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Abigail said she wanted to eat something exotic for her tenth birthday dinner, something special, something very very French.
We sat down at our little, perfectly clothed table. The one with big, bright windows over looking the Siene River, the one that we had dreamed about for our entire plane ride over the Atlantic.
And turned our palates over to capable, expert hands.
Monk fish, stuffed zucchini flowers, wasabi astronaut ice cream, pasta strewn with tiny white blossoms floating in cream sauce.
It was magic.
Just like her.
Read Part One of Abigail in Paris
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