The Husband and I made our way to the local cafe where bemoustachioed hipster bloke was serving coffee and croissants. Or so we thought.
"Well, we have coffee, but you can't have croissants. The kitchen opens at noon."; he informed us.
It was clear that half of Paris was still nursing their midweek hangovers and couldn't be bothered to get up while the other half did get up, but somewhat begrudgingly, of course.
"Well, we can have coffee here and then go to Angelina's for cakes and croissants. And hot chocolate."; I suggested.
"Are you sure you can cope with all those sugars and carbs you have planned for yourself?"; said the ever so helpful Husband.
"Ah, but of course."
The queue in "Angelina" was long and the service, once you finally made it inside, was brisk.
A very stern and efficient waitress showed us to our table, plonked the menus in front of us and then STRONGLY suggested that we really should have hot chocolate and mont blanc; "House specialty!!!!"
Being a lover of chestnuts and hot chocolate I followed her order to a tee. Not so The Husband. He actually perused the menu and took some time placing his order. The waitress looked extremely displeased. She clearly wanted us to order what she suggested.
After bringing our orders, she plonked a Brazilian couple on a table next to us.
"French or English?", she enquired of them.
They spoke neither.
"Good Lord, they're gonna be in trouble with that waitress. They won't even know what hit them. Help them, help them."; I asked of The Husband.
But it was too late. With one skilled swipe of the hand (or should I say paw?), the Gestapo waitress whipped the menus out of their hands and presented them with one hot chocolate each. The Brazilians sat there looking confused.
"They didn't even get an option of mont blanc. Those poor bastards."; I concluded.