Spot on.

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Oh Paris vs New York, how incredibly astute are your graphic interpretations of Paris compared to New York! Totally spot on. I think this site has been getting a fair amount of press lately, but I just couldn’t help but share some of my favorites here:

Taxis? N’existe pas en Paris.

Quintessential French cuteness.

And the @*#^&%#&@ cold gray weather that we have 9 months out of the year.

Now I’m imagining what the the depictions of Paris vs. Washington would be. The first one would obviously be titled “Voleur/Thief”, contrasting a French gypsy pickpocket child with a 13 year old DC kid waving a hand gun….

Hidden Kitchen

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I am not the first Paris blogger to write about Hidden Kitchen. Heck, the NY Times, Food and Wine Magazine and about 8 million other blogs beat me to the punch years ago. But I still feel it’s my duty to report back on what was one of the most awesome dinners I’ve had so far in Paris. In life. Ever.

Ok, some of that effusive HK love could be the 6 or so wine pairings plus one spectacular vodka/champagne/pomegranate cocktail talking (3 days later). But there really were so many things that made the evening exceptionally special. Let’s start with the premise: HK is a private supper club, founded by two fairly recent (I’m talking 3 years ago) college grads  when they moved to Paris. They thought hosting 10-course tasting menu dinners for 16 strangers would be a fun way to meet people.

Flash forward to now: Laura and Braden (hi! remember me? I want to be your intern!) are hosting guests at their beautiful Parisian apartment twice a week, and are currently booked through FEBRUARY. Oh, and because they just couldn’t possibly be any cooler, they consult on the side for places like Whole Foods and Williams-Sonoma (god I feel like a worthless old fart).

Not bad, huh? I would still be wallowing in jealousy and self hatred if it weren’t for the fact that I cannot get the tiny rabbit pot pies out of my head. Yes, a bite size, mustardy, shredded rabbit pot pie with a perfectly flaky crust. Or how about the crispy pork belly, dressed up with broccoli-cheddar potatoes inspired by Wendy’s? And please do not forget the fact that after an obscenely apt fall dessert of gingerbread and persimmon sherbet, we were presented with homemade Reeses peanut butter cups.

I think that’s about when I offered to help out, ANY TIME THEY NEEDED ME. Braden graciously laughed, I chuckled, and then looked him dead in the eye and said, No really, I’ll be here first thing Monday. Thankfully Husband swooped in and pushed me out the door before anyone could see the crazy in my eyes.

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Hidden Kitchen

Reservations: The good news? All you have to do is email. The bad news? There’s a looooong wait. But they apparently often get cancellations, so checking in with them can’t hurt. All the info you need is here.

Location: At Braden and Laura’s apartment. They keep the address secret until about a week before the dinner. That’s the “hidden” part.

What you’re in for: A welcome cocktail; 10 tasting-menu size courses, made with market fresh, seasonal ingredients; Wine pairings that you’ll struggle to keep up with because the conversation and food is so good; A table full of 15 other guests from all over the world. Oh, and this lovable little guy:

Vocab Friday: The Rainy Edition

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Do you see that? Isn’t it depressing? And also kind of unfathomable? I mean, it’s not like I live in Seattle or something. But it’s been raining here for a week straight already. And apparently there’s no real end in sight.

I know, I know. If I have to be steeping in cold, damp weather, I’m lucky that it’s Parisian cold, damp weather. I guess. Of course every now and then it’s lovely to cosy up with a glass of wine and listen to the drops plinking off the tin rooftops. But after day 2 or 3, the charm wears off. The perpetual darkness starts to weigh on your soul. The frigid droplets that gust horizontally and then up and under your umbrella stir a certain hostility that cannot be described in pleasant words. By day  4 or 5, after the wind has ruined 2 umbrellas and continues to rattle through your chimney at all hours of the night, the crazy starts setting in. And by day 6 or 7, when the water has splashed into your knee high wellies one too many times and you realize that the intensity of the downpour increases every time you merely consider venturing outside, it’s about all you can do to not claw your own eyes out just so you don’t have to see the gray sky anymore.

