Paris is the land of gourmet – small, delectable dishes that excite and delight your senses. But after a few days of eating tiny portions, there was nothing I really wanted more than a good ol’ American brunch. I’m talking super sized everything, extra cheese, extra carbs, extra fat. Don’t get me wrong, I love croissants and lattes as much as the next girl, but there’s something incredibly satisfying about a button-popping, full-to-the-brim kinda brunch.
Although I’d initially planned to go to Carette, I decided to scrap my plans and head on over to Holy Belly, which, as you can probably guess by the name, is no demure Parisian joint. This is pure and filthy American brunch territory.
Unfortunately, Holy Belly doesn’t take reservations, which means muscling your way through the crowd and getting your name on the list. The wait was 45 minutes long, but totally worth it.
The menu had quite a few options, but after seeing someone else order the glory that was the Huevos Rancheros (on special that day), I knew there was really no other option.
Perfectly creamy scrambled eggs on two homemade tortilla breads, complete with guacamole, sour cream, salsa and refried beans. Definitely in the running for best scrambled eggs, and without a doubt, the best Huevos Rancheros I’ve ever had.
Unfortunately, there was no way I could finish it. It was the size of my head, quite possibly the largest brunch option I’d ever been served. And in true excessive North American fashion, we had also ordered pancakes. Not to ever be one to bow down at the face of a challenge, I shovelled the remnants of my Huevos Rancheros down my throat and moved on to the pancakes.
Guys, where do I even start? Soft, fluffy, cloud-like pancakes topped off with hazelnut syrup, cream and fruits? If they don’t have this stuff in heaven, I don’t want to go. I’m not even embarrassed to say it was all gone. Our server looked shell-shocked.
If, like me, you were foolish enough to make plans after brunch, be prepared to cancel them. After polishing off enough food to feed a small village, the only viable option is to sleep off one’s food coma, which is exactly what I did. It was a truly unproductive May Day indeed… and I loved every moment of it.