Food Friday #2

January 11: Cafe Carrette - 3eme arrondissement

- Mont Blanc

- A boir: un Earl Grey

It feels like the first real sunny day I’m able to experience since I’ve been here: I feel pretty well, excepting that persnickety aching pain in my ankle. I’ve spent about an hour in the chilly sunshine, sitting on a bench in Place des Vosges, starting to write letters to my family and friends. One in particular makes me feel like I should be writing in a nightgown by candlelight - its a large piece of paper that folds into a nice little envelope with an adhesive wax seal so the recipient - my mother whose letters from her deployments I’ve saved - can break it open and reveal the letter inside like some character in a Jane Austen novel. I get through that one, scribble a couple more on adorable water colored pages of Parisian sites that have a nostalgic “Air Mail” printed on the envelope before deciding, like nearly every minute of every day here so far, that I need food and I need hot tea.

I’ve made my way to Cafe Carrette - a cute and typical brasserie, covered by townhouses surrounding the square. It’s got that dark inside feel with the cool January air wafting through, making the half of my body not underneath a heat lamp go numb. I haven’t even bothered to glance inside the restaurant, just sat at the table the server directed me to. He’s all smiles and I start to wonder at the Parisian waiter culture - are they super hospitable or overly bored of tourists - for the waitress that brings me my tea is quite the opposite: surly looking and impatient. The tea is served on English china - white with delicate little watercolored flowers - a small spoon and an adorable little biscuit for me to nibble while I wait for the pastry I ordered. My table has very quickly become crowded with dishes and tea pots and glasses of water; it’s not at all convenient for a writer, but perfectly suited for someone who wants to eat a small little dessert and watch the people around her. A woman across from me looks and sounds like Cate Blanchett. A young French couple makes out across their salads. A man in a wheelchair is led by a dog. The waiters are bundled in their puffer jackets, dashing in and out of the restaurant. I rearrange the dishes on the table when my dessert arrives - a random selection I chose because of the name: Mont Blanc. I’m a writer who has a strong affinity and an empty wallet for gorgeous writing utensils. I don’t ski.

The mounded dessert is presented on a gold sleeve atop a branded plate. A round, thick base of glossy, vanilla-bean flecked creme is decorated with a bird’s nest of smooth paste and topped with a chestnut dipped in red syrup. Its gilded, as well - a bit of gold leaf decorates the chestnut. I’m still trying to get used to the idea that everything can be beautiful, even if the aesthetic can be demolished with the flick of a fork. This dessert is a group of fraternal triplets with chestnut being the dominant DNA. The whole chestnut is chewy with a dense, nutty meat and a tackiness from the sugary syrup. The vermicelli birds-nest is the texture of what I imagine my make-up primer to be: silicony, slick, paste-y without being cloying. I don’t know how many ways I can say it’s interesting and different without being terrible, but that’s what this is. It’s sugary and sweet, in a heavy, won’t-leave-the-tongue kind of way. The base it sits on top of holds a cavern of what appears to be crystalized confectioner’s sugar that takes away from the light airiness of the delightful mousse the creamy vanilla cream enrobes. The sugar’s a powdery saccharine texture that makes me feel I licked chalk, an unpleasant sensation I quickly forget when swirling my fork through the mousse. Finally, I come to a crumbly sable cookie, full of crunch and biscuitty mild flavor. I feel a lot of terrible things can be overlooked with a sable cookie.

I finish the letter I’m writing and see I’ve penned a lamentation: I don’t know how I’ll adjust to a life where I don’t have a fine pastry every day. There have been a couple of days since then where I haven’t even left the apartment and I can now say that, yes, life without a fine pastry a day is perhaps no life at all.

January 12 - Laduree: 6eme arrondissement

- French Fries

- Ispahan

- A boir: Othello

Macarons are, as previously stated, my favorite dessert. And when I think macarons, I think Laduree. It would be easy enough to grab a box of four or six or fifteen and savor them on the walk home but I have a very intense need for French fries. Thankfully, in addition to these iconic pastries, the cafe serves precisely both of what I need. I make my way upstairs and I feel I’m in some beautifully British-colonial home, all crushed blue velvet walls, blue tufted chairs, tasseled curtains, gilded picture frames. I ask to order French fries. The waiter asks which French toast. I ask again, if I can just get French fries.

