Last night I drank Guinness out of tiny glasses with colleagues before tackling a selection of MSG-ladden delights, in a road named after the man who invented the battery.
I waited for my dinner companion at Place de la République, while others waited in soup lines. Plactic bowls warmed the cold hands of the Parisian poor. They ate the watery offering, standing in the steet. Most ate alone. This stands in stark contrast to French eating norms which dictate communality and togetherness at meal time. That said, very few of the people were French.