One of the more amusing ways for people to alienate themselves from others is for them to talk about their favorite experiences in Paris. Viz:"It's the modest things about Paris that strike you most: aren't the street markets just adorable? And that crêpe stand near the Bastille is to die for."
or:
"Oh, you know, seriously, I think the best part about Paris is not the whole café or brasserie thing but the rhumeries, where they have lines of infused rums on a shelf above the bar. That's the real Paris."
or:
"Of course, this is an experience you can't really get from a short visit. You really have to live there."
Perhaps you already see where this is heading. Yep: we're those people. It's a shameful, gruesome fact, but there's no sense in denying it. I've uttered versions of all those sentences. "One of my favorite things to do in Paris..." You know, one of my favorite things. As in: there are so many; it's hard to decide. But I'll regale you with my current favorite.
Of course, the years are starting to pile up in the empty space between the present and the actual time we spent in Paris. Which was, you know, so very fleeting. (But even such nostalgic sentiment is itself disgusting, is it not? Perhaps most disgusting of all. "Oh, it's been so long since we were last in Paris. When will we ever return? It's been, like, forever").
To brush aside such sentiments: here is a story of, let's say, our Salad Days. Back in the day-- you know, before the Euro-- I was on a fellowship, living on the Rue de Lappe in the 11th (if you've just nodded in recognition, you're one of those people as well. Say five Hail Marys and pour yourself a glass of Pernod. I know you own a bottle. Or is it Ricard?).
During this séjour, H. would visit me from time to time, but otherwise I was dreadfully lonely. And hungry. Aside from the hours each day I'd spend trolling the city for food and books, I was reduced to contemplating the idea of strangling the busty-looking pigeons in the jardin de Luxembourg and braising them in a port wine reduction. Not because I had to. But because these are the sort of things you think about.
But most of the time I was just in the library.
The problem with the library, though, is that they had a nice cafe but really sub-standard food. (The food was still better than the food in your library, of course).
When H. first visited me in Paris, we realized there would be some issues with the cuisine. H. has an aversion to richness-- meaning unguent, creamy fattiness-- and is downright allergic to cultured milk products. Even on a normal day, this renders a surprising amount of food off-limits, between sour-cream sauces and pasta dishes sprinkled with "just a little bit of Parmesan." It's especially damning in the context of Parisian snack food, which consists of various dishes made with the inescapable combination of ham and gruyère cheese: omelettes, croques monsieurs, croques madames, sandwiches, crêpes, salades composées, and so forth. You name it, and it seems to have gruyère in it, and not just that "tiny little bit." But a whole hunking mass of it.
Upon reflection, years later, I wonder if this simply wasn't the result of my own preference for cafés and crêpe stands that served masses and gobs of melted gruyère cheese, which happens to be one of my stalwart favorites. Might there have been a slight prejudice at work here?
After several days of generally fruitful experimentation, we realized that the one meal for which we'd found no solution was the luncheon meal to be consumed at the Bibliothèque Nationale. Now, if you've never been to the new BN-- pour yourself another glass of pastis if you have; you're among friends-- then it should be mentioned that it is a strange, abject place, of which we're perversely quite fond. This is the new library I'm talking about, not the charming old one where Georges Bataille used to work as a coin-collector, and which is, you know, in the middle of the city. This is the one designed for Mitterand, and it's situated more of less in the middle of nowhere. The design features four giant glass towers that look like books, and then a big swimming pool in the middle, filled with trees. The symbolism of the books I comprehend. The tree-filled swimming pool less so.
This new site, in the middle of an old warehouse district, may by now have become the mecca of culinary experimentation. Who knows. But in the waning days of the French franc, and for several years afterwards, it was pretty much a gastronomic wasteland.
We tried the "Buffalo Grill," a western-themed steak (0r buffalo?) restaurant too horrific-- or really, too horrifically banal-- to describe. We tried the "Quick" hamburger chain, which we immediately renamed as the "Suck" hamburger chain. Nollo contendere.
And then there was one poor, tired little bakery, which carried some sandwiches made, of course, with ham and gruyère cheese. They did have some other French delicacies which (for me) could easily make my day: rillettes, the ground meat-and-fat spread that is unspeakably delicious for anyone who doesn't have a problem with rich, unguent, lardy food; and pâté, which is the closest that meat can come to being cheese without actually being cheese.
We needed another angle. And thus we settled on Chicken.
So here it is, the truth: one of the best things to eat in Paris-- that is, without going to a restaurant or involving cheese-- is a rotisserie chicken. You go down to your local butcher or, if you're lucky, to a specialty rotissière, and pick one up. The butcher pulls a chicken off the rack and places it in a foil-lined bag and then, if you ask, will spoon in some potatoes and vegetables that have been stewing in the juices beneath.
To this day the rotisserie chicken remains a cornerstone of our diet; we still refer to the chicken itself with the initial admixture of awe and questioning. "Chicken?" It's always a question, but again, a question mixed with hope, and wonder.
Upon its arrival home, chicken resolves itself very simply: pull off all the meat, and make a baguette sandwich. We've experimented with various sauces, fillings, and dressings. But the rules of the game have been set: spread a sliced half-baguette with Sriracha chili sauce, add the pulled chicken, and perhaps a little of the rotisserie sauce. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.
And then wrap the sandwich in a paper towel and tinfoil, and bring it to the library.
They make good espresso there, by the way. Of course they do.
3 comments:
How about "I got laid in Paris." Sorry, that was obnoxious.
But as for your culinary dilemma in the cheesiest of nations, what about muscles and fries?
But I sympathize... back when I was a vegetarian... way back... I spent a month travelling around the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, and Austria... not the best places for vegetarians. If it weren't for all the great beer, I would have lost something like 20 pounds.
I've always found that muscles and fries are mutually exclusive-- the more fries you eat, the fewer muscles. It all turns into chubby belly.
But perhaps that's just a testament to my own sluggish metabolism.
I loved this posting, but you did leave out my favourite (and much used) Parisism: "I'm off to Paris," I say, and then add: "to see some friends."
You see, I have transcended the vulgarity of tourism (even the tourism so desperate to avoid vulgarity that it celebrates its unabashed snobbery of the particular, the expensive and the rare - in a way that is, of course, a paragon of vulgarity) and the age-old romantic cliché of the starving intellectual in his candlelit writer's turret dreaming of busty consumptive dancers - or busty pigeons. No. I go to Paris because it happens to be the place where some of my friends live [well, one friend, and his French petite amie]. That we will no doubt be privy to Parisian wonders - both artistic and culinary - that American students and tourists can only dream of is just incidental, something we will barely even notice.
But your post made me think of something else. What responsibility do we have for creating evil? After all, in your Parisisms and mine, we are indulging only the slightest affectation, a touch of harmless snobbery, a little bit of exclusivity and competition and all that. But in a few listeners - and we know this will happen because it gives our snobbery a frisson of validation - these words will inspire a bitter enviousness. Because of us, they will think, "I would like to see his testicles roasted in garlic butter until they're like little fried walnuts . . . and then remove them from his body with a spoon." Are we so innocent of this evil? Are we not responsible for knowingly, however coyly, evoking this response? Or is the logic of blaming the victim?
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