If Chocolat has taught me anything besides the value of great cheekbones, it’s that ‘France’ is just another word for ‘pâtisserie’. As is my understanding, people bathe in pools of Crème Pâtissière on top of the Eiffel Tower and have snail races and there’s ménage à trois out the wazoo, so to speak. So as you might imagine, I was pretty excited for a romantic provincial breakfast at Le Flaneur, and they didn’t let me down.
First things first – breakfast parking here on a weekday is not great. City bound lanes in Hawthorn are clearways until 9:30am, so if you’re coming from the east you’ll need to fang a u-bolt somewhere or park in a side street (many of which are permit parking). You’d be better off coming up Church Street and parking on the west side. Just so you know.
La Flaneur is only a baby, but it’s already come widely recommended by all kinds of people (ugly ones, stinky ones, one with hats). It’s an adorable place that looks a bit like you’ve fallen into the Urban Outfitters website and banged your head on a mounted cardboard deer. It is so sweet that you’ll get a spontaneous gum infection. And it has that menu, you know, the one that everyone takes photos of and uploads and then gushes about? I’m not going to lie, I took a photo of it as well, but I’m not going to embarrass myself by posting it here.
I was more than happy to order the smashed avocado with lemon infused Danish feta, soft poached Kangaroo Island free range eggs and sourdough. The eggs were perched like wobbly old ladies and when I poked them, they cried yellow tears all over my toast. The feta had a strong lemon flavour, but in a ‘refreshment’ way, not in a ‘Joan Rivers pursed lips way’. It was certainly a different note from the other feta I’ve had of late, and I didn’t hurry quite so quickly to call
all my friends my one friend and tell her about it, but it was lovely all the same. The bread was exceptional, and I say that as someone who often eats bread.
After I had finished my meal and read Black & White in the Herald Sun because it’s my one remaining vice, I fancied something sweet. Fortunately Le Flaneur is almost unbeatable in the cake cabinet department, and I bought all of the macarons (by Josephine, of course) and one extremely moist, dense and nutty pistachio and lemon syrup cupcake from Little Bertha. Then I ate them all in front of my children, who cried because I’ve spent all my money on eating breakfast and have nothing left to feed them. Que sera. No wait, French! Carpe diem? Is that Latin? Uh, je ne parle pas Francais! Shit.