“Yes, but which one?” He repeats.

“Um…pommes frites?”

He stares at me for a moment before his eyes go wide. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were asking for toast! I just…I think it’s the morning.” For some unknown reason, I find this so hilarious I start to get tears in my eyes from laughing with him. It feels nice to laugh with someone - the French aren’t rude to me, but everything has been transactional so far. We settle down, he apologizing for not speaking very good English, me for not speaking very good French. I order my dessert and I ask for his preference between two teas: the Othello and the - Before I get to the second option, he cuts me off. “Get the Othello,” gently commanded with such authority. I guess I’ll have that, then.

The tea is served poured into a white and sea-foam green porcelain tea cup. It’s much lighter and more aromatic than I’d expect for a tea named after a Moor. But it tastes like what he would be if he were a tea: a spicy heat of cinnamon and cardamon and a hint of black pepper; strong and full-bodied. Like all tea, it’s warm and comforting, but this one feels more alive, almost dangerous with a taste that borders on thrilling.

My fries are placed in front of me in a silver chalice, golden and skinny. I wish they were a little bit hotter, but hit the spot: crunchy, starchy, and with a kick from the pepper I’ve ground on top. At this point, I wonder why I didn’t order a steak frites. I’m certainly hungry enough to warrant it. Ah, yes. I’m not on vacation and I can’t spend like I’m on vacation. It’s going to be bread and strawberry jam for dinner. I steadily make my way to the bottom of the chalice, sad I don’t have more to snack on.

I then turn my attention to my Ispahan. It’s bright pink - two giant macarons filled with fresh raspberries and cream with a rose petal perched on top. The cream is super buttery with a lychee compote - very surprising in how exotic and familiar the flavor is and I’ve stepped onto my backyard with the twenty foot lychee tree in Milani, Hawaii. The macaron’s flavor is so subtle and it takes me a couple of bites to realize its rose (der, the perched rose petal). My favorite thing about these cookies is the texture, chewy, airy, filling my teeth. Gathering the cream, cookie, and raspberry in one bite is transcendent - a whole litany of flavors combined into a meandering walk through the green house of an English gardener who has been to the Islands. Its so rich and decadent and I once again, mistake satisfaction for being overly full.

Nearly two weeks in, I actively question again how I’ll return to a life without daily pastries.

January 15: High Tea at Salon Proust/The Ritz - 1eme arrondissement

- A boir: Yunnan D’or

- Profiteroles with cinnamon ice creamShortbread with Venezuelan chocolate, sponge with mousse, pastry with raspberry jam, chocolate tarte, chocolate baguette with hazelnut butter and orange marmalade, almond macaroon tart with hazelnuts and orange, lemon meringue, two different types of madeleines, egg custard, tuille cookie with custard, marbled cake, almond puff pastry

I believe I made a reservation for high tea shortly after purchasing my set of “A Rechere du Temps Perdue.” I’ve always enjoyed high tea - it reminds me of when I’d get dressed up and my grandmother would take me to the Lodge at Ko’ele. Stepping into Salon Proust, I’m taken back to the decadent, luxurious time of the French intelligentsia: a plush brown carpet, leather bound books behind glass doors, a gold and crystal chandelier, an elderly woman reading a newspaper.

I’m sat at a cream-colored marble table set in preparation: fine white china with a whimsical golden design, a water goblet embossed with the Ritz crest, and a server pours me a glass of Evian. He greets me in French, then asks if I’d prefer English or French. I tell him my French is terrible.

“Then, madame,” he responds in English, “I will only speak French.” He presents me with a soft creamy leather book of tea choices and walks away. It’s then that I notice the grand table of little sweets. Its ornate, and like everything in Paris, is golden, and laden down with pastries on glass-domed cake stands, porcelain plates, and in gilded glass boxes. A grandiose urn holds a magnificently large bouquet of roses. I’m one of the first here for the seating, so I don’t know if its a buffet free for all.

