Please forgive me.

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I have a deep, dark, dirty secret to share with you. Well, it’s not really very secret, since approximately half of my readership was involved. But that makes me no less ashamed to type what I am about to type:

I fed my family Pizza Hut. In Paris. ON PURPOSE. And it was good.

Go ahead, commence with the collective gasps. Here you thought I had come so far in my hostessing abilities. That I was someone who was truly committed to exceptional eating. But it turns out that deep down I am just a chain pizza serving, deep dish loving, red blooded American with a weakness for processed cheese.

I am not proud of this. But in my defense, we were all fresh from one hellish, strike-induced train ride from Normandy, where people were forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the isles for 3 hours and old ladies were fighting over seats like rabid dogs.

It was also a cold, damp Sunday night, which means just about NOTHING was open for dinner and no one felt like traveling far to find sustenance. This limited our choices to pseudo-Chinese food delivery, a 4 day old camembert in the fridge that smelled like rotting feet, or the aforementioned pie.

The troops voted unanimously for pizza. And though every bone in my body wanted desperately to feed them something, anything else, I didn’t have the heart to tell them no. But I did make sure everyone drank a glass of champagne while we waited.

And you know what? When the boxes arrived, and we all tucked into one gooey slice after another (scraping past the goat cheese of course, which is standard issue even on “plain” pizzas) – I couldn’t help but enjoy myself. It was good. Delicious even. A glorious taste of home! Husband and I looked at each other like why have we not been ordering this once a week?! Even though I haven’t eaten Pizza Hut back home in, oh, 10 years.

It’s amazing what nostalgia can do to your taste buds. But promise me this: If I ever write here praising the merits of Easy-Mac or chicken nuggets, stage an intervention.

 

Do you ever…

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…Decide to buy the sandwich with veggies and mozzarella on a whole grain baguette instead of the one with bacon and “special sauce” because you want to be healthy? And then after seeing that the next bus is 35 minutes away, decide to rent a Velib bike and pedal straight up hill all the way home, in heels, only to arrive at your doorstep sweaty and windblown, cursing your healthy sandwich and really wishing you had taken the one with extra bacon because now you’ve totally earned it?

No? No remorse at wasting a perfectly good bacon opportunity? I guess that’s just me then.

Ace Ventura, Detective Animaux

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And in other news, this jeep has been parked illegally on the corner near my apartment for a while now. Like a glove!

 

Mon dieu.

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Student sit-ins. Marches and protests. Strikes. A few torched cars and broken windows. Over 1400 people arrested or detained, 62 cops injured.

Such political unrest could only be in the name of some grand social injustice, right? Racism, the right to vote, democracy maybe. I mean, if you plan on snarling air traffic, slowing down the train systems and surreptitiously blaring the national anthem over the metro loudspeaker, it better be for a really good reason.

When you take it to the streets like that, when you invoke liberté! and egalité! like it’s going out of style, someone better be seriously trampling on your civil rights. You should be feeling mighty oppressed. I’m talking my children are starving, it’s time for radical change, “do you hear the people sing!” kind of oppressed, right? Right!?

Wrong. All it takes here apparently is the suggestion that the retirement age be raised from 60 to 62.

It’s a little bit like crying wolf, no? But the real kicker is that the majority of the people out there staging sit-ins and marching are high-schoolers. Kids that have probably never worked a day in their lives, b*tching about the retirement age because that’s more fun than sitting in class. It’s absolutely insane.

But just to reassure you: The strikes going on right now really aren’t a big deal. The media across the pond is making it seem like the end of the world, but if you didn’t read the papers or watch the news, there’s a very good chance you could walk through the streets of Paris without the slightest clue that anything was amiss.

Strikes are normal here. It’s just a part of the cultural identity. I think French people might actually start freaking out if there wasn’t a strike going on. But then they’d remember it’s August or Fall break or Sunday, and nobody strikes on a Sunday! That’s when the union workers get to sleep in and rest up for the strike they planned on Thursday! Because Friday is a holiday and they’re really looking forward to the extra long weekend.

