Rêver du Entrecote Mis le Feu par Bois

At the other end of the bar with Bourdain at Robert et Louise.

Sometimes, I can't help it. In Paris, there are thousands of places to eat that it seems absurd to eat at any place twice. Why do it? There's more adventure to be had.

But that fireplace and the wood-fired beef at Robert et Louise was getting to me. I couldn't get the vision and aroma out of my mind. I had chosen poorly and now I must pay a return visit. Which, to be honest, isn't really a hardship. I'm a convert.

This time, I got there early. As close to 7pm as I could manage and the place was empty save for the six top by the fireplace. The girls offered me a seat at the bar and said it was their "best seat in the house." Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn't, but it's tucked into the corner of the bar with a side table filled with reading materials, a place to hang my jacket and in a spot where I'm out of the way from people entering/exiting and just trying to squeeze past the bar. I guess it is the best seat in the house.

Gambas ready for consumption.

The plan was simple: eat more. And eat only what's cooked on the fire. First course: Gambas, Tiger Praws. Four of them sauteed in butter and served with sauteed potatoes that were fire-seared to a crisp and baguette. These were whole, large prawns and I tore into them. Not knowing the local custom, I used the knife and fork to de-shell the prawns, but later they brought a plate and wet napkin so I suspect that hands would have been perfectly fine.

The prawns were good. A little overcooked because the shell was sticking slightly to the meat, but the flavor was tremendous - especially when you split the head and sucked out all the good stuff. Heavently.

Entrecotecooked medium.

Not too long after, the entrecote of beef came out. The cuts of beef here are thinner than in the Unites States. For the same price, my ribeye would have been twice as thick. Doesn't mean this was bad though. This steak was perfectly cooked au point and the uneven angled thickness of the steak meant that this was hand cut. Nice to see real butchering still being done today.

Not only was the steak perfectly cooked but it was perfectly seasoned as well. Just enough salt to pop the flavor. Combine that with the smokiness of the wood fire and it's just divine. Well worth the effort of going back.

I'm already looking forward to another meal at Robert et Louise.

Amele

Chocolate Croissants from Coquelicot and a cappuccino at Soluna.

Never tell me that your cafe is my "home," I might just take you up on it and move it.

Or at least it seems that way since I've been at Soluna Cafe every day this week. Bernard, the owner, has been very gracious hosting me, along with Victor and Yadh - the baristas.

It's interesting to see a coffee shop in operation over the course of several days. I've been hanging out around the same time every day (3pm) and each day, the scene is different. There's no classes going on this afternoon, but I am greeted by Yadh's friend Amele.

Originally from Tunisia, Amele is quite a vision. She's petit, Arabian and has those light-colored eyes that draw you in: mesmerizing. She's cheerful, funny and a singer trying to make it in the big city. Her CD is playing over the stereo and it's Arabian folksy. Just a guitar and her voice. I listen and it's pleasant - kind of like a simpler version of Frente! And when I say "simple," I mean less orchestration and instrumentation. The voice is solid and we hang out chatting about life and arts for quite awhile.

Euphoric Visions Through Glass.

Victor and Yadh are my kind of baristas. They're friendly, enthusiastic and interested in learning more as well as growing the community. They want to know how they can put together a barista party during the French Nationals and how they can develop what we call a barista "jam" - an event where baristas come together to talk shop and hone their craft. Would I be interested in instructing? Of course. Could I introduce them to other great baristas, like James Hoffmann? I will try.

So if you're interested in a Paris Jam, let me know and I'll put you in touch with these guys. They're our kind of people.

It's getting late (about 5pm) and Amele decides that she's been hanging out too long and needs to practice her guitar. I think about offering to help, but perhaps that's premature. There's always time in the future.

As she leaves, I realize that I haven't had anything to eat since Montmartre and I'm feeling kind of famished. Off I go across the bridge to Ile de Saint Louis for an afternoon snack.

Crepe Buerre au Sucre et The Melange Anglais.

Once on the island, I find my way to Au Lys d'Argent, which I think means: The Flower of Money? I certainly hope the crepes here aren't that expensive. Au Lys is another old place whose offerings look pretty good on the other tables. I'd love to go for the fancy crepes filled with Nutella or chantilly or all sorts of other goodies, but this is supposed to be a "snack" to hold me over until dinner. I stick with the simple crepe with butter and sugar with a pot of English Blend tea.

