Chapters (45)
- Cover
- Blame Iton Paris
- Copyright Notice
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Book One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Book Two
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
We ordered the spécial—three balls of falafel, cabbage, humus, grilled eggplant, and a special sauce—stuffed our bag with plenty of napkins, and headed back to the Seine. I was starving, but it would never have crossed Sébastien’s mind to eat while walking or standing in the street. It would cross my mind, but if I actually yielded to the urge, I wouldn’t be able to stick my nose up at other Americans in Paris. The potential for snobbery is a very important social control for those of us who lack willpower. “Let’s go to the Île de la Cité,” he said.
The Île de la Cité is not at the end of the world from the rue des Rosiers, but neither is it the closest park in Paris. I smiled. “Is that your favorite place?”
“I like it,” he acknowledged. “It’s calm. You’re right in the heart of Paris and yet you’re out of the city.”
So we went to the Île de la Cité again. Neither of us had jackets this time, so Sébastien inspected the paving stones for the spot with the least pigeon poop and gave it to me, sacrificing his jeans on the less clean spot beside it.
After the first bite, he gave me a look of surprised respect. “You’re right. It is good.”
“Of course, I’m right. Try to remember that you may be the Frenchman, but you’re the one who likes fast food.”
He grinned and leaned back against the wall of the park that was raised slightly above the Île de la Cité quay. “Sometimes you just want junk.” He took another bite.
Not even a drop of sauce curled over the back of his hand. “How do you do that?” I sighed. Bits of cabbage littered the ground around me, attracting interested pigeons, and sauce streamed toward my wrists.
His lips trembled. “How do you manage that?” he asked, gazing at my hands. I clung two-fisted to my pocket of falafel, trying to keep the thing in one piece.
I tried to lick a drop off my wrist before it could drip on my skirt. I failed. “Everybody makes a mess with falafel!” I protested. “It’s famous!”
“Ah,” he said and took another neat bite. Nothing dripped; nothing smeared on his lips or fingers.
“Did you get as much sauce as I did?” I asked suspiciously.
He studied the total mess I was making of myself and shook his head, bemused. “It’s all in the way you bite.”