January 1: Le Flore en L’Ile - 4eme arrondissement
- Entrecote de boeuf
- A boir: Un Earl Grey
C’est mon premier repas a seule. My French is terrible and as soon as I try, everyone, all the waiters, know I’m American. Right now, I don’t know which requires more confidence: eating alone or speaking French.
I’m getting my first real taste of the thing I came to do: observe and experience. The waiters look so very French and have a weathered, time-worn look. Probably haggard from speaking English to tourists all day long.
The tea is warm and what I need, but I feel so chilled, it might not work. Probably the best tasting Earl Grey I’ve ever had, only because I let it steep for half a minute. Yes, the second cup is much stronger, but it’s not bitter - it’s smooth and comforting. It settles my nerves.
And then lunch arrives and my first thought is, “Oh, glorious vegetables!” I think the French are a bit audacious to dress someone’s salad, but it seems they knew what they’re doing; the greens have a delicious vinegar wash but still taste of the earth. I got my entrecôte medium because I’m awkward and forgot that’s a little too done for me, but it’s garnished with tomatoes, green onion, and chives. It tastes of meat, but is also verdant and herbaceous. My server brought a giant container of Fleur de Sel de Camargue that, sprinkling it over my steak, lends it a depth it had been missing. The glories and blessing of salt, oui? I’ve never had bernaise sauce before but the buttery, eggy, lemony yumminess makes the steak even more fresh and green. The French fries are, of course, hot pillowy wedges of starchy perfection.
I haven’t finished anything and I’m full. I’ve started to notice my surroundings and not just the people in the brasserie: the loud and big-energied Texans, the French couple that splits an omelet, the servers that squeeze themselves between the tables. The ceiling is gilded in blue and gold and the dark paneling transports me to a crowded private library. There’s a Christmas tree at the entrance and I can see the scaffolding on the destroyed Notre Dame through the window and across the bridge.
It just occurred to me that I’ve only ever been in Paris when it’s cold.
January 4: Au Canon des Invalides - 7eme arrondissement
- Camembert Roti
I’ve just left my photographer at Le Tour Eiffel and walked about ten minutes. After Thursday’s episode (what else can I call it?), I’m trying to listen to my body. It needs a rest and some food. My eye is swollen and it’s throwing me off - I feel like I’ve added eighteen inches to my face.
Being seated, I desperately want to ask my server how it’s so noticeable I’m American.
I go to order the pre-fixed menu but didn’t realize it’s really Saturday. So I panic order cheese and meat because it’s cheese and meat. I wait, see what I’ve ordered advertised in the loopy scrawl of typical French with the word “roasted” to alert tourists and terrible French speakers alike what “rôti” means. A party of eight people are sat next to me, speaking rapid fire French.
And then, with a “bon appétit, mademoiselle,” my cheese is set before me. It’s rustic, presented still in its wooden container on a wooden cutting board. An artistic flourish of honey dresses the top, lending a golden glow, a tiny spoon sticking rakishly out of the well of gooeyness. Salami, prosciutto, and ham are perched upon a bed of greens and a tiny pot of pickles sits by. The pickles are a strange combination- the sourness completely contrasts the sweetness of the honey and cheese and the gaminess of the charcuterie, mais it’s still a nice and surprising addition. And of course, une petite basket of chewy bread is given. The group next to me all turn my way to see this glorious mini feast put in front of me and can’t stop looking as I take and send a picture to my friend. I notice one of them has a pastor’s collar and I’m tempted to ask him bless my time here.
Holy shit, the cheese is awesome. It’s warm and creamy, made sweeter by the honey. The flavor of it fills my entire mouth and pairing it with the bread is heaven. I’m missing something before I remember it’s to be served with walnuts and wish I had some crunch. Maybe that’s what the pickles are for? But I wouldn’t dare sour the taste of the cheese so I munch on those separately. I don’t know if I’m supposed to eat the meat with the knife and fork so I abandon decorum and eat it with my fingers. The salami and ham are delicious: a nice marriage of salty and sweet. The prosciutto seems to have been left out a little longer and starts to resemble beef jerky. No matter. I’m taking my time with the cheese, pausing to be distracted by a lady with her dog, making her boyfriend take several photos of her on the street. All for the ‘gram, especially in Paris. Several other people stop to take pictures of the intersection I’m facing so I’m wondering what’s around the corner. I found this restaurant by chance (after passing several others, purely because those didn’t have the traditional brasserie tables out front) and I’m excited to explore a little before making my way to Mariage Fréres in the sixth for some tea. An English-speaking couple and an American family have come and gone while I’ve been sitting here. I don’t have anyone to make conversation with and I’m still taking my time.