The crepe is really nice. Light, chewy and soft, it's got a bit of butter and a smidge of sugar. Very light in sweetness, I think it's a great accompaniment to the tea. I don't spend a lot of time here but it seems to be a husband and wife team who are very welcoming and used to the ignorant traveler.

The Chocolate Bar at Cacao et Chocolat.

Wandering along the rue Saint Louis en l'Ile, one notices so many wonderful little shops. Wine caves, cheeses, fruits, epiceries, hotels, restaurants - I suspect it would take at least three days to eat your way down this street. I stop into L'Epicerie to gawk at the spices, confitures and canned goods. Large jars or cans of confit de canard and cassoulet tempt the palate and scare the wallet (a good sized jar of confit is over sixty dollars), and the assortment of jams (confitures) is bewildering. If only I was a connoisseur.

The selection of glaces et sorbets at Berthillon.

Next stop on the food tour is Berthillon. Reputed to be the best ice cream (glaces) and sorbets in Paris and, ostensibly, du monde. As you're strolling along, it's very easy to be seduced by one of the bistros selling ice cream on Ile Saint Louis - they have Berthillon's name emblazoned on the windows and awnings, just like bars have beer names on their walls in the United States.

But to have the truly "authentic" Berthillon experience, one must go directly to the source: to the Berthillion ice cream parlor. There are two sides to the establishment. The left side is a sit down eatery where they offer table service. It's nicely appointed and fancy enough, but you pay more to sit and eat and I just wanted to pop in and sample their wares. I didn't need to have a full-blown sundae with lots of chantilly.

The right side is the parlor side. Think of an upscale Baskin and Robbins. Wood panels. Stainless work surfaces. Quite nice really and the selection is large.

Chocolate on top of Coconut in a waffle cone.

After a few moments pondering the possibilities, I decide to go with something basic and simple: chocolate and vanilla. Basic flavors that, I believe, demonstrate the true ability of the ice cream maker. Then I remembered how much I liked the coconut ice cream at Les Halles on Park Avenue in New York City and decide to go with the Noix de Coco instead of vanilla.

The ice cream is good. Rich and decadent, the chocolate is dark and moody - more cacao than milk. The coconut is smooth, creamy and the taste of freshly grated coconut. But is this the best ice cream in the world? I don't know. They're certainly good. Perhaps very good. Excellent even. But the best? Maybe in Paris, but I can't say this is the best in the world and superior to others I've tried. But it is quite good.

Another thing that I like is that they give you the option of cup, double-wide cake cone or waffle cone. Sure, those options really aren't anything to write home about - everybody does it. However, unlike other ice cream parlors, Berthillon does not charge extra for the waffle cone.

Parisians know how to eat.

A fond au revoire! to our new friends at Soluna Cafes.

I swing back into Soluna Cafes for a round of chats with some new friends from Chile and then it's off into the wilderness once again. But before I leave, I must take home with me a kilo of the Kenya Getwhimbini coffee and two jars of their huile de cafe - oil made from green coffee beans, something to play with when I get home.


Au Lys D'Argent
90, rue Saint Louis en l'Ile
4th Arrondissement, Paris
01 46 33 65 13

Berthillon
31, rue Saint Louis en l'Ile
4th Arrondissement, Paris
01 43 54 31 61

Oh La La!

There are reasons why we love Paris. Even in the rain.

Le Sex

Gentle Readers!
Please Note: The following post may contain graphic language of a patently offensive and sensitive nature. Please be advised that if you have an aversion to a frank discussion about sex then you should move along to the other posts. Because this post is all about sex, sex, sex and then even more sex piled on top of the other sex talk.

In other words, if you are easily offended, you will be egregiously offended by reading this.

Metro Pigalle - your entry into Paris' smutty side.

In a humanitarian effort to spare you, Gentle Readers, from subjecting yourselves to the decrepitude and seediness of the underworld, I have taken time out of my day to boldly venture where men of respectability fear to tread. I have emerged from the Paris Metro into Pigalle.

Okay, it's really not that bad. The once-bawdy Moulin Rouge is now a not-so-titillating tourist attraction and Paris has been on a mission to clean up the quartier from its' sexy past.

But feat not intrepid reader, all is not lost in this land of debauchery.

As with any red light district, there's lots of seedy fucks waiting to take advantage of the ignorant and weary. Never, and I mean: NEVER EVER, go into any of these clubs (not that you would) and allow yourself to "buy her a drink." Invariably, she'll get a bottle of cheap champagne that they're going to charge you 300 euros. When you protest, they'll puff up their chests and buff up their muscles to intimidate you and you'll spend who knows how long trying to "negotiate" your way out of it.

