Montmartre is delightfully unpredictable. Were it not for the astronomical real estate, I would shift and contain my life to its bohemian bubble in a heartbeat. The maze of narrow streets surrounding Place du Tertre are likely the world’s few whose year-round buzz surpasses any mass of heaving touristic crowds. When I first got roped into eating too many nutella crêpes, buying Moulin Rouge salt and pepper shakers, and having my portrait drawn by one of the impossibly talented charcoal artists at Winter twilight and age 15, it was a panicked whirlwind of cultural appreciation. This time around, the fast pace was still there (simultaneous and uncoordinated accordion serenades fueled this dramatically), but the sun was on its way out, and the whole hilltop could only have been described as fairy-dusted.
We had overpriced escargots and terrine in a ramshackle piano bar, shook out the last of our loose change to share a glorious and unnecessary banana and nutella crêpe, tripped over the same cobbles at least four times, and ended up on Rue Abreuvoir leapfrogging roadside pillars, wishing we could stay the night – indeed, descending back into real Paris on foot in the dark was no fun.
Before I race off to a meeting, here’s my two cents:
Best crêpes: Au Pichet du Tertre
Best formule: Chez Eugene
Best conversation: Mr Crêpe at Refuge des Fondues
Over and out.
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