This morning we anchored in the bay of St. Pierre, part of an overseas collective of France, tucked into the southern tip of Newfoundland. I had this gorgeous thought that I would go ashore early and find a cafe where I could indulge in what, bar none, is my favorite breakfast. Honestly, a piece of fresh and perfect baguette, slathered with good French butter and equally awesome jam, cannot be surpassed in this world. Better even than the best croissants, although they are close behind in second place, and can also be enough to make me swoon straight out of my chair.
St. Pierre is truly part of France in its orientation, and I just assumed this goal could be easily achieved. Indeed, I saw the typical scene of shoppers coming out of the boulangeries carrying one, two, or sometimes a dozen baguettes, but they were taking them either home, or to shuttered-up restaurants in preparation for lunch. The bakeries didn’t have any tables, so fulfilling my fantasy right on the spot was out.
I wandered all around the little town and didn’t find a single place open for breakfast. Poor me, or should I say “pauvre, petite moi,” in a bid for Gallic sympathy. I was thinking of heading back to the ship for a baguette breakfast that would be almost as good, when I saw one ice cream shop open that was advertising coffee and crepes.
Well, okay, I told myself. It’s not my dream meal, but really, crepes are pretty authentic too. So that’s what I had.
It wasn’t the world’s best crepe, or more than just a good cafe au lait, but it was a moment to savor nonetheless. As Plan Bs go, this one was just fine. I’ll save perfection for another day.