Saturday I snapped open the shades above my kitchen sink while making coffee and found myself eye to eye with a guy roofing the house next door.
I quickly closed the shades and decided we should go out for brunch to escape the annoying pounding (and to get my car away from all the nails and shingles flying down dangerously close.)
I slicked on some lipstick, threw on my sunglasses, and Scott and I headed to a place that always treats us right – Trocadero.
Housed in a completely revamped corner building, Trocadero’s cool black and white tile, large windows, exposed brick walls, and red and black color scheme evoke images of past-visited European cafes.
It even has a full-fledged "tabac" which is well stocked with cigarettes, magazines, newspapers, and a few other amenities. I’m not a smoker, but I love this realistic homage to Francophile culture.
Although Trocadero is endowed with a fantastic terrace and heated patio, we sat inside, listening to the soft sounds of Thievery Corporation, and I sipped a cup of dark French roast coffee (always accompanied by a tiny square of Valrhona chocolate and two sugar cubes).
I scanned the menu and glanced at the group of college students seated across from us. They were getting the party started early (Or maybe Friday night was just ending?) with an array of mimosas, beer, and what appeared to be a mojito. Next to them an artistic looking couple held forth with coffee and in-depth discussion about academic matter too complicated for my not-yet-fully caffeinated mind to fully grasp.
Usually I can’t get enough of the brie, basil and tomato sandwich, but feeling in need of breakfast fare, I ordered the Provence Omelet, which contained delicate leeks, an array of herbs and was topped with a delicious aioli.
I figured Mireille Guiliano, CEO of Clicquot, Inc., and author of French Women Don’t Get Fat, would be pleased with my choice. She’s a big fan of leeks.
Scott, who had made short work of his froth-laden cappuccino, went in a different direction. He decided on a dish made with black beans and avocados that would’ve made any self-respecting Austin-ite proud. It turned out to be delicious, but I thought my omlette, accompained by tiny cubed potatoes and a slice of perfectly buttered toast was the best.
By then, it started to cloud over and looked like rain. Confident that a steady downpour of rain would deter the roofing project for at least a few hours, we headed back home so I could get some work done and, should time permit, finish Blue Like Jazz, a book by Donald Miller that I checked out from the library but like so much I must get my own copy ASAP.