Did I mention that it’s only November? And I have months and months of this weather ahead of me? Coupled with the fact that it is still dark at 8am, I swear I’d never get out of bed if there weren’t things like this waiting for me in the morning:

I asked my french teacher if this was normal. She gave me the shrug and said oui, c’est normale. But sensing the distress in my countenance, she offered a wonderful phrase to help cheer me up:

Il pleut comme vache qui pisse

It’s raining like a pissing cow. Or, it’s raining like a cow who pisses. I hope you just got a nose-wrinkling visual. But that’s actually what it feels like! After endless days of this maddening downpour, I feel like instead of a giant rain cloud hovering over my head wherever I go, it’s a giant cow taking a leak. A little more apt than cats and dogs, no?

A year of learning.

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It’s probably a gross understatement to say that I’ve learned a few things since starting a life abroad just a year ago. It’s actually more like I’ve had to rewire my brain to understand a foreign language, automatically dodge dog poo and maneuver a granny cart full of spaghetti sauce up 4 flights of stairs.

It’s been a humbling experience to say the least. But I can confidently say that I now have a vast and varied repertoire of expat knowledge, far beyond anything you’ll ever find in a guide book. Such as:

1. Baguettes are better when they’re pas trop bien cuit.

2. Champagne should be consumed cold and quite regularly.

3. The Louvre is hell on earth.

4. So is EuroDisney.

5. 95% of Parisian women will be skinnier, more beautiful and better smelling than you.

6. Pain au raisins with a Diet Coke is in fact a breakfast of champions.

7. If you desperately need something from the market or a specific store, you can count on it being closed.

8. Wearing heels here is next to impossible.

9. You will probably never be able to pronounce or conjugate s’asseoir.

10. But you’ll get good at conard, merde, and putain.

11. No one will care if your internet connection goes out for weeks at a time.

12. Talking on the phone will make you break into a sweat.

13. A chèvre is a goat. A cheval is a horse. Police ride chevals, not chèvres.

14. Actually, the plural of horse is cheveaux. Not to be confused with cheveux – the hair on your head.

15. A big glass of wine will make most embarrassment over your language skills disappear.

16. French ovens are crap. So is the metric system.

17. It is possible to eat a three course meal at lunch AND dinner.

18. But you may have the sharts afterward.

19. You’ll hate Paris sometimes.

20. But love it even more.

Bon Anniversaire.

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Exactly one year ago today I said a (very) tearful goodbye to family and friends and then hopped on a plane to France, ready to live out a 2 year adventure in the City of Light.

Actually, before the plane part we drove around like maniacal Amazing Race contestants in a borrowed minivan, desperately seeking our travel visas. Then while Husband checked out at the office, I had my last radio sing along with Lady Gaga. Papa-papa-RA-ZZI! And then the car battery died.

So that’s the story of how we almost didn’t make it to France, and how Husband almost killed me right there on the corner of 22nd street. They should put up a plaque!

But thanks to $50 and the Exxon gas station just around the corner, I survived and we did in fact fly to Paris. I remember how disorienting it was: all of my worldly possessions either packed in a shipping crate, sold off or stored in Big Daddy’s basement. No cellphone. No serviceable French language skills.

We arrived jet lagged and emotionally exhausted, but somehow still bursting with excitement. We were in Paris! City of smelly cheese and fresh baguettes! Land of bubbly champagne! So much of it felt like wonderland, except of course for the hideous temporary Ikea couch.

Then Husband went to work and I…did not. With no internet connection, no job, and not one single friend to go drinking with, I was just a wee bit out of sorts those first couple weeks. And just in case you weren’t one of the lucky few getting morose phone calls from France last fall, you can watch me grappling with early-retired/housewife/loser status here:

After watching this, I am shocked. Shocked! Who is that girl!? (I blame it all on France: the mood, the hair, the wonky nose). All I can say one year later is, thank you little baby jesus in velvet pants for helping me come so far.

Vocab Friday: Pompette

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So I don’t usually condone day-drinking. It gives you a headache, ruins you for any evening activities, and can often make you seem like a sad lush. But as I’ve nearly reached the ripe old age of 31, I feel as though I can confidently steer my younger readers toward what I think are the exceptions to this rule:

1. Oktoberfest.

When they expect you to drink beer at breakfast, all bets are off. Just hydrate, pace yourself, and eat lots of pretzels.

