First coffee

11 Sep

breakfast 2I wake at 8am, but take my time rising from bed and am almost equally slow in dressing for the day. I arrive at Cafe Einstein around 10am, I sit at one of four tables in the back under an ivy canopy.

The voices of the other patrons is a like swarm of insects, low, saying so much, all at once, like countless harmonies, beautifully inaudible. It’s warm out, but cool under the canopy. The latte I ordered is perfectly creamy, soft, and sweet. My Paris breakfast—and side of scrambled eggs arrive. The basket of bread is overflowing, I immediately reach for a croissant and dip it in honey. The pastry is smooth and light, the honey adds weight and just a hint of sweetness. I slather strawberry jam on a slice of bread, the berry seeds snap between my teeth as the heavy sweet bread sinks and dissolves in my mouth.Breakfast 1

Eggs change drastically around the world. I suspect people will always love the eggs of their childhood the most, but discovering the varying flavors of regional eggs remains a must when I travel. The eggs in Germany are earthy, with an overpowering flavor and scent, reminiscent of lake water. They’re good, but considerably more hearty than anything an American chicken has to offer, I can hardly finish one egg, and the majority of a single order (three eggs) is left on the plate, cold and pungent.

breakfast 3Shortly into my hours-long breakfast, an owl begins to call. A small bird approaches my table, begging. My unsavory humor has me offer eggs. The bird nibbles at them and I call it a cannibal, knowing that birds eat each other’s eggs regularly I still enjoy the joke. As my meal approaches an end, the cafe begins to fill, two businessmen sit at one of the four tables under the canopy. Their conversation is close, with piercing clarity it disrupts the harmonic hum of the patron conversations and accents of clinking spoons on cups and plates.

One of the men at the table near me sounds like Klaus from American Dad, time to go.


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