A kind and friendly server, different from the first, delivers a small plate of profiteroles and places a saucer of hot chocolate on top of a burning candle, explaining the pastry chef made a change - instead of vanilla ice-cream, he used cinnamon. Shows how much I know - I thought profiteroles were filled with a diplomat cream. I really must study more pastries and what other place than Paris should I do that in? It doesn’t stop me from dunking a whole choux into the chocolate. The difference in temperature between the two is wonderfully shocking. My mouth fills with the dark, earthy flavor of chocolate, the delightful crunch of sugar, the spicy coolness of cinnamon. The second profiterole I divide into four - more real estate for chocolate.

The tea I’ve ordered - a Chinese black tea - arrives and I’m offered a taste, just like wine. It’s deep and woody, no floral fragrance whatsoever. I think it my very good fortune that I’ve not had a bad cup of tea yet.

Soon after, yet another server arrives, this time with a gleaming tower of sweets.

“Would you like me to explain in French or English?” She asks, and like a coward, I request English. This would be the perfect opportunity for me to learn, but I lack the mental capacity. Even in a language I know, I try to follow along as she names and describes each piece, but I’m overwhelmed slightly by all the information and also anxious to dig in. Once she leaves, I start with the top tier making my way counterclockwise: a delightful buttery shortbread dipped into dark chocolate that snaps when I bite into it, a spongy dark cake with a hint of rum, a sticky sugar pastry filled with raspberry jam that (not unpleasantly) sticks my jaw together and I feel like a kid. I attack the second layer with less method. First, a baguette that tastes of bitter chocolate and dense bread that I spread a chunky orange marmalade and butter made with ground hazelnuts, a divine long chocolate tart that oozes with just a hint of citrus, and almond macaroon tart. Here I start to lament that full feeling in my tummy. I’ve only had a dozen bites! I knew this would happen - it happened the last time I was here in Paris - but I remember just how much I’m spending on this experience and how I’ll be having plain pasta for dinner tonight.

As I move to a lemon meringue tart, a sweet, melodious, and familiar song starts to enter my awareness. It’s from one of my favorite films, Marie Antoinette, and I reflect on my love affair with this city. Even though it’s only been two weeks, this relationship is unlike anything I’ve experienced. I wondered if I was getting bored. I wondered if I preferred Italy more. I wondered if I was making any progress healing. I wondered when I would feel inspired and driven to create.

I cut into the meringue and the gooey marshmallow bursts out and its sweetness is cut by the smooth, tart lemon curd. A glazed madeleine follows - it’s the first one I’ll try. It tastes like a lemony cake donut, but so much lighter, the glaze cracking and dissolving on my tongue. Then another madeleine, round instead of the traditional oblong seashell shape, and filled with an apple butter that has a bit of brandy. I don’t like that one nearly as much as anything else.

I need to stop and take a breather, allow myself to make some more observances about my surroundings. I see a framed draft of something Proust has written. He wrote like I did, squeezing afterthoughts above what was already written and filling up the margins. I’ve only read his short stories, but being in a place named for him, with his work surrounding me and his face gazing at me from across the room, I’m falling in love. If I learn French, it won’t be to communicate with the Parisians. It will be to have Marcel Proust tell me a story.

Next, I try an eggy custard tart - creme brûlée in a biscuit bowl. I decide its okay to just try a bite of the remaining pastries. An almost-flavorless paper thin cookie with a custard layer. The pot of tea seems endless. A slice of marbled pound cake; dense, buttery, and chocolatey. This is something I wish I had the ability to finish. Finally, a wedge of layered puff pastry, dressed with slivered almonds and powdered sugar. Almondy frangipane ends the tower - I can’t possibly eat another bite and I’m almost mad about it.

For now, I’ll be satisfied and look forward to perching myself on one of the puffy blue chairs I spied coming in and diving into literature.

