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Breakfast at Océane’s

For Océane, breakfast was never just a meal—it was a ritual, a language her father spoke fluently.

When she was a child, he’d wake early on weekends, moving through the kitchen with quiet purpose. The smell of toasted bread and melting butter would drift into her room before the sun fully rose. He’d poach eggs with the precision of someone who believed softness was a virtue, slice fruit like he was composing a painting, and always—always—lay out the cheese plate with care. Brie, grapes, walnuts. A drizzle of honey.

He never rushed. That was the point. Breakfast was how he showed love without saying it. It was how he taught her that attention is intimacy, and that food, when prepared with intention, could hold memory.

Now, years later, Océane prepares breakfast the same way. Not every morning—only when it matters. She chooses each ingredient like a note in a song, recreating the quiet choreography of her father’s hands.

The oysters are hers, though. That’s the twist. Her own signature. A little danger on ice.