I had been forewarned that coffee in Paris was no good. I guess if you're an American who ruins espresso with extras or an Italian who has coffee in your DNA, you're not about to be impressed. But I had nothing to worry about. Every café that I knocked back whilst there was strong and smooth, topped off with lovely crema. I would gladly trade in my giant cups of mud for it.
Coffee service there is generally fancy and it is taken after the meal. It is not brew you just sling back while you're rushing to work. In the morning, order it short or long, with real sugar cubes, and add a gleaming baguette or flaky croissant for a typical petit dejeuner. I managed to become a regular at the boulangerie by my hotel, where 1.40 euro would get me this:
And even though I appreciate the granola bullshit that I stick with in the mornings at home, it's amazing how a piece of bread will last with you in Paris. I hardly ever eat bread by itself in Philly because I can never find any that I'm crazy about. But there I was on the balcony in a winding alley in Montmartre with real bread. Buttery with a touch of sweetness, crusty on the outside and soft in the heart. If I could relive that moment each day? I'd stop my adventuring right there.