It’s cold here in Paris. And I don’t think I’ve seen the sun in, oh, almost 3 weeks. I know I won’t garner much sympathy, what with a major blizzard slamming the midwest. And the fact that I am still in Paris. But it’s getting depressing around here! It’s endlessly gray and dismal, and they’ve taken down all the sparkling Christmas lights that made December somewhat bearable.
It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to hibernate, that pushes you into an unbreakable state of inertia. This past Saturday Husband and I slept unthinkably late, then rushed out to make the market before it closed. After an hour of fighting old ladies in the bread line, we returned with a full cart and promptly curled up on the couch for the remainder of the day.
Drastic measures were in order to break the winter spell. We needed dinner. We needed warmth. We needed comfortability. So we snagged some good friends and met at a little place in the 7th called Les Cocottes. It’s a bistro run by chef Christian Constant that specializes in…wait for it…food cooked in Staub cocottes. And if a sizzling cocotte full of French comfort food can’t cure the bleak doldrums of January, I don’t know what can.
It was absolutely packed, even at 7:30, which isn’t even dinner time in France. But a just few apéritifs later we had a cozy table and 4 adorable miniature cocottes in front of us. Mine was filled with the most unbelievable langoustine ravioli in a velvety pink broth, steaming with hearty goodness. Upon the first bite I felt moved to stand up on my chair shout to the world C’est comme un petit Jesus en culottes de velours!
Except that I’ve recently been informed that it’s not cool to say that anymore. Friends back home actually broke it out at Epcot Center France, and so impressed the staff that they were crowned King and Queen (still wondering if they meant figuratively or literally). Then the waitress promptly informed them zat nobody says zat anymore een Frrrench.
So I’ve been running around promoting the colloquial slang equivalent of “Groovy!” and “That’s the bee’s knees!” But you know what? I don’t care. It’s still hilarious. In English or French. So that Epcot waitress can stuff it in her velvet pantalones.