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.

Le Mesturet

I'm here. I had a day that I couldn't have imagined better. I had a day eating in Paris, reading modern French literature and old American literature, drinking cafes and soaking in the smells and sights of a sophisticated, petulant, friendly, raining city. And I had my first meal that required a reservation.

Tonight I ate at le Mesturet, a restaurant not far from me in the 2nd arrondissement, a small but friendly restaurant I took from my "Hungry for Paris" book. Not the most original of restaurant-seeking methods, but a tactic I will use again.

It's a tribute to Paris that I can accidentally take an exceptional picture.

After running an errand (not the singular and the fact that the errand was getting a SIM card) I rewarded myself with a macaron. Life here seems to require few errands and when they do occur, they must be celebrated.

This small boutique, Macaroon, is between me and my SIM card store. Beyond the normal selection, Macaroon served fois gras-chocolate, which I of course couldn't resist. The first half second of the bite was laughably awful and then the flavors started to meld into a delight of sweet, salty, and foie-y. It was exquisite.

I walked toward my dinner reservation, which wasn't for another two hours. In the meantime, I had to amuse myself.


I'm getting the impression that my classes will be even less intensive than I expected them to be (which wasn't much in the first place). I decided today that to not lose my mind, I must do Paris stuff and then study French (as of now, it's reading a modern French novella; I'll work up to Zola or something, don't worry) at least two hours a day. Today that studying involved a petit apero (snack), Ricard (anisette), and vigilantly looking up the words I didn't understand in my book in my French-French dictionary. I did this for 1.5 hours near La Bourse. The other half hour today was around Le Quartier Latin.

Well, studying with a tarte aux pommes and un cafe. I had to reward that studying with another trip back to le jardin du Luxembourg.

For dinner, again, I dined at Le Mesturet, also near La Bourse and within easy walking distance. Of about 10 tables, there were only two comprised of French diners; despite being off the beaten track, it was popular with tourists but certainly was the best meal I've had yet. And I was delighted that a Japanese tourist was delighting in her meal as much as I was, taking pictures of her food as well. In the world of tourism, she was ma sosie (new word I learned today: someone who has a perfect resemblance to another).

My waitress was charming, but despite the fact that I continued to speak in French, she continued to speak in English. I'm discovering that this is a prevalent problem when I go out: restauranteurs are as eager to practice their English with a native English speaker as I am with a native French speaker. Anyway, I ordered le menu and after ordering another pastis for my apperitif and a verre of vin rouge, I had some delicious olives:

And had the terrine de foie gras. My waitress affirmed that the yellow was la graisse (the fat) and you could eat up to la jaune and take little pieces of it. With the terrine came toasted bread studded with les raison secs (dry grapes aka raisins) and an apricot chutney.

For dinner, I had the blanquette de veau à l'Ancienne, with rice and mushrooms. It was exquisite: tender, rich, flavorful, delightfully forgiving mushrooms with a rich sauce and meat you could cut with a knife. Veau is veal and blanquette in my poor translation of my French dictionary's translation is a light-colored ragout made from meat, where the sauce is bound by egg yolk).

At each pause, my waitress was disappointed I didn't eat everything on my plate but I didn't want to explain to her I had already had two desserts today and had to pace myself. The third was Paris Brest maison. Before she delivered it, she put down another full set of silverware and said, in English, "yes, you will need a knife."

A thin donut-looking pastry is divided in half and filled with a praline creme. And drizzled with caramel and powdered sugar.

And then I ordered, of course, the neccessary coffee to keep myself motivated for the walk home, instead of curling up on a warm grate.

Rocklands

I had truly come to the realization I was leaving this fine country when I had barbecue. In a place where I had scoffed at the possibility that the word "barbecue" could be honestly applied. Here, in Washington DC, I have spat the word out of my mouth with disgust, as I assessed no other place outside of the midwest could do barbecue. Not convincingly or with soul or without vinegar or absent the obscene addition of coleslaw on top. I'll admit, I was a bit wrong.

I visited Rocklands, after an unsuccessful attempt to drop off my recyclables, which could accurately suggest that this joint is in an industrial corner of Alexandria. I was skeptical. I asked for chop beef, which they didn't have. And then I very cockily asked, "how's your friend okra." In an extremely pretentious, sententious tone. I'm learning about good fried okra from my dad, so I think I'm a good judge. So I made sure I implied that as strongly as possible with a very intent eye directed toward my order-taker.

I got the fried okra, chopped pork, and baked beans.

I had such a look of consternation on my face as I tried to fill up my small cup of barbecue sauce (full of long stringy but delicious onion strands), a kind barbecue man gave me a full cup of onion-less sauce. I used nearly all. Apparently my style of barbecue loving means prolific appreciation of sauce with some barbecue meat underneath.

