The word “taco” in the name kind of leads one to believe that the tacos are tacos but they’re not tacos. If they were, they would be an abomination. But thanks to a very popular article in the New Yorker, I’ve since had to change my stance, eat my words, and eat a damn French Taco.
French breakfast is different from your breakfast, but it’s also extremely important so don’t talk shit about it.
In a fit of optimism, I thought we’d be the first international movers to receive our moving boxes early.
In Paris everyone is constantly eating, carrying, or buying bread. And you can too!
I thought grit and money would help me find an apartment in Paris because I’m a dumb American.
I’m not sure why French meals last four hours, they just do and we all have to accept it.