Better to just keep your hands in your pocket and let the experts guide you in the land of sin.

And how do I know this? Not from first-hand experience, thankfully. Let's just say that I haven't spent my time travelling across the world visiting the Disney themeparks.

Finally, a place that speaks my kind of language.

I didn't have much time to properly tour all the sex joints of Pigalle, so I chose the biggest one of them all: SEXODROME, on the boulevard de Clichy immediately outside of the Pigalle Metro entrance.

As you can see above, SEXODROME means business. A multi-story haven for all kinds of kinks and perversions - stuff you would never tell mommy about. Want to be dressed as a baby and spanked? Not a problem. Ready to address someone as "Mistress"? They will handle that too. Or perhaps you just want straight sex? Me oui!

The street level has videos for sale and a peep show. Other levels house more video booths, an erotic library, a coffee bar, jacuzzi rooms, sauna rooms, lap dances, live sex shows and God knows what else. If it's got something to do with sex, this place can handle it.

It just occured to me that this district has the best of both world. Here, you can do unnatural things with unnameable objects, and then when you're finished, just trek up the hill to Sacre Coeur for confession. The Catholics have really succeeded in making sin a commodity. That will be seventy-four Hail Marys, two hundred thirty-five Our Fathers, and ten quid for the till. In Excelsius Dominae. Be good my son.

Anyway, I'm taking a few minutes to browse through the DVD selection when I'm approached by one of the two girls who were at the front counter welcoming characters like me. She's up-front and no-holds barred. She wants to know if I want to have sex with her - if only it were this easy in the "real world."

I know this game and I turn her down. You're not my type, I tell her. She persists, telling me that we can have "Sex Massage."

One thing to keep in mind in situations like this: she's a professional. It's her game to sell sex and make a lot of money doing it. No man can really be her equal because she's doing this day in and day out. It's how she makes a living, and by looking at her, she must live very well.

To be very frank, this girl is unbelieveable. She's an incredible sight. 20, maybe 23 at the most. Long, curly dark brown hair and an angelic face with a shapely nose and dew brown eyes. Her body is solid. A solid one or two dress size - at the most. It's shapely and hard and the legs are spectacular. Of all the girls I've seen around the world in "adult entertainment venues," this girl is one of the best. I can't imagine how she could end up here in Pigalle at SexODrome.

As with "real women," you can never let on to how amazingly hot you think she is, that would tip the balance too far in her favor. If you're going to be the customer, you've got to be discriminating and scrutinizing. There's an imperfection somewhere and it's up to you to zero in on it.

I tell her I'm not interested and she steps away for a bit. I know she'll be back in a few minutes. It's the early afternoon and it's pretty dead around here. The sooner she gets to work, the more money she'll take home at the end of her shift.

After a few minutes, she works her way back to entice me again. "Don't you want to be with me?" Well, yes that would be nice, I think to myself, but just what is she offering?

"Sex Massage" is simply that. Me naked on a table or bed with her naked massaging my body and she "releases" me - that's club-speak for "handjob." It's one hour of erotic massage for 60 euros. Ding, ding - I'll take it!

"No way, I'm not interested in that," I counter. Now she gets serious. "Then you can fuck me." Woah, that was more forward than I was expecting. No code words, no double-talk, just "you can fuck me." Evidently, there's no rules against this kind of thing in Paris. Thank God.

Now she gets into the nitty-gritty. We can "fuck" and do anything we like - anal, oral, bondage, S&M, I fuck her, she fucks me, whatever kink kicks my fancy, she'll oblige me. No time limit. All inclusive for 300 euros.

Like I said, this girl (her name is Leticia) is amazing. One of the most incredible girls I've seen anywhere. If you saw her on the street, you'd be gaga over her. If you saw her dancing in a nightclub, you'd be scared to talk to her. She's that unbelieveably fine and she's ready to fuck right now.

Good Lord. Thank Jesus that I didn't have 300 euros in my pocket.

Now, I'm the kind of guy who likes to think he's seen a lot of things in his life. I've traveled. I've played the game. I know the dance. But this offer certainly tests my resolve and my morality. 60 euros for a taste (I got 120 euros in my pocket) or 300 euros for everything.

Someone out there hates me.

I test the waters of morality: I'm newly single once again. I don't have any commitments that I would break. There's nothing to hold me back. Like Eve and Cain, I'm tempted by the fruits of desire. I'm just a man. I'm not Jesus Christ for crying out loud. I'm made in God's Image, not God Himself.

