A Blithe PALATE

Lunch a la Fresque

I was noticing this morning that my eyebrows are doing a fair caterpillar imitation.  On the other hand, I’m in a country where the women don’t shave their armpits.

Jules came today from the U.S. (after I called her from JFK yesterday and told her, “Meet me in Paris.”).  First stop, Les Halles (in the 1er arrondissement) for lunch.  If you ever took French class, it was probably beaten into your head that there’s a liaison when a consonant comes before a vowel so theoretically it should be pronounced “lez al.”  I’ve never heard it pronounced as such; always with a silent “h,” as in “lay al.”  I wonder why.

Anyway, Les Halles used to be an open market in Paris where King Philippe II Auguste built a shelter for the merchants in 1183.  By the 1850’s, glass and iron buildings had sprung up amidst the vendor stalls and are still in evidence today.  In the late 1970’s, the market was moved to another Paris suburb and Les Halles in its current state is the central hub for the RER, the underground system. We went to La Fresque with the Vu/Nguyen clan.  It’s a local’s type of place – not fancy, just simple bistro fare.

It’s the same place I went to five years ago with Lan where I first encountered steak tartare.  I felt like I was coming full circle ordering the dish.  Mesclun salad, a baked potato (which I gave away since I needed fried potatoes), and a quarter pound of ground steak with a raw egg yolk perched on top, surrounded by onions, capers, chopped cornichons and other condiments.  Jules has been a vegetarian for some time and has slowly been re-entering the carnivorous world.  She says she was fascinated watching me mix everything together and eating what amounts to little more than raw hamburger, but I think I might have set her back a few years.

I have marching orders from Wendy: “Go to Fauchon.  (mink stole optional, but definitely not if you are wearing mac 'n cheese).  Order the $20 truffle omelette. Eat it.  Buy a jar of lobster butter.  Eat that in the car on the way to wherever you are going next.”  So, we have Fauchon and Mariages Frères to hit this afternoon.  And then we have to figure out where to go for dinner…

Petit Dejeuner and a View

Noodling.

I arrived this morning at Charles de Gaulle.  My clothes didn't.  But the suitcase full of Mac and Cheese did.

I text messaged Hubby that I needed to go shopping, or I could wear the macaroni.  I wonder if he finds that suspicious?  That I'm in Paris and I have to go shopping....

Postscript

From phone conversation: 

Me:      “My luggage didn’t show up today so I had to go shopping.  Actually, the mac and cheese suitcase came through but the clothes didn’t.”

Him:    “Did they say when your luggage might come in?”

Me:      “Oh.  Well, they actually delivered it tonight.  But after I’d already gone shopping.”

Him:    “I see.”  (long pause, followed by heavy sarcasm)  “How unfortunate.”

Simplifood.

What a difference five years makes.  When last I flew to Paris, dinner service on Air France (a Delta partner) really was:  I had a placemat, metal utensils (pre 9-11), baby romaine salad, chicken in champagne sauce with rice pilaf and a chocolate mousse cake for dessert.  Peggy and I also had two bottles of wine – a chardonnay and a pinot noir.  This was in coach.  Traditionally the airlines (Delta) piss on you in domestic travel – but service on international flights has always been superlative.  Not so in this new Simplifare world!

For lunch yesterday, I had a crab fritter and roasted potatoes from Star Provisions in Atlanta.  I should have brought enough for dinner, too. This is the menu Delta served for dinner on my way over to Paris:

• Fresh Garden Salad with Parmesan Cheese and Croutons, offered with Roman Caesar Dressing

Choice of:

• Braised Beef Sirloin, Enhanced by Red Pepper Sauce, presented with Mashed Potatos and Green Beans
• Breast of Chicken, Offered with Adobo Sauce, accompanied by Mexicali Corn and diced Potatos with Cheddar Cheese
• Bread & Butter
• Cheese & Crackers
• Cinnamon Oat Bar (for dessert)

If ever a menu invited ridicule, this would be it.  The flip side, in French, is even more hilarious. I especially love how they described the Sirloin as “faux-filet de boeuf braisé.”   I will have to ask my French friends if sirloin is actually called “faux-filet” because if ever a description encouraged one NOT to select a particular item, “fake meat” would definitely do the trick.

I love reading menus – sometimes more than ordering off said menu – but seldom do I feel compelled to laugh at a menu.  And even rarer is the urge to laugh at the food when it arrives (which I actually did).  It amounted to little more the standard sub-par Delta fare and calling it food is probably stretching. 

This morning’s breakfast offering was a mini box of Corn Flakes, milk, a still-green banana so unripe it defied all attempts to be peeled (I’m not kidding, I finally gave up when it became apparent that having my ass kicked by a banana at 3:10 am EST was just not a good way to start my morning), and a bagel so rubbery it defied all comprehension of how you can take water, yeast, and flour and make it so inedible.  I chose not to eat anything on the tray because 1) it’s 3:10 am and I’m not screwing my body up that way; and 2) I’m 2 hours away from pain au chocolat and café noisette and I am not ruining my appetite.

I wish to declare...

I turned 35 yesterday.  It seemed appropriate to hop a flight to Paris.  The decision to go didn’t occur until the night of the 25^th when I had a freak out session about delayed decisions and compromises about when I’d do things.  Actually, I was probably drunk and whipping myself into a frenzy about how chickenshit every excuse not to go sounded.

I'm on my way with an overnight bag, a new computer and a suitcase full of mac and cheese.  Yes, you read that right.  On my way to the culinary capital, from whence the foundation of all classical cooking springs, I am bringing along 13 boxes of Annie's organic mac and cheese and two gigantic jars of Peter Pan extra-crunchy peanut butter. Can you imagine anything more quintessentially American?

Witness my nightmare:  standing in line at immigration, trying to explain in rusty French why I'm coming to PARIS – PARIS! – with processed food. Somehow the idea of my underwear tumbling out seems less embarrassing.

I can only plead that it's for a four year old whom I adore and who I could not disappoint.  Mia is my friend Lan's daughter.  I've known her all her life – in fact, during my last foray to Paris for my 30^th birthday, Lan was pregnant with Mia.  Annie's Mac and Cheese is her favorite and since moving to Paris several months ago, she hasn't had any.

My flight departs in an hour and I'll arrive in Paris at 9:30 tomorrow morning local time.  My sister has already sent me a list of restaurants to hit, including Joel Robuchon's restaurant at the Hotel Pont Royal.  I have strict instructions on ordering the chef's tasting menu to make it worth my while.  I also have plans to attack Mariages Freres for tea and in the back of my little head (all vegetarians go no further in this sentence) is a particular notion to find pressed duck somewhere.

Hubby instructed me to eat and drink and to bring back bottles of good wine.  I can do all three.  I can do anything.  I'm going to Paris.