Cafe Flore

A few Saturdays ago I got to do something that I had promised myself I would do ever since I arrived in Paris.

Had I left Paris before now I probably would have missed out on the MUST in Paris: Going to Cafe Flore for morning coffee. Ok granted I was there at one in the afternoon but I hadn’t had my daily coffee yet and nothing ever gets started on a saturday morning until at least 11.

but there I was “Feuilleter” (a verb that actually means to page through something LOVE IT) in a Marie Claire while holding hands with a handsome Frenchman sitting across from me reading Le Monde. Between us croissant and raisin bread crumbs littered the crisp ecru napkins with the delicate forest green script, a half-consumed cafe créme, and thick onctueuse hot chocolate in a sliver creamer fogging up the sides from its insulated contents.

I’ve written and read about Parisian cafés since my arriving here. The Café Flore has always been one that has fascinated me. Around since 1885 Café Flore is known to be the place where the surréaliste was invented (on the terras with André Breton and Louis Aragon). Like its counterparts in St.Germain des Près it is a notable place for literary, philosophical, and artistic icons like Picasso, Raymond Queneau, Les Frères Giacometti, Jean-Louis Barrault. It is just a humbling thing for a would-be writer to even consider opening a notebook in these sorts of places (though I opted for pages of Louis Vuitton, Chanel, and Balenciaga)

I mean… this was a REALLY touristy thing to do and we were appropriately surrounded by people with cameras starring somewhat idle and awestruck at what they were suppose to do when the waiter presented them with the tray to pick their croissant (which is a small detail about this place that I just LOVE). But that is OK. After three years of living here I can still be considered a tourist and that is fine by me. Once I’ve done it all then really what is left?

So what if a coffee is two times more expensive than anywhere in the city? Though i prefer Les Deux Magots next door, when you visit Paris you have to stop at a magazine stand (even if it is to buy a TIME magazine) and have a coffee at the Cafe Flore.

For other restaurants in Paris checkout my category Restaurants in Paris HERE

172 Boulevard Saint-Germain  75006 Paris
7:30 am–1:30 am
A+ EmilieinParis



About Emilie

I'm a small girl with big ambitions and very little common sense it seems. I decided after I graduated from college that I would move from my little city of Lafayette Louisiana to the raging monster city that is Paris. In 4 months of planning I have now uprooted everything I had in an amazing town to live in a truly wild place where I have no idea WHAT I am going to do. But isn't that the fun of it all. So here is cheers to getting lost, breaking hearts, starving, and many wonderful adventures that come along with finding yourself.
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4 Responses to Cafe Flore

  1. karen says:

    Beautiful description! Can’t wait to be there sipping my cafe!

  2. Christian says:

    Cette belle chanson, que tu connais peut-être, pour accompagner ton texte (et évoquer aussi quelques grands Américains qui sont passés par là) :

    Les chansons de Prévert me reviennent
    De tous les souffleurs de vers…laine
    Du vieux Ferré les cris la tempête
    Boris Vian s’écrit à la trompette
    Rive Gauche à Paris
    Adieu mon pays
    De musique et de poésie
    Les marchands de malappris
    Qui d’ailleurs ont déjà tout pris
    Viennent vendre leurs habits en librairie
    En librairie en librairie
    Si tendre soit la nuit
    Elle passe
    Oh ma Zelda c’est fini Montparnasse
    Miles Davis qui sonne sa Greco
    Tous les morts y sonnent leur Nico
    Rive Gauche à Paris
    Oh mon île Oh mon pays
    De musique et de poésie
    D’art et de liberté éprise
    Elle s’est fait prendre, elle est prise
    Elle va mourir quoi qu’on en dise
    Et ma chanson la mélancolise
    La vie c’est du théâtre et des souvenirs
    Et nous sommes opiniâtres à ne pas mourir
    A traîner sur les berges venez voir
    On dirait Jane et Serge sur le pont des Arts
    Rive Gauche à Paris
    Adieu mon pays
    Adieu le jazz adieu la nuit…

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