Putting an immediate and insatiable need for caaawfee on hold, I shed my 'creature of habit' tendencies for a breakfast date down south.
La Boite. The Box, if my shaky French is to be trusted. (Which it's not. High five for translator apps). Named for the repurposed shipping container in which it's housed.
What this atypical cafe lacks in space - 160 itsy-bitsy square feet - it makes up for in ridiculously authentic pastries.
Macarons. Palmiers. Flaky chocolate croissants.
Pair them with a seat on the shaded lawn and an iced Americano. Lick buttery crumbs off your fingers while a vigilant bird guilt-trips you for not tossing a few his way. Or... drop by for a dozen to-go.
They swear by keeping it local. But you'll swear your taste buds are on Champs-Élysées.