She speaks nary a word of French, but she swathes herself in head-to-toe black (which is, after all, her daily uniform), laces up one of her many pairs of tiny (size 5 ½), aerodynamic, Euro-style Pumas, and hits the streets with the air of one who knows. She is unafraid. She can decipher menus; she can tackle the Métro; she can go into Monoprix with a grocery list and come out victorious. She plays the part so beautifully that Parisians have even been known to stop her on the street to ask for directions—and then stare in open-mouthed surprise when they find that she speaks no French. Now that’s satisfying.

And anyway, language barriers were made for overcoming. She can eek out the essentials when the circumstances require, such as a cheerful “Merci, au revoir” when leaving a store, and she’ll use improvised sign language if necessary. For a while, she was determined to learn how to order her preferred coffee—not a simple café express, but a double espresso with a small pitcher of warm milk on the side—and though she braved my rigorous drills and tests with only minimal giggling, it was soon clear that I’d continue to order for both of us. She may be a genius, but “un double café avec un petit pot de lait chaud” was a bit much to ask. However, once the coffee is securely in her hands, she café-sits like a true Parisienne, and her people-watching skills are unrivaled Floor Stand.

One of my mother’s favorite spots for sitting and staring is Café Beaubourg, a stylish corner overlooking the Centre Pompidou and boasting a sleek ultra-modern look, beautiful people, and sexy cave-like bathroom. I tend to prefer less overtly showy spots* for my café-sitting, but Café Beaubourg is something of a sentimental favorite—if sentimental favorites can have lots of metal, hard edges, and surly waiters—because it was there, one early afternoon a few years ago, that my mother and I had our first French-style scrambled eggs .

The French like their scrambled eggs (oeufs brouillés, or "agitated eggs") creamy, with a texture resembling loose oatmeal. Cookbook author Michael Roberts describes them as “small tender clumps of eggs suspended in an almost sauce-like base,” which makes them sound delicious, slightly mysterious, and wildly complicated. Luckily, there’s no mystery or fancy technique involved. Though I may have first tasted them in a setting better known for chic than comfort, French-style scrambled eggs are the simplest and easiest of pleasures. In fact, they’re perhaps best suited for a “picnic” dinner on the floor, with a blanket around your shoulders and a wine glass at your knee cristal champagne.

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