The Great Parisian Plate Debate

The curb, Place de la Bourse, 75002

Christian and I were near the end of the road. There were only a few days left, yet there still remained 14 bars. What to do?
The answer was a not as much an choice as an imperative: a traditional “blue collar” European breakfast. Now, before I offend anyone here, let me explain that more times than I can remember, I have walked into a dingy café for a morning espresso and found the zinc counter packed with disgruntled middle aged men sipping a glass of wine with their coffee before work. I’ve witnessed this phenomenon in small towns and cosmopolitan cities alike across Italy, Spain, and France. We were just going to substitute a bottle for a glass. Don’t judge.
We assessed our remaining arrondisements, and picked the 2nd which is the financial district. We were supposed to meet at 8, but I biked over a little early and cruised the area looking a likely match. Just a couple blocks away from the Bourse I found what appeared to be the perfect place. I called Christian, told him where to go and then ordered an espresso.
When he got there we decided on a rosé for maximum morning drinkability and ordered the customary bottle. We were met with an icy glare. “Do you want that to go?” the owner asked in French. “No, for the table outside,” I replied. He refused, claiming that he couldn’t serve it until noon.
Unfazed, we briefly discussed our rapidly dwindling choices. We took it to go. And some croissants, s’il vous plaît . Now, where the hell were we going to go with it? We got outside and filled the paper cups he’d given us with an eye roll, and then searched for a good place to sit. We didn’t have far to go, because the fence surrounding the stock exchange was extremely inviting.
So there we sat, eating our croissants and drinking our manly rosé out of paper cups, all the while deliberately holding eye contact with the stream of business people who had an entertaining range of expressions from indignation to being complicit in an inside joke.
As quickly as it had begun it was over. We hopped on the metro and went straight to work, a few photos the only evidence of what could probably be construed as a felony in America.