(PS: is it just me, or does that guy singing in the Les Mis video really look a lot like The Hoff?)

Vocab Friday: Tante Jennie

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A year ago today I was 3 glasses of pinot noir and one donut deep, spooning my sister on a hospital couch at 3am.

My contacts had long been thrown in the trash because I couldn’t shut my eyes for more than 20 seconds without them driving me insane. There may or may not have been drool on my shirt, but there most definitely was a rat’s nest in the place where my hair usually is.

It was so cold that we had wrapped ourselves in any piece of clothing we could find, along with some gnarly looking hospital blankets. We looked like refugees from a wild bender gone terribly wrong. And I’m sure that’s what the nurses would have assumed, were we not huddled in the Labor and Delivery ward and demanding updates every 10 minutes on the arrival of this guy:

Happy birthday Bean! You’re one step closer to being old enough to buy me that drink you owe me for pulling an all nighter on a hospital couch.

(Dear other nieces and nephews: You may be wondering, Aunt Jennie, why didn’t I get a birthday shout out on the blog?! Well, for starters, I was too chicken to make it to the hospital for your births. Except for Anna Banana, and that doesn’t even count because she was #4 and popped out in about 30 seconds while my sister ate a sandwich and my bro-in-law watched college basketball. Or I didn’t know you yet when you were born, if you’re coming from Husband’s side. But I am an equal opportunity embarrasser, er, story teller. I will happily post here about changing your diapers, watching the temper tantrums, that time Scotty wouldn’t let go of the door to McDonald’s and they almost called social services…you know, just the good stuff.)

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tante

Pronunciation: tahnt

Definition: Aunt. The coolest aunt that ever roamed the earth. As in,

“Tante Jennie, why are you making us watch The Labrinthe again?”

“Uh, because it’s the best children’s movie ever made.”

[David Bowie appears]

“I want mommy!”

Master bite.

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Yesterday I think Husband and I had what could be considered the best lunch of all time at Le Comptoir du Relais. For starters, it was a Monday. Thank you Mr. Columbus for getting yourself a national holiday celebrated by U.S. government workers around the world!

On top of that, it was the most gorgeous fall day here, one with that electric blue sky and special sunlight that gives everything a golden glow. Which, let me tell you, is all the more enjoyable when viewed from a cozy café table set with a meal that looks like this:

Yes, that was my lunch. Well, part of it, anyway – because before I engaged in a love affair with that belle pièce de boeuf, I dallied with a warm bowl of bisque de homard and a nice glass of rosé. It was lobster soup like I’ve never experienced before, velvety smooth yet somehow still light; intensely lobster-flavored without one single chunk of lobster meat. And at the bottom? Something that I can only describe as lobster tapioca balls, which you wouldn’t even know were there unless you really dug down to the bottom. Like a reward for scraping your bowl clean!

But back to the boeuf – a supremely cooked piece of steak, bathed in an earthy mushroom sauce. Perfect on its own, but raised to a level of ungodly pleasure when dabbed with a bit of tangy-sweet champagne mustard. And it was this combination, my friends, that I deemed the Master Bite.

You heard me. The Master Bite. The most perfect combination of ingredients, balanced in harmonious wonder at the end of your fork. And it doesn’t just happen, people. One must take great care to ensure that every bite reaches its fullest taste potential. That means a forkful here and there of just mushrooms or just beef is fine, but only if it’s part of a larger inquiry into the best taste ratios when eaten together.

The Master Bite doesn’t just apply to fancy french food, either. I use it regularly when hunting and pecking for the fully fluffed piece of popcorn, enrobed in salty butter but not drenched. Or searching for the ever-elusive crispy-but-not crunchy french fry. And let’s not forget the daunting task of balancing the icing-to-cake ratio in an oversize cupcake (which should have rich, creamy, not-too-sweet icing and dense, moist cake).

Obsessive? Sure. But why waste valuable stomach space on a less than worthy morsel of food?

