'Ow can I 'elp you, madamoiselle?
By sweeping me off my feet and marrying me, you gorgeous french boy, you.
I can't decide what I'm more addicted to whenever I take my almost weekly trip to a new french bakery or cafe: the croissants or the cuties?
Ah, but that's the beauty of french culture - you don't have to choose.
This place is tucked away under a staircase in South Perth. A stone's throw away from the foreshore across from the city skyline, in the middle of a busy cappuccino strip but concealed just enough to allow some peace and quiet. All of the waitstaff were French, very polite, very animated, eager to give advice about which baguette or tart was the best today. And I loved the Parisian photos and little ornaments around the shop.
They seemed to have a lot of regulars.
I want to be a regular.
Yummy frenchboy #1 recommended that I get the croissant aux amandes ($4.5) and then I decided to be daring and asked Yummy frenchboy #2:
'Quelle chose est-ce que votre favourie?'
'C'est ca. Aimez-vous des baies?'
'Oui, bien sur. D'accord, je prends une tarte, s'il vous plait.'
'Vous etudiez le francais ici?'
'A l'universite, je suis etudiante.'
'Ah, tres bien, vous etes charmante.'
And then I blushed like an idiot and went away with my little petit-four ($2.7). Which was gorgeous by the way, with custard vanilla inside a sweet pastry case.
The almond croissant - was - a - m - a - z - i - n - g. No wonder it's their most popular item. I am never, ever, buying croissants from brumby's or coles or woolworths or any other unworthy, second-rate, inferior, commercial bakery ever again. I can't explain how beautifully flaky, fresh, sweet and light it was. You'll just have to go there and try it yourself cause I just ain't doin it justice here.
My usual extra-hot soy long mac ($4.5) was excellent, nothing less than what I had expected after one look at their coffee machine. I've worked in cafes since I was 14 so it's easy to tell whether or not they take care of their shit. I didn't see a shred of evidence to point towards the dirty-frenchman stereotype: this place was impeccably clean and spotless. The barista was a thin, dark girl with a blindingly white smile and that grace that all french women seem to have. Jealous.
When we left, she was standing at the coffee machine, humming to herself and carefully polishing the silver instruments on it with this lovely, contented smile on her face. Her black collared top was covered in flour and there were a stray curls that had fallen out of her ponytail but she was still glowing - that's what I strive for. That unmistakable glow that can only come from inside of you because you're doing what you love.