2. Visiting Bordeaux.

It’s the epicenter of the wine universe, so tasting wine throughout the day is absolutely unavoidable. It’s actually recommended, and made all the better if you have a knowledgeable guide to help you decipher the subtle differences between the 2006 Saint Emilion and 2008 Medoc (here’s a clue: after 2 glasses, not much difference at all!)

3. When a friend sneaks you in to a fancy lunch.

Exceptional circumstances call for exceptional measures. That’s why I spent my afternoon sipping champagne at a lunch thrown by a catering company for some of the city’s big-time party planners. I also got to make my own truffle-oil infused ravioli and savored an entire lobster tail on the side. Meaning I now have indigestion AND a headache. C’est la vie!

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pompette

Pronunciation: pom-peht

Definition: tipsy, a little looped, slightly inebriated. As in,

“Please excuse any grammatical mistakes in this post, I’m a little pompette!”

 

Grocery store hate.

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After nearly a year of living here, I have quickly learned that France is a place of many contradictions. It’s a land where stunning beauty nearly knocks your socks off at every corner, but also where dog poo threatens at every turn. Where one can fathomably subsist on cheese, pastries and wine and still not gain a pound. Where people will not hesitate for one second to mount a fierce strike or protest against even the smallest infringement, but only if it doesn’t interfere with les vacances.

But I’ve found these contradictions in national character to be no more prominent than in the grocery store aisles. Where else in the world can you find more than 200 kinds of cheese and 20 varieties of cream, but not one single can of beans? No beans, people! Not dried, not canned, not anywhere to be found. Only lentils. Man do these people love their lentils. But any other bean? N’existe pas.

Now, I can fully understand when I go in search of Worcestershire sauce or instant oatmeal or canned pumpkin and come up empty handed. Those are weird American things. But beans? Aren’t they an international magical fruit? It’s ludicrous. And it just further confirms my love/hate relationship with the supermarché.

You see, I try to shop at the open air markets as much as possible. They’re wonderful. Spectacular. A regular cornucopia of fresh goods. But it also means you have to speak French to lots of different people, explaining what you want, when you want to eat it, how you were thinking of cooking it. And you have to plan really well, because the markets are only open certain days, for certain hours.

Sometimes you just want the old isolating American shopping experience, where you don’t have to interact with anyone and you can go at whatever time you want (well, almost). Other times you just really need toilet paper and diet coke, so a trip to the grocery store is a necessary evil.

I say evil because the grocery stores (in Paris at least) all seem to give off a communist Russia vibe. They smell bad. They’re not particularly well stocked. The isles are cramped and full of old ladies who won’t hesitate to run over your toes to get the last jug of milk. They haven’t yet caught on to the idea that if you make the food look nicer, people will want to buy more of it. And in mine, if you want to buy toilet paper, you have to go up three floors from the food level, where it’s stashed in between children’s toys and office supplies.

Many an afternoon I stumble across the most perfect sounding recipe ever, only to find out that the MonoPrix is out of flour and cannellini beans are considered an exotic legume. It’s super frustrating, and further supports my theory that the French government is secretly giving everyone crappy ovens and smelly grocery stores to bolster the restaurant industry. Which, now that I think of it, is pretty brilliant. And totally fine by me.

Bike envy.

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I have lots to share about my quick trip to Bordeaux this past weekend, but sadly, not enough time to write about it today. I know, I know – this busy life I lead! Reading and writing and drinking champagne and not really working can really jam up your daily schedule quicker than you think. It’s exhausting.

But while I have your attention (and potential death stares), I would like to take a second to talk about bikes. You may remember my very exciting purchase earlier this year. She’s a beaut, decked out with orange racing stripes and a basket:

There will always be a place in my heart for this first bike of mine, no matter how much the seat hurts my hoo-ha and the short handlebars put a crimp in my neck. She’s been good to me, and I cannot forget that.

But.

Wouldn’t I look just so insanely awesome tooling my way through Paris on one of these babies:

Don’t ask me how I would carry that mo fo up and down my apartment stairs. Just imagine me cruising down the Champs-Elysées on it, but instead of a dog in the back I have Husband. Or a case of champagne. Or both!

