Chez Georges

I'm becoming intolerably spoiled. Fresh bread, solely al fresco dining, with the most vexing decision of the day being what type of viande (meat) I want and how I want it prepared (à point or medium my typical response). This is not a real life and yet another day passed with only a hint of reality: today was my first day of class so I was rebaptized into the word of direct and indirect objects (and I can't relay what a relief it was to think about grammar, really).

I began the day with corn flakes, my 4.50 euro purchase from a local epicerie (the French version of 7-11). The past few days I have been too anxious to settle and eat something close to home so wander until blinded by hunger, I pick a random place for a sandwich. I am beginning to approach something akin to an eating strategy. After an unexpectedly short registration at school, I found myself wandering again. I wandered to one of my new favorite places, Rue Mouffetard. It's an oasis of a street, enclosed and small, with beautifully adorned tables and window displays. I made a classic error I have warned others again multiple times: never eat at a restaurant that publicly displays its menu in the local language and English. I'm still refining this theory, but today, in retrospect, it was a dead give away for the superlative title this restaurant gets: the worst restaurant I have yet been to in Paris.

L'Atlantide seemed charming and I was especially attracted to the 11 euro menu. I thought I was being clever and frugal. The waiter seemed charming and earnest and as his second customer, I was treated very well. I ordered a bit of (seemingly watered down) white wine and was served tarama (a Greek fish roe spread).

Anyway, the devolution included a ridiculous imitation of salade de chevre chaud (teeny slices of chevre cheese on top of a salad reminiscent of all-you-can-eat buffets):


Grilled trout with fries and seemingly canned green beans doused in butter (gross all around). I used the old I'm-anorexic-slash-mom-I-hate-brussells-sprouts-see-I-ate-enough trick and just moved the food around on my plate until it seemed sufficiently eaten:

And a tarte aux pommes that took 30 minutes to deliver (I was hungry and ate it, ok, but didn't like it):
Things began to look up when I wandered east toward La Grande Mosquée de Paris, inconspicuously situated near the Jardin des Plantes.

It itself is situated Muséum National d'Histoire Naturelle, but as I don't have the patience yet with the nice weather to explore indoor things, I skipped it entirely.

After the jardin I doubled back to the mosque and had tea in its beautiful courtyard. Behind le jardin du Luxembourg, it's now my second-favorite place to study, with its tea menthe and cool interior courtyard.
I left from there directly for class, but prepared myself for the crime that could be committed if my stomach grumbled during the lecture. In doing so, I was reminded that despite Paris being Paris, not all food is good here (lunch being an obvious and humble reminder) and not all pastry is well-crafted. I stopped in at a local boulanger artisinal which I now take to mean "better than the nonsense I've been eating."

I ordered myself a tarte aux lardons, lardons being a type of ham-product that doesn't exist in the States but is delicious and rich and sort of like genuine, big Bacon Bits, but ham. With a legitimately good, flakey crust. I ate it on a park bench.

After class, I had my second real French dinner, one that I actually made reservations for over the phone. Chez Georges was my first real brasserie this trip. Chez Georges is cosily arranged at the end of a quiet block near but not immediately adjacent to a busy circle in the 2nd arrondissement. I walked in the front door, said I had an 8 o'clock reservation and the proprietor said in his prettiest French and solely by memory, "Julie?"

The restaurant is very intimate and while awkwardly arrayed, is charming. I ordered a Ricard, the ubiquitous aperitif on my table, and had radishes and bread with butter.

Pour commencer, I ordered la ratatouille niçoise froide. I was served a pound of ratatouille that I could take from at my leisure. Honestly.

I had ordered a léger red wine, a very nice word I looked up yesterday (something that does not have a lot of weight). It was a great complement to the ratatouille, with large chunks of chilled and flavorful aubergines (eggplant), courgettes (zucchini) and oignons.

Sometime while trying to resist eating an entire bowl of ratatouille, a beautiful woman named Natalia and eventually two men (all quite unattractive) sat immediately to my right. Slowly, words like those on flashcards became evident (even though they were speaking English): Los Angeles, movie, Harry Potter, London, costume design and from what I divined, I think it's possible I was sitting next to her and she was being courted for her next movie. Upon this realization, the fact that I had been wandering around all day and that my left stocking was slipping down to my ankle (old lady style) became more insupportable. Nothing ruins a girl's self-esteem like eating most of thick cut of beef next to a supermodel.

But oh, what a steak. I ordered the pavé de boeuf. Pavé in this case unsurpsingly means "a piece of red meat de grande dimension." The sauce was an exquisite mix of moutarde, cognac et crème. It was tender, flavorful, the sauce was appropriately rich but didn't hide the flfavor of the meal and it was juicy. Masterful.

For dessert (yes, I ordered it), I had rhum baba but it was disappointing. There was way too much rum, the cake was too brioche-y and light and it was just sort of... soggy. I'm spoiled because of that one in Vegas. But whatever, I had a steak brick for dinner.

Sorry, the lighting is bad but you can see the charming, quite surroundings and its warm inviting interior.