A moments notice

Getting Ready in a Rush

I hastily jumped in the shower, scrubbing off the remnants of a lazy Sunday and trying to coax myself into something resembling alertness. Then I threw on some going-out-for-the-day clothes: a skirt, a cosy jumper, boots sturdy enough for cobbled streets, and a scarf (in case you were wondering). It was unseasonably cold, that damp London chill that seeps into your bones, and the weather was apparently no better on the Continent.

By 8 a.m. I was ready to leap into the Bentley when it arrived. Mr X’s car pulled up promptly, as it always does, with his cheerful driver grinning at me through the window before whisking me off to St Pancras to catch the train. My ticket was waiting for me in the car, tucked neatly into an envelope bearing my name, and Mr X called just as we pulled up to the station to say he was already installed in First Class, carriage 5, seat 23B—9:09 a.m. departure, on the dot.

St Pancras: Gateway to Paris

Stepping into St Pancras in the morning rush, I felt that familiar thrill: polished marble floors, the echo of rolling suitcases, the scent of burnt coffee from the station kiosks, and the high iron-and-glass roof arching overhead like a cathedral for commuters and dreamers. I sailed through security with my little overnight bag, passport clutched in one hand, and followed the signs to the Eurostar platform.

When I finally reached our carriage and slid into the plush First Class seat beside him, Mr X looked up from his newspaper with a satisfied little smile. Once we were settled and the train had eased out of London, he explained the day’s itinerary. He wanted us to have brunch—“a proper brunch,” as he put it—at a patisserie he had booked out entirely for us, and to sample all the coffees they had to offer, in as many different formats and flavours as we fancied. What a good idea. I had already eaten a little something before I left (one never trusts a man’s idea of timing where food is concerned), but my appetite immediately revived at the thought.

We all know my passion for food is unrivalled—especially when it comes with a European price tag and is hideously overpriced. I could almost taste a latte laced with hazelnut as he spoke: silky foam, bitter-sweet coffee, that nutty aroma curling under my nose.

The Journey Across

The journey slid by in a blur of countryside and tunnels, fields smeared green and brown against the window. I half-listened to Mr X talking about work while I watched the landscape change, mentally planning which pastries I would order first. By the time the announcements switched from English to French, my stomach was already grumbling again.

We arrived in Paris at 11:15 a.m. The air on the platform felt different: cooler, sharper, and smelling faintly of metal, diesel, and something delicious drifting from a nearby café. At 11:30, right on cue, another car collected us. Before I knew it, we were gliding through late-morning traffic, weaving between honking scooters and impatient taxis, the city unfurling around us—cream stone buildings with wrought-iron balconies, boulangeries with golden loaves in the window, women in tailored coats and scarves tied just so.

As we passed various landmarks, Mr X gave a few brisk instructions to the driver in confident, if slightly mangled, French. Eventually, we pulled up outside a discreet little patisserie on a quiet street, its window filled with delicate pastries shining under the glass as if they’d been polished. We were greeted at the door like royalty: the door opened before we even reached it, polite nods, a chorus of “Bonjour, Monsieur, Madame,” and the staff ushering us in as though we’d just arrived at a private club.

A Patisserie Fit for Royalty

Our table was laid out near the window with a crisp white cloth and fine china plates, cups, and saucers that looked as if they might shatter at a stern glance. Silver cutlery glinted under the soft light. And oh, the coffee pots: tall, elegant, already steaming. The rich aroma of percolated coffee hung in the air, wrapping around us like a comforting shawl. It seemed to ooze out of every crevice of the room like a fine mist—dark, warm, and intoxicating.

Plates began to appear as if by magic. Flaky, still-warm croissants that shattered into buttery crumbs at the slightest touch; pain au chocolat with thick veins of dark chocolate; glossy fruit tarts arranged with almost absurd precision; and little towers of choux pastry crowned with swirls of cream. Each new dish was announced with reverence by the waiter, as though it were a work of art.

An Indulgence in Coffee

We worked our way through coffee after coffee: an intense, inky espresso that hit the back of my throat like a tiny, elegant slap; a café crème, smooth and velvety; a hazelnut latte just as I’d imagined, sweet and nutty with foam like silk; something involving caramel that really ought to have come with a warning label; and a final, delicate blend with notes of chocolate and orange that tasted like dessert in a cup.

By the time we finally left the shop, I was stuffed to the brim and moving very carefully, as if any sudden jolt might cause a croissant to reappear. I promised them I’d come back soon—sincerely, because I absolutely will—and I was a few hundred euros poorer than when we had arrived. Mr X wore that soppy, satisfied smile of a well-fed man who has successfully executed his plan for indulgence, while I was trying to breathe, feeling as though my stomach had pushed my lungs up into my throat.

But mon Dieu—le café était très magnifique!