If there’s one thing that I’ve been craving ever since I stepped foot on Parisian soil, it’s been chicken wings. Since this delicacy doesn’t exist in French restaurants, finding wings has been a huge problem compounded by the fact that I’ve promised myself never to enter a KFC in Paris. But that all changed on Friday. Thanks to the sharp eye and intrigue of some of my friends, they spotted on the internet the greatest thing to ever exist in Paris: Breakfast-in-America.
Breakfast-in-America is just that — an authentic American breakfast displaced in the City of Lights. Taking the form of an old diner, Breakfast-in-America is a restaurant that skips the eight hour plane ride over the Atlantic and brings you the U.S. right when you walk through the door. Like a giddy five-year-old headed to the toy store, I anxiously made my way down to Breakfast-in-America to taste my first American meal in what seemed like an eternity.
When I turned the corner and caught my first glimpse of the restaurant, I could have sworn that sitting right there in the middle of the most average block of Paris was Clarke’s, the Evanston staple. And if it resembled Clarke’s on the outside, what I got on the inside was even better (if that’s even possible). Sure the inside looked just like an American diner, and yes, all the waiters spoke American (not English), but it was just the food that I cared about. Everything else was just icing on the cake. Pancake, to be specific.
That’s what I started with. Two pancakes, more accurately described as two fluffy circles of golden deliciousness smothered in syrup, were only the first part of the meal. I then ordered two gigantic eggs done over-easy, which were complemented by a boatload of crispy and savory bacon. Under the correct assumption that this amount of food should satiate a normal human being, our waitress thought she was done taking my food orders. She was mistaken.
While my friends went for burgers (as pictured above), I went there for the chicken wings and wouldn’t have been content without them, so that’s what I proceeded to order (along with a gargantuan platter of home fries). Alarmed at how much food I dared to order, the waitress asked me if I was sure I could stomach it. Then, more than ever, I felt like a true American; my answer was unequivocally “yes.” No amount of food would ever prove to be too much for me.
As quickly as the wings came, they were devoured. The fries took a little bit longer, but I was full for the rest of the day, satisfied both in body and in mind. Now, I could try to describe my emotions as I ate, or explain the sensations my tongue was experiencing, but I highly doubt even Shakespeare himself would have the vocabulary to do my thoughts justice. Just take my word for it — I was in America, and that’s exactly what my palate needed.