I am such a firm believer in optimized food enjoyment that I’ve been known to spy a Master Bite across the table on Husband’s plate, and, unable to resist its siren call, go in for the kill. That’s usually about when I get stabbed in the hand with his fork. Which brings up a very important tenet in the religion of extraordinary eating: Thou shalt not steal thy partner’s Master Bite.

Unless he’s not looking.

Vocab Friday: Cuillère

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I apologize for the lateness of this post, but I was completely waylaid by a giant bowl of mousse au chocolat.

No, really. A chocolate dessert of epic proportions has an incredible way of sinking you into a happy stupor that makes it nearly impossible to get up at a decent hour the next day or really accomplish anything productive for the next 24 hours. Especially when said dessert was preceded by a few glasses of wine and a hunky piece of steak sprinkled with fresh herbs and sea salt.

But now that I’ve shaken my gustatory coma, I can tell you the tale of the most heart staggering, tears-of-joy inducing dessert I’ve ever eaten at a restaurant. It was at little place called Chez Janou, tucked back in the cobweb of streets behind the Place des Vosges.

Picture in your mind for a moment the cutest, most quintessential Parisian cafe: a cozy glow emanating from the windows, laughter drifting from the terrace, yellow walls and an old zinc bar. Now add a bunch of feisty hipster waitresses and a slightly raucous crowd sipping rosé. That’s Chez Janou. And it’s wonderful.

Except for the part where you’re waiting for nearly an hour for your main course to arrive because the place is so damn bustling that the two waitresses on duty can barely catch their breath. Or the part where you wait another 45 minutes for someone to clear your plates and bring a dessert menu. And you’ve run out of wine.

Let’s just say the charm was running thin by the time we actually had a chance to order dessert. But we stuck around, soaking up the atmosphere and agreeing that we should ask for the check as soon as possible, unless we wanted to witness the sunrise from our table.

And then I saw it: A comically huge, roughly hewn piece of pottery balanced on the hip of our tiny waitress. In the other hand she had two plates. I was confused. Didn’t we order chocolate mousse? That refrigerated pudding usually relegated to fancy glassware?

The crock landed on the table with a thud. I peered inside to see what can only be described as nirvana – a deep vat of dark chocolately wonder that looked rich and fluffy and unfathomably thick at the same time. The waitress handed us our plates and said, “Just don’t lick the serving spoon.”

Yes folks, I found a place that offers serve-your-self, all you can eat chocolate mousse. Let me type that again, just in case you didn’t understand: A big bowl of family-style chocolate heaven, entrusted to each diner who should be so brave to take on the challenge. Once you reach your fill, the waitress carries it off to the next lucky table.

Now some of you may be thinking, Gross! You’re eating out of the same bowl as other diners! And we may not be able to be friends anymore, because you’re totally missing the point. That’s why you don’t lick the serving spoon! And if we all promise not to eat too much and to not spit in the bowl, then we all get to profit from the wonders of the self-serve crock of chocolate! Very simple really, and a shining example of French socialism at its best.

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cuillère

Pronunciation: Nuts. This is a hard one, but if you say it really fast it’s something like coo-ee-air

Definition: Spoon. As in,

“Licking the self-serve cuillère in the giant shared vat of mousse au chocolat will get you kicked out of the restaurant and likely shunned by society as a whole.”

How Big Daddy does France.

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He came. He saw. He kicked France’s ass. That’s about the best way to sum up my dad’s recent visit to the City of Light (and beyond). In just 5 short days we saw 6 arrondissements, drove around the Arc de Triomphe, explored D-day beaches, scaled Mont Saint Michel and still had time to chill on my couch for a cup of tea.

Sure, there were the standard grumbles about walking too much and walking too fast and not walking to see what Dad wanted to see. But since he’s the man that would routinely rip me from peaceful teenage Sunday morning sleep to spend hours walking around Gettysburg or Antietam or some distant great uncle’s cousin’s brother’s farm, I have little sympathy.

Besides that though, the whole trip really went off without a hitch! Not a pile of dog poo or shart to write home about. And I think we have Big Daddy’s unique approach to foreign travel to thank for that. See, rather than feel intimidated by a foreign land, Dad just barrels along on the assumption that he’s got everything covered, shouting “HOT DAMN!” or “I WAS BORN IN PARIS, JEN!” whenever a cultural challenge is overcome.

