It's our last night in Paris and we sit here waiting for our landlord to show up (do you call someone you're renting from for only two weeks a landlord?) and give us back our deposit after being assured we didn't pull a rock-star-on-a-bender on his place before heading off to our final dinner at Chez Michel in the 10th.
Oh crap, is it really almost over?!?! There's so much we didn't do - the Louvre (Noah's still never been), walk through the Jardin des Plantes, drink a cafe express at either Deux Magots or Cafe Flore, visit the Monde Arabe and the Quai Branly, eat sweetbreads (where, I ask, were the damn sweetbreads???). And WE MISSED OUT ON SO MANY PLACES TO EAT (Bistrot Paul Bert, the closed for the holidays but much loved by us L'Ami Jean, Riboldingue, etc...). Not that we starved - we've practically eaten ourselves to death - but in Paris, as in any good food city, there just isn't enough time to hit up every place that sounds like a can't miss restaurant.
There are other things, too, that we forgot to do in time - grab some caramels with fleur de sel for Abby, who would truly appreciate their awesomeness; see if I could get the girl at the fromagerie to vacuum pack (aka sous vide) a huge hunk of their to-die-for buerre sale (Breton butter with sea salt that is better than sex); find a mini crepe/egg pan for Noah at Dehillerin; get cooler gifts for my dad; find the perfect black purse that no one in America will have and all my friends will envy.
But there's one thing I did remember - one last baguette from Eric Keyser. I'm taking that baby on the plane with me and it will get me through the 13 hours of crap plane food and crying babies and chatty seatmates. Seriously, I want to eat it right now. Aw, dammit...
Well, there's always next time.