The sun smiled down on my daughter Martha and me on her last day in Paris. We decided to walk to a store I had read about called Sept-Cinq on the edges of Montmartre. This day, like many days here, was more about a journey than a destination, but it’s nice to have a spot on the map to shoot for, if only for a sense of purpose. Not that there is anything wrong with aimlessness, mind you.
All too soon we stumbled upon the cozy little Sept Cinq, a shop dedicated to items made by Paris craftsmen. And as the sign says, there is also a small section in the back for a little refreshment after one has shopped up a need for a snack.
The Paris-made treats range from T-shirts to shoes, candles, cards, jewelry, and purses. I spent quite a while lingering over each charming collection. And take a look at the floor.
The petite tea area in the back was so inviting. Perfect for a private conversation with a best girl friend and a nice cup of something hot.
Such a nice little find! But we were not ready to return home, so we kept walking uphill.
It was almost 3:00 when we decided we were kind of hungry. I was inclined to pop in to a bar for a glass of red, but Martha wanted something more substantial. Like lunch. Granted, it’s a bit late for lunch, even in Paris, but when we entered a cute restaurant a man asked if we wanted to eat lunch and we said yes. He told us to sit down in the back, where we waited patiently for a menu. Eventually another man came over and when we asked for a menu he said it might be too late for lunch- he would check. He returned with menus and told us it was fine. SO Martha chose risotto and I chose an open-faced sandwich from another part of the menu labeled “quatre heure”. He told Martha they were out of both risottos on the menu. He told me I couldn’t order the sandwich because it was not for lunch- it was for after lunch time. Hmmmm. We seemed to be somewhere in- between lunch and happy hour and should we just get the hell out of here. We decided to give it one more try. Martha asked for the warm goat cheese salad and, miraculously, she could have it. I had given up and stuck with a glass of red. I tell you this whole story because it is so typical of what one finds in France, and can drive you crazy if you let it. We were happy we stayed, however, because the salad was delicious, and he even encouraged us to share it, which is not typical of Paris. Lucky for me, Martha did share, and we licked the platter clean.
When we finally got out of there (I think they were hoping we would stick around for “quatre heure” offerings), the sun was on the wane, casting a lovely pink hue on Sacre Coeur.
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