Breakfast was a delightfully informal meal, at almost any hour of the morning, and in the inn parlor, not the dining room. Here the ceiling quivered with reflections from the sunspangled river.
On the second morning Nancy brought to breakfast a large, mysterious bag, and when she had received her huge bowl of café au lait, weak coffee made with milk, she opened the paper bag and dumped a handful of what appeared to be rolled oats, raw, into her bowl.
“What on earth is that?” asked Cynthia.
“That’s my breakfast food, want to try some?”
Cynthia shook her head, “Goodness no. But where can you get breakfast food, American style, in a paper bag, in a French village?”
“Feed store,” mumbled Nancy around her large spoonful. “It’s just chicken feed. Bran. I get so hungry by noon, with these continental breakfasts.”
“How about an egg?” was Cynthia’s suggestion. “Soft boiled.”
“Try and get it.” Nancy’s tone was amused.
Cynthia struggled with the hard-to pronounce oeuf. Shortly it came, all alone on a small dish. It was hot, so it must have been in hot water. But when she broke it ... “Ugh! It’s completely raw!”
“They simply won’t boil it any longer, unless you want a twenty minute egg, like a rock,” explained Nancy. “It’s one of the unsolved mysteries of the French cuisine. You’ll come to chicken-feed yet!”