But in the end, this is all "just for research." It's not my thing to go out and buy girls around the world. As incredible as Leticia is, I feign disinterest and lame out by telling her "that I'll think about it."

I will spend the rest of the day telling myself that this was the right choice - convincing myself that this was the right choice.

But at least I'll have sixty euros to spend on dinner tonight...


SEXODROME
23 Boulevard de Clichy
75009 Paris
01 42 82 11 90
www.sexodrome-paris.fr

Je Suis Amelie

The Metropolitain at Abbesses, one of two remaining with the original iron shelter.

I finally managed to get out of my flat earlier than usual today - around 11:15am. No matter how honest my intention, I just can't seem to wake up and get rolling early. There's still a whole city I haven't seen. Tourist spot yet unrevealed and all I can do is languish around the bed all morning. Perhaps there's a good reason for such languishing...

At the behest of blog reader "true," I'm on my way to Montmartre this morning to check out Coquelicot Boulangerie and Bistro for my petit dejeuner. Getting there on the Metro is relatively easy, just one transfer and many stations. The transit is uneventful and we arrive at the Abbesses station.

Abbesses is know for it's wrought iron and glass canopy - one of only two surviving originally designed by Hector Guinard (the other is on the far side of town at Porte Dauphine), but what no one tells really tells you is that since Montmartre is on the top of a hill, the actual train platform is farther underground than any station in the city. And after you get used to merely walking up a flight (or two) of steps to get to the street, you really don't think much about taking the stairs - even though you noticed those people waiting for the elevator.

The stairs are hell. A sprial staircase that rises endlessly, unrelentingly driving you forward and by the time you realize that this is ridiculous, you're too far gone to go back down. If Moscow's subway is 250 meters underground, Abbesses has got to be at least 100 meters. Take the elevator, it's to the right of the platform marked "interduit." Save yourself.

Morning breakfast: bowl of hot chocolate, half a baguette, grape confiture, farm butter and a soft boiled egg.

Coquelicot is just a block west of Abbesses and was extremely easy to find. The staff was friendly (and cute) and the food came out quick. I went with the prix fixe menu of: Le Bol de Chocolat Maison, La Tranche d'Une Demi Baguette, Buerre Fermer et Confiture Maison for 4,45 euros. Not a bad way to start the day.

A bowl of hot chocolate seems like a lot, but it's just right for the meal. Dip the baguette in the chocolate or slather with butter and/or jelly and you're good to go. It may seem weird to dip baguette in chocolate but they go very well together - kinda reminds me of Mexican Churros and chocolate.

I also ordered Le Oeuf Coque et Ses Mouilletes, or soft boiled egg with bread sticks for 2,50 euros. The egg was the typical French style, which I always find kinda hard to open without getting some cracked shell in my egg. Add some salt and all is well. Dip the bread as desired and just chew through the crunch of the shell bits.

The steps to rue Trois Freres.

After my breakfast, I decided to wander a bit around Montmartre: Home of Amelie Poulain, from the movie Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amelie Polain or Amelie (as it was released in America). I haven't seen the movie in awhile, so not much of the village looked familiar to me, so I decided that perhaps I should do the one really touristy thing of my trip: visit the Sacre Coeur.

As I've said, Montmartre is on a hill. Sacre Coeur is the highest point with reputedly commanding views of the entire city. If one must command his people from on high, then this is the place to do it. Darn Catholics. They get all the good real estate.

We're about halfway up the hill and the climb is a long one involving many, many stairs. It's cold. And raining. Good thing I've got my foul-weather gear.

I'm no wimp. I've made the summit of the highest peak in southeastern Maine: Mount Bradbury at 500 feet - in frozen and icy conditions. I've made the summit of Mount Olomana on O'ahu (1,200 feet) and I've made the summit of Mauna Kea in Hawai'i (elevation 13,476 ft), but these stairs are kicking my butt.

Hiking to Sacre Coeur from the West Face is for the young and thin, not the old and plumpy.

The View from Sacre Coeur.

As I reach the top of the hill, expecting to see visions of glowing virgins (or at least an apparition of Jesus Christ), I see something that horrifies me to my core: an electic tram ferrying passengers from the street below to the Sacre Coeur.

All of this cursing and sweating and being rained upon and I could have easily rode the tram for a few pence! Bloody hell.

That really sucks.

But I reassure myself that I've made it "The Man's Way" through blood, sweat and tears, and I promise to make an offering to honor this achievement.

These flats are next to Sacre Coeur. The guy in the top unit has to be the most stoked guy in Paris.

