Le Petit Dejeuner

One of the greatest benefits of travelling is the amazing blend of characters you can find yourself mixed in with in some of the most mundane situations. It’s a kind of Mecca for those inclined towards people-watching.

This morning at breakfast, at my little round table in my little Parisian Ibis, I found myself in one such situation. To one side a British couple, to the other a French familiar.

The British lady (I presume wife of British chap), had already made her mark on the turn of events in the way she approached breakfast. That’s not to say she came in juggling small fluffy baby bunnies on a unicycle. Having presumably travelled many miles to France, her entire trip was being ruined by a lack of croissants. I’m not sure whether this trip was a once-in-a-lifetime thing for her. Perhaps since a child she had dreamt of eating nothing but croissants in Paris. Perhaps her own dining room is filled with pictures and paintings of the little armadillo-like bread treats. Perhaps her millionaire father built his empire on crumbly bread related products. Certainly she was disappointed.

Lady: ‘Excuse me. [pause, then a little louder with hands on her hips] Excuse me? [Then in an aggrieved manner] EX-Cuse Me?’.
Buffet lady: ‘Oui Madame?’ [The look on her face suggests she’s dealt with ‘The English stroppy lady’ before]
Lady: ‘More croissants?’ [Pause] ‘Are there any more croissants?’
Buffet: ‘Les croissants sont fini, madame’
Lady: ‘Sorry?’
Buffet: ‘Fini, madame’
Lady: ‘Did you hear that?’ [Giving her husband little time to reply], ‘They’ve no more croissants. There’s only ‘pan ‘o chocolate’ (said in a curious mix of French and Northern English accents) left!’

She the proceeded to talk about the lack of croissants on the table next to us, with amazing vigour and gusto, but my attention was drawn to the French family to the left by then. They’d been at dinner the night before. They stuck in the mind then because of the annoying yappy fluff of dog they brought to the dining room, which had clearly been given the brief of keeping diners alert by giving impromptu barks to make everybody jump.

This morning they stuck in the mind because they appeared to be wearing the same clothes they had worn the two days previous. There were two old women, a boy and a dog. They appeared to be the embodiment of some Roald Dahl book. They boy sat on the table next to them, and rarely spoke because he was clearly concocting some kind of marvelous medicine for his aunts to drink.

We all then went about our days – The boy to his cleaning duties at the hands of his cruel aunts and their Mutley-esque hound, and the British couple presumably off in their quest to find the ultimate stack of plain croissants.