Supermarket Croissant.

Yes, you read correctly. Supermarket croissant.

I don’t know whether it means that I’m officially a real Parisian or officially a lazy degenerate, but I am here to confess that I just polished off a croissant from Monoprix. To give you a sense of what this means, Monoprix is sort of a cross between Target and Sainsbury’s or something. Neither of these are the perfect comparison, but you get the idea. Monoprix stores come in various sizes, and the one around the corner from us has a large supermarket and a bakery. So yeah, that’s where I got the croissant. And you know what? It wasn’t half-bad.

As I’d written in my previous bread post, given the abundance of perfectly passable bread options, “real Parisians” are said to go for convenience of bread location rather than indulge regularly in the quest for elusive bread perfection. So maybe by running across the street to get a croissant and be back before my tea cooled, e.g. by being too lazy to walk the 6.5 minutes to Rue Montorgueil, location of at least 2 of the best bakeries in Paris, I was actually acting truly Parisian. Or truly, truly lazy.

In an effort to slightly excuse myself, I will say this. We have some special guests visiting us from the U.S.A. And they decided that we should all take in a show at the famous Moulin Rouge last night. Suffice it to say, I pre-gamed at dinner. And as I sat through the show, there was no chance I was going to leave behind one tiny drop of my two-drink minimum. I asked my dear husband during the show which he found more offensive, the predictably obvious sexism or the somewhat unexpected Orientalism. FTW, he said he was most offended by the pretense that French people can dance. Truth is, the boobs were not really that offensive to me. And while in theory it would be less creepy if the guys took there clothes off too, I didn’t really want to see any of those guys take their clothes off. So I guess A is right that the most offensive part really is simply the tackiness.

Now, I suppose you can call me sheltered, because I’ve never been forced to go to Las Vegas or on a cruise ship, so I’ve never been subjected to a show like this. The closest thing I have to compare it to is Starlight Express, which we went to see when I was 10 with some cousins (I think Phantom of the Opera was probably sold out) and which was AWESOME. When I was ten.  So, yeah. Starlight Express, with a LOT of boobs and some harem-themed scenes.  Those whiskeys on the rocks had no chance. Neither did the remaining glass of A’s mom’s red wine. After a dinner at which I consumed more than the usual amount of wine, to begin with. And I don’t really have a very high tolerance. For alcohol or vegas-style burlesque shows, it turns out. So let’s just say the croissant thing this morning was kind of an emergency. Am I excused?