As the cheese cools and firms up, it sticks to my lips, almost unpleasantly had it not for the fact that I’m eating camembert in Paris. Location covers a myriad of sins? I’ve sadly run out of bread, but that doesn’t stop me from scraping the rind and eating the cheese off the spoon. I finally dig into the greens and they’re not dressed and even French salad is sad without at least oil and vinegar.
I feel my time is wasted if I don’t have a pastry soon, so I order a slice of pear tart. The waiter assures me it’s very good. I don’t think I ever eaten anything that wasn’t “very good” any of the times I’ve been to this city. A horse drawn carriage clip-clops by, shaped like Cinderella’s pumpkin coach. I have to remind myself I moved to 21st century Paris, not La Belle Epoque.
The tart arrives and it almost seems like I’ve been catered to as a tourist. I only say that because it’s dressed with - correction, the plate is dressed with - powdered sugar and caramel. I take my first bite and it tastes overwhelmingly of almond before the pear hits. It’s defiantly more almond than pear, with such a custardy texture. A very thin but dense pastry crust makes it fun to eat, while sliced almonds add the crunch I was looking for with the cheese. The caramel and powdered sugar were definitely not needed as the tart is already just sweet enough. I’m just about at my last bite when I get a full piece of pear and think it would’ve been nice to taste that before I was nearly finished.
I’ve been sitting near the window and now I’m cold but full, almost uncomfortably so. I’m fortified to traverse this city again.
January 5: Le Petit Plateau - 4eme arrondissement
- A boir: Kir Royale
- Parmentier Confit
- Clafoutis abricot pistache
It’s like drinking red berry fruit juice. Like so many things, I can’t believe I’m finally having my favorite drink after having been here five days. Cassis and champagne. It’s bright and swift then swiftly cut by the dry bubbles. This drink makes me exquisitely happy, bringing me back to the first time I had it. I was a student, in Paris for one week studying American expatriate writers. Did I know then that I would return to this city thirteen years later to channel F. Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein? These drinks then celebrated our short trip. Tonight, this one celebrates my life decisions and everywhere I’ve been up to this moment.
The restaurant is just as quaint and adorable as you’d imagine: there are nine tables, three of which are already taken up so early on a Sunday evening. The inside matches the baby blue awning and gold typeface on the door - chic, but not too serious. Paper and glass lanterns hand from the inside windows, mirroring the baskets of plants on the other side. Bookshelves hold French novels, small and large art pieces: an Andy Warhol-esque print of Elizabeth Taylor, a Japanese geisha, a study of root vegetables. It feels like sunshiny warmth, stepping into the Hawaiian ocean in June - there’s a Polynesian-looking mask perched on the bar. Things you wouldn’t think could go together merrily reside side by side.
My dinner comes out insanely quick (maybe not surprising, given the size of the bistro) and not at all what I pictured. Instead of a scoop of potatoes topped delicately with chives and a duck breast, I’m given a bowl. The mash is sculpted to resemble a rosette with enticing golden burnt edges. I wonder where the duck is - maybe it’s just the confit part of “duck confit”, which would be fine by me. I could easily tuck into a bowl of mashed potatoes and call it dinner. On sticking my fork in, I find the duck, shredded, at the bottom of the bowl. It’s like a rich man’s shepherds pie without the veg. These are presented as a salad, tossed lightly with balsamic vinegar, sunflower seeds, and pine nuts (which would’ve gone perfectly with yesterday’s camembert).
This dish is comfort food perfected and with the first bite, I can tell this will easily be one of my favorite meals here. The mashed potatoes are crunchy, meltingly creamy and buttery and are a nice balance to the salty duck. It’s hot - necessary on this chilly Parisian night - and sticks to my ribs, something I’m desperate for as I seem to constantly be starving because of the pain meds. The texture: creamy, crunchy, smooth, fatty, fills my mouth in turns and makes me deliriously pleased. I know I could make this dish myself, but it wouldn’t taste this delectable, this nostalgic, this euphoric. I deliberate asking my waitress for another 4 bowls. I settle for dessert and resist the urge to scrape at the burnt edges of the bowl with my teeth.
I’m the only one in the restaurant, aside from the server, who now cleans up after the newly departed guests seated behind me. I notice there are little pots of succulents on the black tables out front. A family of three enter, announcing they have a reservation. Do you get points on the Fork, like you do OpenTable? The little girl, maybe four or five, has impossibly cute blond curls and opens a star-paper wrapped gift, something from Frozen. Happy Birthday? Let me bribe you? My French is so terrible, I can’t eavesdrop and discover the reason for the gift.
I wonder if I’m turning into Francis from ‘Under the Tuscan Sun,” superfluous, overly romantic in my description of my new expatriate life. Then I realize I don’t give a shit - I’m in fucking France, in the most superfluous and romantic city you can think of.
