A la Recherche du Pain Perdu

Or: Never on Sunday

On the last day of our week in Paris, I ate pain perdu for breakfast. I ordered it not because I had a craving for French toast, but simply because I liked the name. I understood enough of the language to know I was ordering griddled bread “lost” in a puddle of egg and milk, but my American brain couldn’t help but see the French word for bread in purely…