My mother and eggs, à la française

My mother loves Paris. This should not surprise you; after all, I’ve already made it clear that she is a genius.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