January 17: La Fregate - 7eme arrondissement

I’ve been on my feet since ten, walking from my little island to the Musee d’Orsay. I’m desperate to get home, to sit down, relax, but know I need to go grocery shopping. I’m still not used to buying food everyday to keep my minuscule fridge full of the basics - eggs, butter, yogurt, orange juice. My lunches have - not upsettingly - been a baguette with either a strawberry jam or a good, soft cheese from the creamery around the corner from my flat. It’ll be another twenty minute walk and I stroll past a typical brasserie with wooden tables and wicker chairs. I think, this one is on the main street, it’s busy, I’ll just see tourists, and then… And then I see someone being served pizza. Ooh. Pizza. Now, I’m not obsessed with pizza; I had it less than a handful of times when I lived in Italy, but warm dough and tomato are calling to me. I’m seating by a friendly waiter outside; I’ve definitely gotten used to eating en terrasse. It’s the best position to see that, in fact, there’s a lot going on. The brasserie is placed at the intersection of where the Quai Voltaire meets the Pont Royal, so I’ve got a beautiful view of the Louvre. An American woman sits, waiting for her daughter. A young man wheels past with a bass in a softshell case. A group of three impeccably dressed business men stand on a corner. The French flag waves in the wind. Groups of pedestrians gather at a median, waiting for the walk sign to appear. The sky is the palest blue with fluffy white clouds that look like a kindergartner stuck cotton balls to a piece of construction paper.

My pizza is placed in front of me on a giant wooden plate. This thing is massive with glistening pools of grease, filling the craters of gooey melted cheese and the puckered slices of pepperoni.

I pick up my knife and fork, smiling for a moment, knowing that, while I do as the Romans do, my former coworkers would tell me to put a dollar in my personal pretentious jar. But as soon as I pop a little square of pizza into my mouth, I don’t care. It’s hot and doughy - soft, then the crunch of the thin crust. There’s a creamy glob of cheese and the spiciness of the fatty pepperoni is paired perfectly with the thin layer of sweet tomato sauce. This is perhaps the best pizza I’ve ever had, which probably doesn’t count for much as I’m no pizza connoisseur. The crust has a lovely cheese puff-y like texture to it. I’m already feeling full halfway through. Despite the attempt to pace myself, I can’t stop shoveling the pizza into my face, bit by bit. I think I’ve got a terrible aversion to leaving a plate with something on it. I admit defeat and ask for the bill. Perhaps I should offer a trite, “I did my best!” to the appease the food gods above.

January 22: Cafe St. Regis - 4eme arrondissement

A- Boir: Glenfiddich on the rocks

- French Onion Soup

- Pomme Frites

This is the bistro all the swanky New York brunch places look to for design inspiration - subway tiles, Prohibition-style tin ceilings, wooden and leather banquets, dim lights, framed mirrors that take up walls. I come asking for soup; I know I won’t be able to taste it, but I’m tricking my brain into recreating the oniony flavors of comfort food. I also order a drink - something I don’t do enough of for someone who lives in Paris. Whiskey is a past-time I really only indulge in when I’m in Chaplin surrounding by the intelligentsia that is my Uncle Cesar and Aunt Tori, her sister Anne and brother-in-law Michael, three Scrabble games deep, sipping slow and talking much. After being in the chaos that was Marrakec - what I’ll probably later categorize as a fever dream, I need something grounding, familiar. Its flavor is so strong, I get a hint of smooth honey. And I feel it slide into my belly, heating me from within and giving me my own portable fire.

Oh, god, my food arrives and I realize just how hungry I am. I plunge my spoon into the brown broth, surfacing with still crunchy toast and a cheese pull that deserves the soundtrack of soft porn to be played in the background. It’s my new go-to sick food. Salty, caramelized, a good, hearty stock with generous amounts of onions that are having an obvious affair with both the creamy grayer and crusty baguette. The French fries remind me of those from McDonald’s, but any American reading this knows that’s not a bad thing. It’s starchy, with a satisfying crunch and it’s so remarkably potatoey. I’m halfway through the bucket when I notice the paper the fries are wrapped in is a reprinting of the New York Times and I don’t know if that’s irony or coincidence.

The server asks me if its good and I don’t quite know how to tell her this soup is life-affirming so I rasp out a, “It’s very delicious.” After three days of missing out on the smells and taste of the food of Morocco, arguably the main part of the eating experience, I feel like a part of my story has been written in italics: Look! This is what it is to experience food! Remember! I’m sitting alone in this charming cafe, enjoying simple food that makes me feel good. People who think food is fuel are missing out on what it means to enjoy. I’m so grateful that, even though they’re not here with me right now, there are people that, just like me, hear the call of a well-experienced meal and respond with a call of their own.