And, in addition to the fact that I learned that leeks can be the most delicious of vegetables, I also learned that it is possible to be inspired by the people whom we have at one time inspired.

It comes around.

Paris.  What an amazing place.  It’s the sort of city that one can crave after a period of time.  And it is so completely different from Madrid, yet close enough to make me a very lucky girl.

I am sucker for food markets, which means there is no hope for me in a city so capable of selling mass amounts of beautiful produce.  This is something Madrid seems to be lacking, so, needless to say, much of my time in Paris was spent swooning over giant artichokes and tiny radishes.

I’ll let the photos speak for themselves.  Here are some things that can be found along rue Mouffetard and at Marché d’Aligre: