I have passed La Grande Bouffe many times, and it is always full of trendy breakfasters and their designer pooches. Mum and I, minus our designer pooches, went for a light breakfast here today and it was lovely. Although we just felt like a gold old croissant, the creations that went by on others’ plates looked amazing: lovely, draping sheets of smoked salmon, gorgeous soft-looking omelettes and beautiful baguettes. This is Frenchy French stuff. Even the waiters are French. Nice.
The coffee is forthright and a little stern, but is good nonetheless.
The croissant is stellar. In fact, it is the best croissant I have had in a very long time. It is crispy and golden and just tastes like France. It does nothing but exacerbate my desperation to go to Europe. My head fills with visions of provincial markets and vineyards and all things soul-nourishing. Sigh.
The raspberry jam is gorgeous. It is runny and real, not the gelatinous clumps of fruit-tinged sugar that often masquerades as jam.
Splendid Sunday fare.