In fact, his voyaging worldview is so unique that I would be remiss to not share some of its key tenets here with you. So without further ado:

Gil’s Travel Tips For People Who Were Not Born in Paris

1. Dress appropriately.

 

All any well seasoned traveller needs is a pair of mirrored sunglasses and a Boston College rain jacket. It’s a quite versatile ensemble, really – Dad transitioned it seamlessly from day to evening, to the next day to the next evening…

2. Make an effort to assimilate.

Dad doesn’t drink, but he jumped right on board for the champagne tour. He doesn’t speak French, but kindly shouted “MER-CY!” to every waiter, shopkeeper and metro operator we met. After a day or two, the French were just about ready to offer him honorary dual citizenship.

3. Don’t forget to enjoy yourself.

Slogging through boring museums and ogling cultural landmarks is for the birds. Better to relax, take in the scenery, and really “be” with the people of France. Besides, they don’t put those awesome reclining chairs out for nothin. HOT DAMN!

Vocab Friday: Mon Père

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People of France, prepare yourselves! Big Daddy arrived this morning, and something tells me Paris will never be the same.

For those of you who don’t know my dad, let me explain. He’s a 6 foot 2 barrel chested man who wears painters pants and polo shirts, exclusively. He’s got a penchant for mirrored wrap-around glasses from 7-11 and a distinct distaste for socks. On most days, what’s left of his hair looks like this:

Dad is an avid traveller and has flown his own plane across the U.S. a couple times. But he hasn’t been to Europe since circa 1968. He speaks no French, and at times his command of English is tenuous.

But he’s here gosh darn it. And he’s told me he doesn’t want to see any goddamn museums. (Sweet! Because if I have to go to the Louvre one more time, I will scale the pyramid and fling my body into the fountains below). No touristy things for dad, no. He wants to “be with the French people.”

That father of mine. He is a people person! The Parisians will either be totally charmed/amused by his infectious laugh, or scared to death of the crazy loud American. It’s gonna be a toss up. Either way, Dad is going to get the vrai experience Parisien – there are skinny models walking around everywhere, strikes planned for Saturday, maybe he’ll even step in some dog poo!  Then I’m going to put him in a rental car and test his cardiovascular health with a few spins around the L’Arc de Triomphe. It should be amazing.

I am exceptionally excited to spend some QT with him, and hope this trip goes a little more smoothly than the last time my family was here. I’ll be sure let you know how fast he sprints toward the Air France airport shuttle next week.

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mon père

Pronunciation: maw(n)  pear

Definition: My dad. Who will certainly embarrass me at one point or another while here, just for sport. As in,

“It’s highly likely that mon père will cause a major international incident while vacationing in Paris.”

Hangin with Giselle.

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As I left my French class this morning, I noticed quite a commotion in front of the Hotel de Crillion – what is it with that place?! There were lots of sleek black cars and skinny people smoking cigarettes. A harried woman ran by with a bag of mannequin heads. Photographers clamored around the door.

Apocalypse? Nah, it’s fashion week daahhling! I’m so glad I showed up, wearing the leggings I slept in and a t-shirt. I apparently caught the end of the Balenciaga show, with group after group of very tall, very severe looking models exiting the building and jumping into waiting taxis.

I overheard a photog standing near me speaking in a breathless southern drawl, looking like his head was going to explode from the sheer awesomeness of each chiseled cheekbone that strode past. A second later there was a huge commotion at the door, and Orlando Bloom and Miranda Kerr appeared. I almost squealed. Almost.

Then Giselle walked out. Giselle! Wife of Tom Brady! The french photogs were all shouting “Geeee-zelle! Geee-zelle!” and I just stood there gaping, wishing I had maybe brushed my hair. And for the love of god was she tall and skinny! Weirdly so. It made me hungry just looking at her.

Then the fabulousness was over. The paparazzi dispersed, the red carpet rolled up. And I went to get a sandwich, with extra lardons, s’il vous plait.