In spite of the clouds and rain, the view is quite spectacular. All of Paris is laid out at my feet. I feel as Napoleon must have felt: Emperor - ready to crush his loyal subjects into Froggy Mush at the whim of my twenty-three mistresses. Behaviour unbecoming a good Catholic? Nothing but a few thousand Francs to deliver absolution.

And that's just by Tuesday. On Wednesday, we start over again.

No photos allowed inside the Sacre Coeur, but it's quite gorgeous inside. If there's one thing to be admired about the Catholic Church, it's they know how to build them. Ornate, refined - the best artisans of the day. No expense spared. These are buildings fit for God.

Looking down on the plaza below.

I make a little prayer offering and I'm back on the front porch admiring the view. It's still raining and it's time to go. For a moment, I think about taking the tram, but that would be silly. I've made it to the top, time to walk down and savor the moment.

The Sacre Coeur.

The walk down through the garden is simple, quick and easy. Tourist take photographs. Lovers kiss in the falling rain. It's the Paris of the movies and Amelie is returning those photos.

Me and the Carousel.

As I make my way down rue de Steinkerque I'm fascinated by the fabric shops. Seems that whatever fabric you need, you can find it here. Between them are the kitschy tourist souvenir stores you find in all tourist zones in major cities across the world. Statuettes of the Eiffel Tower and the Sacre Coeur can be had for six euros. I want to get a big one for The Spro, but at 24 euros, that's too much.

Anvers Metro

Later, I'll find a small one on the boulevard de Clichy for three euros. It's not a big tower, but it will be good enough.

The free toilet on the Boulevard de Clichy.

Boulangerie Coquelicot
24 rue des Abbesses
Paris 18
01 46 06 18 77
www.coquelicot-montmartre.com

Living with Lychees

A little reading and a little refreshment in Paris.

Yesterday during my shopping, I picked up 0.180Kg of lychees for 0,45euro. I somehow doubt they're locally grown, but this is the Global Economy and I'm doing my share. Besides, I love lychees.

When I was young, Lychees were a special treat. Something my parents would let us have on rare occasion - straight out of the can. Other times, it would be in that Filipino fruit salad served at parties. I would stand there, picking out the lychees from amongst the canned cherries, canned peaches and whatever else was floating in that syrupy liquid. Every blue moon,they would land some frozen fresh lychees that we would keep in the freezer, peel and eat the icy cold sweet meat. It was heavenly.

Later in life, I moved to Hawaii and met a girl who lived in Wahiawa whose family owned a lychee (as in "lie-chee" and not the "lee-chee" pronunciation I had always used). The lychee tree bears fruit every two years, and every other year she would give me paper grocery bags full of fresh lychee fruit.

As I sit here in my Paris flat (read:hotelroom) on this cold, rainy night eating fresh lychees imported from who-knows-where, it dawns on me that maybe I don't really like eating fresh lychees...

First of all, you have to peel them. That takes patience, dexterity and time. Wedge off the top nub that was, at one time, connected to the branch, then work a fingernail under the skin and start peeling. A few tears here and there, and then maybe you can work half the shell off. Pop it in the mouth and the flavor ranges from sweet to medium. It's rewarding, but then it might not be.

Then you have to deal with the thick underskin that layers between the sweet pulpy meat that you want and the big seed that you don't want. That underskin takes all the fun away and you have to work around it. Slowly, you lightly chew and suck and chew and suck some more - always being careful not to break through and have the tannins and the bitters come through from the seed.

As you work, your fingers are getting wet and sticky, then you have to wash your hands and keep paper towels handy. It's really quite a pain. Really.

I've realized that canned lychees have fresh lychees beat, hands down.

Somewhere, out there, perhaps in Southeast Asia, or in China, a group of low paid workers have diligently picked, skinned and shucked the lychees for you - by the millions. Then these people doing God's Work can that lychee fruit in a sweet syrup and ship those cans to your neighborhood market so that, one day, you can just pull it off the shelf and go to town.

Open that can and you've got lychees galore. No mess. No fuss. No muss. Lychee Martini? Toss a fruit in the glass. Make it dirty? Pour some of the syrup in too. Add the syrup to just about anything. Boil it down for a reduction. Blend it all with some ice for a refreshing shake. Mash it down and add water for a refresco. The possibilities are endless.

But my favorite way is straight outta the can. Just take the whole can and put it in the freezer for an hour or two. It's okay, there's enough sugar in there to prevent it from freezing solid. Once the lychee is icy cold, take it out, open it up and start eating.

