My Paris
I remember it was early. I was on my way to buy croissants with Ernest Hemingway. Or, rather, “hunt croissants”, as he put it.
“You’ve got to grab it firmly by the tongs”
said Hemingway as we turned into the Rue de Boulangerie.
“Get it into the bag quick. A croissant may look like an easy thing to get in a bag, but if you make a wrong move…”
The rest of his sentence was lost in the Parisian air. He was quiet for a while. Then he started again.
“I knew a guy once. Couldn’t get the croissant into the bag. He was careless. Got distracted by the eclairs. It only took a second. Slipped through his fingers and landed on the floor. Then he stepped on it. It was just there, on the floor. A dead thing. A flat pastry. Under his foot.”
We arrived at the bakery and went in. They’d sold out of croissants, so we just ate bread.
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