Comptoir Turenne is on the ground floor of a 19th-century building with battered shutters in the Haut Marais, on the less fashionable end of rue de Turenne. At the more fashionable end, Glow on the Go! serves concoctions like the Lolita, with organic cherries and “superfoods adaptogens,” and Baby Beluga sells bikinis and matching sunglasses for Capri-bound toddlers.

Comptoir Turenne has no such panache. Its sidewalk views are mainly of a real estate agency and a men’s suit shop. It is not on “must-eat” lists. Visitors are not burdened by the ghosts of Hemingway and Sartre to have an indelible experience. All of this makes Turenne a laid-back spot for breakfast pour un. You can sit under its cheerful red awnings and fancy yourself Parisian.

Portions, however, appear to be measured with Americans in mind. A croque-madame arrived at the table looking as if it had been flown in from the Cheesecake Factory. A sunny-side-up egg was as big as a pancake. Beneath it, thick, crusty bread was covered in toasted cheese. Beside it, French fries were piled in a little deep-fryer basket. There was barely room on the table for my café crème and the speculoos tucked between the cup and saucer.

I eyed the speculoos. The Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh tells a story in “Peace Is Every Step” about being a child and taking half an hour, sometimes 45 minutes, to finish a cookie that his mother bought him. “I would take a small bite and look up at the sky,” he said. “Then I would touch the dog with my feet and take another small bite. I just enjoyed being there, with the sky, the earth, the bamboo thickets, the cat, the dog, the flowers.”