Food in Paris - Part 1

I’d always intended for my final post(s) in this blog to be about food, and I ought to have composed this long ago.   A professional writer (or just an efficient one) would certainly have done so by now.  In the almost year since we’ve returned, I’ve been occupied by the mundane stuff of real life, my non-Paris life.   Although, the upside of writing this post after so much time is that I get to relive Paris.   Given the current state of affairs in the world, it’s a welcome distraction.

Many people rejoiced when 2016 finally ended.   The passing of many beloved iconic figures (Prince, Bowie), ongoing terrorist attacks, the surprising (to put it mildly)  election results.   And so far, 2017 continues to feed us with relentlessly dismal news.  It’s exhausting.  However, I suspect your assessment of this year, or last, depends on your perspective.    Perhaps you finally got a job?  Possibly your kid got into college?  Perchance, your life stayed blissfully on track?  Or maybe any of the opposite happened, and you find my attempt at sunny optimism infuriatingly naïve?

Regardless, it’s not too late for you to inaugurate 2017 in any way you see fit.   In that vein, I have a new blog.  It’s called “Running with My Shirt Off “ and, if you’re so inclined, you can find it here https://susan-burns.com.  I’m a slow starter, so I’ve only written two posts, but I have high hopes.

And now, back to the title of this post.  I couldn’t quite end this blog without paying homage to Paris’s most noteworthy characteristic:  its’ unrivaled appreciation for food.   Food was such a huge part of our Paris experience.  From the moment we set foot on French soil, excited and uncertain, it provided comfort - with a warm baguette and a fresh wedge of fromage Comté waiting for us in our new apartment.  

We still crave our favorite outdoor marché goodies:  the most perfect hummus, sun dried tomatoes and baby artichokes in olive oil, chicken tikka masala, Italian salami and prosciutto, dates that taste like caramel, big sugary strawberries, juicy nectarines, sweet melons and mangoes.   The marvelous vendors on our local market street, rue de Belle Feuille.  I dare you to find a better roast chicken and potatoes then at Boucherie Fillion (don’t forget to ask for the “jus” on the side – this is key).   The fresh pasta at Via Della.   A jambon buerre – those simple ham and butter sandwiches that are sold all over.   So ridiculously satisfying.  

Our daily baguette from Café Bechu.  Or, if they were closed, that place near our first apartment on Kleber.  Or if they were closed, the little place around the corner that Jim found by accident.  The buttery, buttery croissants.    So wonderful that you don’t crave the chocolate ones – though these are good too.  The fragrant teas at Maison de thé Theodor, a museum-esque experience.   The truffle cheese from Androuet.   The burgers au boeuf we bought for grilling at Boucherie Le Bourdonnec.  

And that was all if we just ate at home.  The restaurant experience is a whole other obsession.   Anyone that knows me, will attest to my deep affection for dining out.  In France, it’s considered an art form.  How I loved having to actually ask for “l’addition” (the check) and not being rushed.  Leisurely four-hour meals felt normal.   Dinner at 9pm didn’t seem wrong (how could you even think of eating earlier, after that four hour lunch?).   

I made a note of each restaurant, café, bar, etc., that we ate at.  Even the ones we didn’t like that much, though there weren’t many of those.   Several were noteworthy because of the food.  Some were in our favorite neighborhood.   Many were quirky or had wonderful ambiance.   More then a few were noteworthy just because of the people we were with or, more significantly, what was going on in our lives at the time.  

What we refer to as the “crying dinner” occurred on a Friday evening, after the girls’ second day of school.   They were sad and lonely.   At the time, I was a little too dialed into their mood, resulting in my being despondent, and a little regretful about this move.   Jim was the only adult in the room.   We asked the girls what they wanted for dinner, what will cheer them up?  Pizza, they say.   

We ended up at Pizza Chic, in the 6^th,, on a  gorgeous, balmy Paris evening.   We didn’t have a reservation and it was crowded, so they put us at a couple of two-tops outside.   We ordered food, and a bottle of red.  I tap into my inner adult, mother-up, and start to feel better.  Then, I look over at the table where the girls are seated, and see Katie weeping into her pizza.   The cause: a noxious cocktail of age-appropriate anxiety and homesickness.   The dinner was delicious – as was our year.   We finally did a “do-over” dinner at Pizza Chic the week before our departure.  No longer sad, lonely or despondent, but happily reflective.

If Paris isn’t in your travel plans, I hope you decide to visit some day.   It’s an extraordinary, challenging, beautifully maddening city.   If you do visit, consider the places in my very last post: Food in Paris – Part 2 – The Restaurant List.  Here's the link:  https://susanlburns.blogspot.com/2017/07/food-in-paris-part-2-restaurant-list.html.  Or, better yet, visit and create your own list.  The other advantage of my delayed posting is that I felt compelled to verify that each place was still viable – and well reviewed.  I’m happy to say that they all stood the test of time.  Online anyway.  I'm visiting again this year, just to be certain.

Bon Appetit et à bientôt!