First that icy cold fruit hits the mouth, numbing it slightly. Chew, let it come up in temperature and you'll taste the flavor as it develops. Ahhhh, refreshing. Especially on a hot, humid summer day.

I'm sure someone in Paris has a can for sale somewhere...

Robert et Louise

A la carte et Robert et Louise.

Not too far from Soluna Cafes is Robert et Louise, a recommendation by Juan Miguel, who says he goes there "with my friends every time I was in Paris." Juan Miguel knows good food, so I decide to give it a try.

It's cold in Paris but now it's getting windy. Ugh. I've got a long-sleeve zippered turtleneck Patagonia Capilene undershirt, a cotton Polo t-shirt, a Columbia Titanuim jacket and a Marmot fleece vest and I'm still cold. Not freezing, but cold. Comfortable - until the wind gusts. And it's gusting something fierce.

I make my way up rue Vielle du Temple and find Robert et Louise to occupy a small and very old space. Wood frontage, wood timbers support the floor above, the old wood bar is rustic and features old granite work surfaces behind the bar, old photos line the walls and the place is jam-packed full of hungry eaters.

They really are cooking in that fireplace.

From the outside, the place looks old, almost unremarkable. But once I stepped in and spied the gay couple sharing a wood-fired Cote du Beouf, I knew that Juan Manuel had steered me in the right direction.

The food here just looked hearty. And meaty. And delicious. Everywhere you turned, there were people jammed in just looking absolutely delighted with their meal. Happy faces. Fulfilled faces. Amazing.

The place can seat maybe twenty-five people comfortably. There were about thirty when I walked in and was offered a seat at the end of the bar, which would become my little outpost in what was to become an extremely crowded tiny restaurant.

Fresh Sausages from the fire.

One of the most amazing things for me was the real, old world fireplace where they were actually cooking the food over a live wood fire. Immense! I was totally stoked. You just don't see that kind of cooking in America. Not in a wood fireplace older than America itself, at least. Big wow factor there and not something I can just buy from JB Prince.

I decided to start with the Saucisse Fraiche for six euros. Long and thin, these were cooked and charred over the fire. The flavor was spectacular. Just the right texture, spice and slightly salty. Paired with the bread and the two struck the perfect balance. I could have eaten two orders.

In fact, I should have ordered it twice!

Confit de Canard Maison et pommes sautees et salade.

There are times when you just know that you should have chosen something else. Those times when you know that you have chosen poorly. The fire, the other customers' dishes, the signs were clear: this is the place for beef.

Even Juan Miguel in a text message later wrote:

"The confit is good. I've ordered the rib steak and it was only for me...I say go for it and order the massive meat. Let them look at you like you're crazy...they did when I ordered it. Plus you get to eat it on a cutting board."

The menu said it all: Cote du Beouf for two: E40. For Three: E60.

Juan Manuel is a smaller man than me. Comparatively speaking, he's downright petit. It's one thing for a petit man to order the rib steak than it is for a man such as myself to order the same. I didn't want to seem starving, so I decided to go with the Confit de Canard which, seemed to be an "appropriate" dish to order for myself.

Except that duck does not have the soul-satisfying power that beef possesses. Nothing can touch it. Except steamed white rice. But that only intensifies its' power.

No "and", "if" or "but" about it: on this night, I had chosen poorly.

Preparing espresso and preparing my bill.

That's not to say that the duck confit was not good. It most certainly was excellent. Just the beautifully soft and silky texture I would expect to find in a French-made confit. But it wasn't the beef and that choice would dog me throughout.

Of course, I rationaled it by thinking that I would stop by Chez Pierrot later to try his blanquette du veau, but it wasn't enough.

The confit was lovely. Just the right texture and everything was falling off the bone. Add a little sea salt and it was delicious and looked just beautiful. Paired with the sauteed potatoes and just delicious. The only thing I wanted to change was the texture of the skin. I prefer my confit skin to be crisped. The skin at Robert et Louise was just flimsy and oily. If it was crisped, it would have been perfect in my book.

I was full, but my mouth and tastebuds still yearned for the wood-fired beef.

The Bill.

I'm finding this whole dining in Paris thing to be quite expensive. I've been eating out every night and I'm still programmed into a "dollar" way of thinking. I see "28,00" and I think "twenty eight dollars," not "twenty eight euros." Back home, a nice meal for twenty-eight dollars is not too bad. But a meal for forty-one dollars is starting to push it. I can't go out eating every night spending that and more.

