La Table du Poete

Ellie and I often meet for a coffee in town during our long lunches. On Monday, we stumbled into La Table du Poete, a small restaurant with a wood-burning fire, an open kitchen, and full bookshelves. I had my usual double café, and she her pot of tea, and I wrote in my journal and she wrote letters. It was warm inside and smelled like grilled cheese, and all the tables were named after a different French poet. Everyone talked quietly and drank wine and ate steaming soup out of porcelain bowls engraved with the Fleur-de-lis.

I returned today to celebrate Thanksgiving by taking myself out to a nice lunch. I noticed this time that there was also a book on every one of the small wooden tables; mine had a red velour cover and was called Les cent plus belles déclarations d'amour. Though I had all intentions of having a simple salad, I sat down and ordered the Menu du Jour: a lentil and vegetable soup, followed by a potato, emmental and veal gratin, and a green salad made with absurdly fresh spinach leaves. In between lingering bites I struggled through the French love poems in front of me. Somehow I found them beautiful even though there was so much I didn't understand. The regulars inside talked easily from table to table, and the owner sat with her friend between preparing soups and gratins. The old women at the next table commisserated with me about the rainy weather; one had a boxer named Pimkie who rested quietly under the table, and who loved me for petting her between courses. I was thankful for that meal, most notably the rather American apple tart I had for dessert. After dessert I ordered my double café and wrote until it was time to walk back to school in the cold November rain.

image via weheartit.