Musty and famous bookstores, sweet treats and stumbled-upon good food

It's 5:53 a.m. Sunday and the jet lag continued to hit me an hour ago when I unexpectedly awoke from having a very strange dream.

Aside [the dream]: I was about trying to get into a restaurant and making reservations and being turned away (as was the case tonight when we just showed up to Le Chateaubriand.) The hostess said no way and a war broke out. Wampa came into a museum three hours earlier than she was supposed to be dropped off at. Then a war broke out in a parking lot and I ran over someone's long machine gun.

Flight was a reasonable eight hours on Air France's hard seats. Mike and I posted this shot of us prior to taking off. We thought we saw Mayor Rob Ford on board (we didn't) as Toronto was still in its "Where in the world is Rob Ford" curiosity.

"Look into zees eyes!"

After landing at Charles De Gaulle airport, we got the usual stuff – Metro tickets and some direction from the helpful folks at the tourism counter – and headed in to town. On the RER to Paris, a young woman began playing the accordion and asking for money. How French.

Around 10:30 a.m., we arrived at our home for the next 10 days – 36 Rue Oberkampf – a gorgeous, airy, spacious and bright, rustically-designed flat in a pretty hip neighbourhood between the 3rd and 11th arrondissement. It is perfect and can be yours only on AirBnB for $200 a night.

And! It has a vertical towel rack heater in the ensuite bathroom. Have I leaned against it naked if you're wondering? Yes. Yes, I have.

But enough about my first-degree burns.

We didn't do much on the first day. We wandered around the bustling Republique area to the more serene Canal Martin where we had some great bagels and saw some locks on a bridge.

***

On Saturday, we had a bit of a late start. Try 4 p.m.

I had no idea, but apparently, Paris really likes to have its lunch hour in restaurants from noon to 2 p.m. and then reopens later for dinner. We thought, "OK, so the patisserie where we were going to get some buttery croissants is closed – we'll just go for lunch at some other restaurant."

Yeah, no dice. You have to find a spot that serves food all-day and that is useful for when on holiday.

Luckily, we did find the Bistrot du Peintre in the Bastille area, which has a decent duck confit leg with frites. 12 euros. Hit the spot.

Up the street, is a delightful chocolatier shop where you can't go wrong, no matter what you pick.

We took our tarts and headed towards Notre Dame.

A girl documenting tarts. MICHAEL PEAKE/Pic

I'm not in to religion, but that structure is just a grand piece of architecture. We waited a short five minutes and were allowed inside as a mass service was being conducted. 

Across the street is the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore. Besides carrying an impressive selection of anglophone books, it really is a quirky place full of musty, tiny enclaves for writers and readers and many vintage typewriters. No wonder Woody Allen used it in Midnight in Paris.

For dinner that evening, we meant to head to Le Chateaubriand, but upon finding it was packed and we weren't getting in, the waiter recommended we head two doors down to Le Dauphin, another restaurant under the same owner's wing.

We stumbled upon a gem.

It's a French tapas restaurant, very hip with white marble everywhere.

We were seated at the bar and our bartender spoke English quite well, which was very helpful. Every plate was flavourful and a delight, but an unexpected and pleasant win was the squid ink risotto. Sounds gross and when the plate was set down in front of us, it appeared intimidating, but I am still blown away by it. Never had anything like it. Amazing. Mike really enjoyed the lamb. He said it was the "best lamb I've ever eaten,"mainly because all Canada imports in lamb from New Zealand, which tends to be tougher, perhaps? A perfect denouement – the chocolate profiteroles with vanilla creme glacee.

Today: Getting an early start to the outdoor food markets in Bastille, lunch at Le Train Bleu (an old 1900s train station converted into a restaurant), the Catacombes, the cemetery where Serge Gainsbourg is buried and who knows what else.

Adventures await! Maybe we'll meet some French weirdos today.