And God knows how much L'Arpege is really going to cost me.

The other side of this is that "forty-one dollars" means "forty-one dollars" - everything is included. No need to sit around thinking about tip or service charge. No more calculating. No more trying to evaluate the service and tip accordingly. No more nonsense. It's just, "here's the bill and this is how much you pay."

I like this system much better.

Amor de Lejos, Amor de Pendejos

Back on the streets of 7th Arrondissement, I decide that now is the time to make my move on that cute girl I saw working at the grocery store last night. On the way to Chez l'Ami Jean, I saw that she was working again and now is my chance.

But first, I need a reason to be in the store. Need to make it look like a spontaneous and serendipitous moment, plus the line is kinda long. The hard part is to find some items that seem sensible for me to buy, or items that make me seem normal, but interesting. This means the Savon de Douche would send the wrong message.

It's pretty tought to find some good items. Maybe I should just grab a Twix bar and be done with it, but that's not classy enough. How about some absinthe? No, alcoholism might be the wrong signal too. Shelf-stable lasagna? No. Yogurt? Maybe. Champagne, fruits and honey? Hmmm, now we're giving the right signals. And toss in a box of Michel Cluziel chocolate for good measure.

With my loot in tow, I make my way to the line. It's still kinda long (these French take grocery shopping pretty darn seriously - even at 2:15 in the afternoon) and I'm practicing my opening lines in French:

Bonjour. Ah, tou me fais penser a quelqu'un que jais connais. C'est beau, non? J'aimerais bien voir un film. Tu voudrais aller? D'accord! Je viendrai te chercher a sept heures. Tu as un beaux yeux. Tu veux entrer un instant? D'accord.

Which means:

Hello. Ah, you look like someone I know. (pointing at whatever is handy) That's beautiful, isn't it? I feel like going to a movie. Would you like to go? Great! I'll pick you up at seven. You have beautiful eyes. Would you like to come inside for a while? Excellent."

Happily, the line is shorter now, but then disaster strikes. The line is shorter but the girl at the register is different! Bloody hell! My girl has gone on break and I didn't even know it. I could have intercepted her somewhere else. I don't see her around anywhere. Now I have to dump all this stuff. Crap.

So much for the honey and champagne.

A cup of the Kenya Gethwimbini at Soluna Cafes.

I'm really doing not much of anything during this trip to Paris. I've found a local tackle shop selling Laguiole pocket knives with a corkscrew. They range from 58 to 79 euros and I'm slowly convincing myself that I need one. Everyday, on the way to the Tour de Maubourg Metro, I spy through the plate glass window inspecting the wares. Maybe tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I'm back to wandering the streets and it's almost three o'clock. I suck at being a normal tourist hellbent on seeing everything that must be seen. For me, the "must see" things on this trip are: food and women. Unfortunately, I'm doing a lot of the former and none of the latter.

Already, I'm starting to develop patterns. Into the Metro to the Concorde station, switch to the 8 line and to St. Paul Station and the hear of Marais. I wander around again and ponder the need to purchase Absinthe. It's illegal in the United States and that fact alone makes it worthwhile. Absinthe has the reputation of driving men to insanity and death - but I'm not scared, I've been eating commercial beef and poultry most of my life. And that's worse.

The Samiac roaster at Soluna.

"
Once again I find myself at Soluna Cafes where Victor and Cristina are discussing potential items for a potential new menu. It's nice to be in a foreign city and having a place to call home. That's what Soluna Cafes has become in just a short period of time.

Cristina is the cute Guatemalan daughter of the owners, studying at The Sorbonne and trying to decide if they should add salads and plat du jours to their lineup. Victor knows I've got The Spro back home and they want to know what I think.

It's tricky offering advice in these kinds of situations. Coffee is one business. Food is adding a whole realm of logistics that most coffee operators just aren't ready for. Soluna Cafes is a serious coffee shop and after going through a series of questions, I drill it down to the most basic of them all: if you sell the amount of servings that you realistically think you will sell, will it be worth it? Only they can answer that question.

I'm thinking that I'll stop by Soluna for a coffee and then head to Montmartre to see Amelie's hangouts and then to Pigalle to see the seedy side of Paris. Maybe take in a peep show or two. Buy a little love for an hour.

But as with any time that I don't have a solid schedule to adhere to, I get diverted. What was going to be a brief visit at Soluna, turned into an entire evening of hanging out with Victor talking coffee, talking shop, talking gossip and waxing poetic on The Nature of Love.