Think of how many shopping bags I could fit in there. It would totally negate the need for the embarrassing orange granny cart! It’s so magnificent I can’t even stand it.

But how do I get my hands on one? Sadly, I’m finding it a bit difficult to budget for a bike that costs almost as much as our mortgage payment. But have no fear: You, my lovely (few) readers are going to help me WIN THIS MADSEN CYCLE.

All you gotta do is click on that link down there and nose around the Madsen website a bit. You can even get a chance to win one yourself by posting a link or banner on your own site. But if I find out that you won the bike I’ve been dreaming of instead of me, well, let’s just say you’ll owe me. Big. Like unlimited rides in the bucket big.

Now click away!

Madsen Cycles Cargo Bikes

Vocab Friday: Une Dinde

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I know what you’re thinking: I’ve skipped ahead to Thanksgiving and totally missed the upcoming Halloween festivities! What the hell?!

Well, they don’t celebrate Halloween here in France, so I really don’t have anything to report on that front. In fact I’m going to Bordeaux for the holiday, and I plan on dressing up as an inebriated American who likes to speak bad french. Should be pretty easy!

But wait uh minute, the French don’t celebrate Thanksgiving either!

That is correct astute readers! Although you’d be really surprised at how many people ask about T-Day celebrations here. They’re the same people that ask me if my twin brother and I are identical (um, we’re not).

The point is, this here is my blog, and I want to take a minute to talk turkey. You see, I’ve been reading this book about factory farming practices and it’s totally rocking my world. In it, Jonathan Safran Foer makes an exceptionally rational, well researched case for the urgent need to totally change the way we think about, buy, slaughter and consume meat. Which believe me, is a tough thing to follow when you dream nightly about the best steak you ever had. But his words make sense. The factory farming business in America is mostly abhorrent and is in dire need of an overhaul.

Also I’m a tree hugging dirty hippie at heart, but shhhhhh, don’t tell.

Anyway, upon reading about the franken-turkeys that are pretty much the only birds available at the store (yep, even most of your organic, free range, slept in a bed of golden hay and received daily waddle massage turkeys are the same breed as a standard Butterball), I became inspired to find a heritage breed turkey.

And being the big nerd that I am, I proceeded to go into deep research mode, reading countless pages about historic breeds and wild turkey provenance. I spent an entire afternoon trolling through the Maryland Turkey Farmer’s listings and the American Livestock Breeds Conservancy site. So when I finally settled on a small place raising Standard Bronzes, I dashed off my email order with the zeal of a woman who was smugly sure she was about to get her hands on the ultimate Thanksgiving Master Bite.

I was quite pleased with myself. I even challenged my sister to a turkey taste-off, to see if this heritage breed stuff was really worth it. But the next day, a troubling email from the farmer informed me that my search for real turkey had hit a brick wall. Literally:

I have no heritage birds this year. Fireworks from the Antietam Battlefield scared them so bad they flew into netting and sides of pen killing themselves.

Sorry!

Katherine

Oh my. How does one respond to something like that? Please give my regards to the families of the birds in question? I was at a loss for words. So I settled on:

I’m so sorry for your loss. Better luck next year!

And then I found a butcher selling Kentucky Bourbons in Fredricksburg. They seem like less hysterical birds anyway. Plus, I like anything to do with bourbon. So barring any unforeseen turkey tragedies, we’ll be having one helluva heritage Thanksgiving dinner. I hope to hell it tastes good!

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une dinde

Pronunciation: oon dahnde (but real nasaly)

Definition: Turkey. Turkey Lurkey. Gobbler. Hokie even. As in,

“Perhaps next year we’ll make sure our heritage dindes have ear plugs for the 4th of July festivities.”

I don’t know what this is.

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But I’m pretty sure I want absolutely nothing to do with it.

I was too afraid to cross the street and get a closer look, especially since I had flakes of pastry crust clinging to my sweater. But I’m going to go ahead and guess that the menu looks something like this:

Entrées:

  • Hot water with lemon
  • Spritz of Chanel #5

Plats:

  • Louis Vuitton Lean Cuisines
  • Coffee
  • Cigarettes (unlimited)

Desserts:

  • Coke (not the kind you drink)
  • Enemas
  • More cigarettes

Bon appétit!