On a hot August night in Paris a couple years ago, a spur-of-the-moment decision over a bottle of rosé with friends was made to take my teenager to Chipotle. We were living in Normandy at the time and Ma Petite missed the occasional Chipotle bowl from the States.
The restaurant would close soon. Confident we could make it, we took off on foot down Rue des Saints-Pères, then caught the bus at Quai Voltaire. It took us as far as Rue du 4 Septembre where we clamored down sidewalks through a sea of Parisians to Boulevard Montmartre.
Out of breath from that last dash, we saw the familiar pepper logo on a glass door. Except for the language, everything was as it would be in an American Chipotle.