Breizh and la Bibliothèque

I don't really feel fully at home in a city until I'm a card-carrying member of the municipal library. As I also have a mile-long list of texts to consult for the bibliographies of my courses, but lack a mile-long train of hundred-euro bills with which to buy them, the library is going to be my best friend this semester. There are 58 (!) branches in Paris, but rather than choosing which one to visit to by tacking the list to a dart board and leaving it up to my poor aim, I decided to be reasonable and choose based on the proximity to a crêperie I've had my eye on. My logic is infallible.

The description that my study-abroad program gave of the municipal library made it seem like signing up and finding books would be an ordeal, but it was actually ridiculously easy. The entire catalogue is searchable online, I can reserve books for pick-up... I don't understand how this is unreasonable at all. So what if the hours are a little weird--it's Paris, that's a given! The entire process did not take long at all, and the library itself was modern on the inside and old-fashioned on the outside, and I regret not taking a picture. In fact, I regret not taking a lot of pictures at all that day, but I didn't want to ruin the warm fuzzy contentment I felt thanks to the heavy stack of library books in my bag, the sign of a vrai Parisienne.

We could also blame the dearth of photography from my afternoon at Breizh Café on the food coma induced by the delicious, buttery, perfectly prepared galettes au sarrasin. I installed myself in a little corner booth with a book on la Nouvelle Vague and curled up with a little bowl of cider, which was just the ticket on this rainy Friday afternoon. The little bubbles that rose to the surface actually glittered, a sure sign of the magical alcoholic properties within. It was the most unusual cider I've had yet--the fresh and crispy taste of apples that I've come to expect, but followed by the distinct pungency of Roquefort. Since apples and stinky blue cheese is my favorite combination of fruit and fermented milk, I was more than happy to slurp it all up.

Glitter, glitter everywhere!

Even though there are hundreds of bored high schoolers flipping crêpes all over Paris, there are only a handful of places where you can find really, really, really good ones. And the way to tell an authentic crêperie from a false one is if they use blé noir or sarrasin, buckwheat flour. I'm fully on the dark side--I refuse to order a savory crêpe made with ordinary flour. There's something really satisfying about the flecks of buckwheat in the batter and I can't go back: it would be like electing to eat Wonderbread in lieu of a crunchy, nutty, wholegrain loaf.

Sadly, despite their charm, it is impossible to take a flattering picture of a savory crêpe. They're delicious and I love them, but they're none too happy in front of the camera, so I didn't even try. This time I had the complète artichaut, topped with just the right amount of Gruyère and an oeuf miroir, which is the most evocative way to describe a sunny-side up egg. I was really hoping that it would come with a little ring of lettuce leaves on top like the other plates that I'd seen floating past my table, but no luck. I'll just have to get one of those next time!

I was pretty nicely settled in with my book, so when the (rather cute) waiter came by in his sailor shirt with the dessert menu, I couldn't say no. Mostly as an excuse to get him to linger, I asked him which crepe with ice-cream-that-was-not-vanilla was his favorite. It turned out to be an homage to the grain I hold so dear: a buckwheat crêpe topped with buckwehat flower honey and a scoop of buckwheat ice cream. It was magnifique.

Those little flecks are not vanilla beans--they're buckwheat!