Breakfast at Moulin

The benedicts trembled hesitantly in their ham and bread thrones, the crepe a perfect square framing a quail egg and the croque an ugly duckling of the three.

Best things come in three, I’ve always learned, like rules of comedy, this breakfast, my family members…all structurally sound things.

Armed with our hunger and a latte each, my mother, sister, and I drowned our previous conversations about the cultural confusion people assume young immigrants to be paralyzed by in the same way the slit benedicts drowned their seats with yolk. My eyes sometimes dared to peak at the grey, wet world outside, beyond the scope of melting cheese dressed in the cloak of a perfect crepe dotted with ham in its core. Black birds flew by to habitually search for crumbs: I wonder if God still makes sure that these critters have no worries even on a rare rain.

So the three of us feasted, sipped lattes, temporarily freed from worries in good company.


This is the restaurant that we went to. This is also where the lemon tart is from.


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