Oh, and the okra was fabulous: hearty okra with a crisp, not greasy breading.

The baked beans tasted like something from a can and if not that obscene, like beans with ketchup and chopped meat. Nothing spectacular.

Thinking very highly of myself and my capabilities, I decided to toss on some scarily-labled hot sauce.

It was sort of scarily hot tasting, but delicious. Anyway, from an airport lounge on my way to Paris, this all seems wildly uninteresting. Now barbecue in Paris, perhaps with streaks of foie gras, chevre, and a freshly constructed tomato sauce from my local market, ca me va.

Toby Keith's I Love This Bar and Grill

Fancy, delicately-crafted culinary delights Toby Keith's I Love This Bar and Grill does not make. The beer comes in mason jars and the food is fried. It's pretty straightforward, there are rotating be-sequined saddles instead of disco balls, and our lunch-time conversation included trying to decide whether a neighboring couple were meth or coke addicts. This, of course, just added to the charm because their erractic-ness was just another distraction in the huge, open space, along with the neon lights, the bar with real cowboys sitting at them, and the murals on the walls.

An ideal drinking landscape: a mural of the Eagles' album Hotel California, the American flag, and a neon outline of Oklahoma.

We couldn't decide on the appetizer so we got two: chips and salsa (a fresh pico de gallo) and, well, "fries." This time, calf fries, "a cowboy classic." Of course, a hand-breaded and deep fried classic with spicy, horseradish cocktail sauce.

On the right, sliced, breaded, and fried calf testicles. I'm eating them more frequently than I'm getting Starbucks lattes these days.

One fried item at Toby Keith's certainly wasn't enough, so I ordered up myself some fried catfish, fried okra and cowboy caviar (black eyed peas, simmered with crispy bacon and red onions). Beans, okra, and catfish rank among WalMart, Sonic, and Kansas City BBQ as my favorite things from the Midwest. And what an appropriate atmosphere--the longhorn skull above the door was hung the only appropriate way: upside down.
Mom got a hamburger...with freedom fries. The food wasn't so hot, but we still loved it.

Stella

Oklahoma restaurants excel at things related to meat and Marlon Brandon, I determined today, quite capably. Yesterday we lunched at Stella Modern Italian Cuisine, a gem with a small, clever menu and situated in a renovated automobile garage. And, as mentioned before, this particular Italian restaurant in Oklahoma City has a penchant for serving fine meats and inspiring diners (or maybe just my family) to groan its name in our best A Streetcar Named Desire voice.

The interior, Bouchon-like (again, apologize for self-referencing), is adorned with sketches of fine Italian architecture. The prints are hung on facades over the exposed brink. It's charming, simple, classic, but very comfortable. I ordered a delicious (perhaps more importantly, large) glass of red wine from the barbera grape that actually had a bouquet. Bouquet in wine to me had always met what you smell when your nose invades a wine glass but this wine fragrantly ornamented our table.

We were served a continuous stream of warm bread from Prairie Thunder Bakery, where we had lunched before, that's down the street. And that's olive oil with whole cloves of roasted garlic. We were tempted to eat it by the spoonful.

The parade of beautiful meat products began. First, we ordered the selection of cured meats, olives, mustard and toast. The olives were intimidatingly meaty, the chorizo (right) was flavorful and slightly spicy, and the meat at the bottom, bresola, tasted homey like Christmas, with hints of cinnamon.
I had a delicious cup of pureed asparagus, with what I guess was red pepper oil, which was refreshing but unexpectedly substantive.
My poor dad got a delicious salad of spring beans and beets (three types!), with avocado and gorgonzola cheese. He finds one fourth of those items revolting (the gorgonzola), so after its surgical removal, I think it was a bit more palatable.
Lunch was penne pasta with a simmered beef ragout. I'll note, since we weren't sure while ordering, that ragout's basic method of preparation involves slow cooking over a low heat, but there is not a requisite need for meet to have a ragout. Also, the word comes from the French ragoûter, to revive the taste (merci Wikipedia).

Aesthetically, I think my dad's pappardelle pasta with seasonal mushrooms, fresh sausage, and red wine, was a bit more visually complex. And the cheese was concentrated for easier extraction this time.
The portions, being Italian size, made dessert a more appealing option. We ordered tiramisu, which was the only minor disappointment of the afternoon. The whipped cream and marscapone were delicious, but there were no ladyfingers, only a rather stiff cake. And the cake wasn't bathed in espresso. It had a flavor of espresso, but tiramisu shouldn't deviate from its form unless those deviations create something much better. We would have been just as happy with a spoonful of olive oil instead.