I don’t know what ‘cloufitis” is but I pop a hot spoonful of pistachio mouse in my mouth. It’s interesting - super nutty and pistachoey- but I’ve burned my tongue. I think I like it - I’m sure people who have a thing with texture wouldn’t - it’s spongy and there’s a dense crust at the bottom. I imagine this is what a Japanese green tea jiggly pancake would be like: airy yet dense, almost jello-like. There’s a whole apricot in here, but it seems like an afterthought and is a separate identity from the rest of the dessert. I decide that while it’s not terrible, I’ll probably never order a cloufitis again. The spoon I eat from is pretty small and I’m reminded of my weird dislike of spoons. The dessert has distanced itself from the rest of the meal - it’s the Andes mint on the entire thing. But that’s okay; I’m going to go to bed this evening, dreaming of that bowl of mash.
I finish the cloufitis, anyway.
January 10: Le Fous de L’Ile - 4eme arrondissement
- Tartare de boeuf et magret fume, avocat roti, algues Nori frites
- Cote du cochon, mousseline de panis, sauce angus et moutarde violette
- Croustillant au citron, zestes confits et glace concombre
- A boir: L’Amourette Thunevin-Calvet
Le Fous is rustic and the rooster is everywhere. The sculptures and trinkets of this provincial old-world restaurant- the wooden tables, the stone walls, the weathered green woodwork- make me think of my grandmother’s kitchen, but it doesn’t try as hard as she did. The menu I’m given is all in French (which I’ll take as a huge win because I know they have a menu in English) and I order my entree then my plat before asking my server for her favorite dessert and a glass of white wine.
I barely have time to unpack my notebook before she comes over, holding a small board with what I think is an espresso. Instead, an amuse bouche (“that is…amusing”) of pumpkin soup. At first, it tastes of menthol before I realize I’ve licked my lipgloss off with my starting spoonful. But after that, it’s the warm sensation of fall - pure pumpkin with a piquant snap at the end. Just as quickly, my beef tartare arrives on a beautiful speckled plate, a dollop of balsamic vinegar on one side of the round brick of raw meat and a concentrated dusting of finely milled red pepper on the other. The tartare is different and too mayonesey- it’s almost like I’m eating raw beef salad as opposed to a carpaccio or something minced. I can’t really taste the avocado or the seaweed that’s perched on top, but the vinegar is divine, reduced to its most acidic sweetness. I feel like each bite reveals a new ingredient, identifiable by texture more than flavor: celery, pistachio, scallions. It’s very rich and makes me think it’s something that was eaten in the era of Jell-O molds and ambrosia. I’m just at the point of deciding I like it when I get a huge wash of salty fish. That would be the seaweed, deciding to make an appearance. It becomes apparent I can’t finish, so instead, I try to finish my glass of wine, which is quite light and feels like sunshine going down.
It takes some time for my main dish to come out - enough to get through a chapter or two of the book I’ve brought with me. Artfully arranged, the first bite of pork chops is incredible: almost sweet, but succulent, juicy. The jus it sits in tastes like brown gravy without that horrid metallic bite. It’s not unpleasant and something that feels super comforting. The mashed parsnips are not something I enjoy - way too fragrant and makes me think I’m eating baby food. The dish is very beige and brown, at odds with the first dish I had. It’s then that I realize I don’t particularly know what type of cuisine is served here. I thought there was some sort of Asian influence with the seaweed (and I saw someone walk by with a bottle of Kikoman soy sauce), but this feels very…British. It’s the dots of what I imagine brown sauce from a bottle would look and taste like on the accompanying root vegetable. I don’t know what that is, but it’s what an apple and pear would make if they had a threesome with a carrot. I desperately want some freshness, something green, but instead, make-do with trying to scrape the rest of the pork off the bone.
I’m absolutely delighted when the dessert comes out - truly a surprise because I didn’t bother translating what I ordered. Mounds of lemony cream are delicately sandwiched between airy layers of phylo dough that give a satisfying crunch when I cut into them with my knife. It shatters like glass and it’s all sharp edges and mouth-puckering tartness. The bite seems to fizz in my mouth and the explosion of textures is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I make it through about three-quarters of the confection perfection before I remember there’s a scoop of ice cream to be attacked. It’s not sweet and doesn’t have that creamy milk-fat mouthfeel all ice cream has yet it’s still not as light as gelato. There’s a slight mushroom note: earthy and not at all refreshing like a cucumber is. I feel like it should be bright and find it a strange pairing with the dangerously decedent main focus of the dish. I’ve come to the end of the puff pastry and would probably cut someone for six more to them.
The cafe has filled up around me. When I arrived, there were only two other guests and now the place is nearly full. I marvel that an hour and half has passed. I don’t even spend that much time at dinner with people I love, and I’ve been here by myself. It’s amazing how time flies when you’re stuffing your face and being judgey.
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