The cobbled streets of Montmartre were searing us all as if we were strips of human sirloin, crisping up in the remnants of the Parisian sun rotisserie, we had enjoyed (or was that endured) all day.

 

We’d been at the iconic Molitor Club for an imaginary business lunch earlier that day. You see, I was supposed to be at an International defence event on the outskirts of the city on a two-day visit.

 

Yeah right. As if I was going to stay there, as much as the tanks were gleaming and glistening, I was in Paris for one thing and that was the food…and drink. We said our hellos, shortly followed by our swift goodbyes and on our way back into the centre of the French capital.

 

Molitor was our destination for luncheon with a fake arms dealer from Cuba, or that’s what work were told, my time now all ready to invest into culinary delights, with the iconic ice blue pool with its jet black daubed exclamation lines, marking the swimming lanes, laid out below, ready for people to embrace from the sweltering heat…if only I’d brought my trunks.

 

We were playing it cool and had the classic American cheeseburger each, cooked pink to perfection of course with a Bloody Mary chaser. We lasted in the mid day sun as much as on holiday Brits could muster, with the odd mad dog sauntering past and then off for a soothing G & T in some oddball, offbeat bar, Paris was full of, the sort that suits me down to the ground - I love a bit of quirky you see.

 

The mid afternoon was a haze of the falling sun, booze and chat, there’s nothing quite like these moments. The evening meal was chosen for simplicity, following our earlier exploits and a local Pizzeria was opted for.

 

A Neopolitan pizza, a classic, yet elegant version of possibly the most famous street food in the world. Mine was adorned with anchovies, olives and capers - the only topping combination worth talking about, perhaps if I was back in Blighty, a scattering of chilli flakes. It was a work of art both in looks and taste, supplemented by a canny French Merlot - nothing outlandish, but something the locals drink and that will do for me.

 

Cometh a moment of devastation then!

 

When saving the juiciest caper until last, waiting to savour that sun kissed taste of the Mediterranean, one more time in the heart of Paris, with the embers of that said sun on my neck, the little pesky green bud came to life and rolled off my fork, bounced off my plate, onto the cobbled streets below.

 

It then proceeded to roll down the street and onto the edge of a gutter, momentarily stopping for one last glance back at me, before toppling over the edge of the drain grid and into the sewers below.

 

I was robbed of my last moment in the sun and I was forever searching for the lost caper…until now.

 

Welcome to Caper - a ridiculous journey into food, travel, culture and living for the moment and the randomness of it all.

 

And what a Caper it will be.

 

Mal Robinson, Co-Founder, Caper Magazine.