The South of France: We love the smell of dog turd in the morning, and the crotte minefield that is this picturesque southeastern town was selfless in its offerings as we skipped over the cobbles to our first petit cafe of the day. This here is gateau country, and no amount of effluent is going to stop us from trudging it over the gleaming tiles of Aix's patisseries and into pastry Nirvana....
First stop is Paul who, while forced to wheel himself 'tween oven and counter on a trolley after a croissant blowout left him with nought but shoulders up, surely makes the best Kouglofs this side of the shop threshold.
Our ascent continues to biscuit Babylon, where the helpful minions have illustrated the concept of "stacking on" in no uncertain terms.
Nat resigns herself to this lardy fact, kindly checking with her arse for which treat it would prefer to live with for the rest of her lifetime. It settles with caramel nougat...
It is not until several legs into our confiserie crawl that Nat realises that, due to an increasingly maw-like hole in her Orange Sack of Instant Gratificaton, she has been scattering coinage behind her like some cashed-up Hansel-Gretel hybrid. Not only will other bands of gluttons now be able to dodge poo with nary a glance at their feet, but Nat is now fiscally reliant on Liz to maintain her escalating sugar high. The batter thickens....
....as do our waists. Unfortunately the same cannot be said for the enamel on Liz's teeth, which, it would seem, have already blackened and succumbed to oral leprosy.
A near-rabid Liz is herded into a local facility accustomed to pastry-induced trauma, and after receiving counselling and some sort of topical version of Primal Therapy, she forlornly resigns herself to a life of chugging baby food and watching Nat eat caramels.
And croissants.
I need some milk and a blender.
