Sometimes on Sunday mornings I begin to freak out a little bit because I know that all the grocery stores will be closed on Sunday night and all the markets will be closed on Monday. What will I eat? I exclaim in a silent panic.

This most recent Monday I was enjoying a leftover spanikopita standing near a very wet bench in the Jardin des plantes waiting for the sun to emerge from behind too persistent clouds so that I could become slightly less damp. Meanwhile, my parents were heading toward Aux Tonneaux des Halles.

For those of you who don’t read this blog assiduously (and now IS the time to start!) that was where my sister and I enjoyed an evening of heartbreaking steak and bone marrow and a bouteille, but not a tonneau, of wine. The evening had been sponsored by my father as part of a steak frites research expedition.

Though we had gone on a Monday night and the internet assured us that they would also be open for Monday lunch, the truth was they were not. Thus my parents were left to graze on uncharted pastures with mixed results.

In the gloom of Monday morning we had planned to meet at Angelina in the afternoon. A piping pitcher of hot chocolate was a less than good idea by the time we all reconvened under a hot hot afternoon sun. Nevertheless treats were had by all–mine was the best: raspberry sorbet with vanilla glace.

And no one starved for dinner either. We had crêpes that caused my mother to exclaim many delicious things. Before that, my parents ventured forth (having lost their umbrella at tea time, this was truly a brave feat) to the neighborhood shops where they befriended cheese mongers, wine shop owners, and produce vendors alike. My favorite part were the cherries, of which I consumed the majority.