La Crêperie mon ami
La Crêperie mon ami
by Darryl Houston Smith
The Parisian twilight enveloped Montmartre like a beloved velvet cloak, softening the edges of the cobblestone streets and illuminating the quaint storefronts with a warm, inviting glow. For Jan and Darryl, this particular evening was not just another night in Paris; it was the night—their final farewell, for now, to the city that had, over the past week, rewoven the intricate tapestry of their love story.
They wandered aimlessly, hand in hand, through the winding streets, passing artists hawking their wares near Sacré-Cœur and meandering through the hushed elegance of residential alleys.
Their conversations flowed as effortlessly as the Seine, touching on shared memories, future dreams, and the quiet joy of simply being together. A familiar comfort settled between them, a deep understanding that transcended words, nurtured by the magic of Paris.
As the air grew cooler, a sweet, buttery scent drifted toward them, beckoning them into a small, unpretentious storefront. "La Crêperie mon ami," Jan read aloud, the words rolling off her tongue with a newfound French lilt she'd picked up during their trip. A gentle tug on Darryl's hand led them closer.
The crêperie was a charming hole-in-the-wall, its single window displaying a handwritten menu and promising golden-brown perfection. Inside, a jovial man with flour dusting his apron flipped crêpes with practiced ease. There was a warmth to the place, an authenticity that spoke of generations of simple, delicious artistry.
“What are we feeling?” Darryl asked as he settled his arm around Jan’s waist.
Jan scanned the menu. “Something decadent. Something… Parisian.” Her gaze landed on a small, hand-scribbled addition: Crêpe flambée au Grand Marnier. “That. Definitely that.”
They ordered, and a few minutes later, the crêpe arrived, folded neatly on a small paper plate, its edges crisp and its center soft. The air around them hummed with the rich, citrusy aroma of Grand Marnier, freshly caramelized sugar, and a hint of something warm and nostalgic.
They stepped away and, ever so slightly out of time, just then the two of them discovered their corner of the street surprisingly deserted. It was an unusual quiet for Montmartre—a moment of precious solitude in a city known for its vibrant bustle. The distant murmur of city life served as a soft hum, a backdrop to their own intimate symphony.
There was no need for elaborate conversation or grand declarations. The simple act of sharing this sweet treat in this quiet corner of Paris felt more profound than a thousand spoken words could ever convey.