It was Victor who told me the old Mexican saying: Amor de lejos, Amor de pendejos - the long distance love is the love of idiots.

How poignant indeed.

Chez l'Ami Jean

Getting molecular with the Creme de Lentille du Puy.

I got out of bed a bit earlier today and left the room around 12:45pm. I think the chambermaid is getting used to my schedule.

Strange as it may sound, finding a bistro to eat in Paris is a bit difficult. Sure, there are tons of them on every block and around the corner, but finding the great ones amongst the average is the hard part.

I heard about Chez l'Ami Jean on the Internet. I know it's risky taking advice from bloggers (go figure) whom you are not familiar with, but Ami Jean was just a couple of blocks away and the guy raved how he's been going there for years, and it's Basque, and the chef takes a molecular approach - so, I thought I'd give it a try.

Here comes the actual soup part.

It seems that Parisians don't really eat until after 1pm, so I was able to get a table pretty quickly, but half an hour later, the place was packed. The menu here changes daily and it's all in French, so it took me a little while to decipher it all. The Lentil Soup and Roasted Duck Breast seemed to be good choices, although the skate and rabbit sounded pretty tasty as well.

The lentil soup comes in two parts: first, the big, white bowl with the "croutons," ciboulettes et lards. It's all prettily arranged on the plate but since the server didn't tell me anything about the course, how am I supposed to know what's going on? So I start eating.

He then comes up and tells me in an exasperated French that I need to wait for the soup!

Finally, the soup comes in a pitcher and he pours it over the stuff and we're off to the races. The pitcher stays at the table and I refill the bowl as necessary. The soup is good, tasty and seasoned just right. I don't need anything else for it because it's on the money. The only problem is that it's on the runny side. I wish it were more viscous. It's so thin that I wish I could pour it into a mug and slug it down.

Magret de Canard Gras Travaille en 2 Cuissons, Roti Sur la Peau et Tranche.

The restaurant itself is old French. Wood walls, old floors, old ceilings, old bar, old tables - this place is straight out of Hemingway and it looks like it was built before Hemingway. I state this because the food is in stark contrast to this place. Sure, these dishes are classic French, but the presentation is quite modern and very "small plate" in style.

When it arrives, the uninitiated might mistake the meat on my plate for beef. It's brown on the outside and seriously (almost violently) red on the inside: a perfect medium-rare. But this is duck breast, my friend. Not too fatty, but with a slightly tough texture and a bit of flavor that's helped along by a liberal dosing of salt to make it pop. The duck is really wonderful. You'd almost think you were eating beef. It may look like beef, cut like beef and bleed like beef, but it quacks like a duck.

The duck is topped with two very thin slices of bacon and some roasted potatoes. Alongside the duck is a carrot puree with dried, paper-thin sausage and a side of very buttery mashed potatoes. They're both a lovely accompaniment to the duck and the carrot flavor really stands out. It's bright and delightfully sweet.

The accompanying mashed potatoes and carrots.

I've decided to pass on dessert and my waiter can't believe it. Maybe the French always have dessert, but not this American. I've had too much to eat already. Disappointed, he drops off the check and I'm out the door scouting the Parisian landscape.


Chez l'Ami Jean
27, rue Malar
75007 Paris
01 47 05 86 89

L'Arpege

Before I left for Europe, I asked Spike what places I should hit in Paris. L'Arpege was on the short list. It's a good thing that the list was short because L'Arpege is crazy expensive. And red meat free...

I shot a series of images during my three hour dinner here, so I'll be back later with the images and full report. But for now, here's the menu for the evening:

Cuisine choisie 420E

Oeuf a la coque
quatre epices

Nacre de coquillage a la truffle noire
damier

Couleur, saveur, parfum et dessin du jardin
cueillette ephemere

Foie Gras de canard de la Madeleine de Nonancourt
pays d'Avre et d'Iton

Robes de champs multicolores "Arlequin"
salsifis, carotte white satin, navet atlantic, betterave tonda di chioggia

Aiguillettes de homard de Chausey a la truffle noire
savagnin

Authentique volaille de nos regions
terr de l'Hiver

Comte millesime "Grande Garde" Automne 2003
truffle noire

Desert de l'Hiver

Sucrerie
3 macarons du jardin


Arpege - Maison de Cuisine
84, rue de Varenne
75007 Paris
01 47 05 09 06
www.alain-passard.com

Paris, Day Two

Ham and Cheese Croissant on the way to the Postal.

It seems that I cannot get out of my flat (read:hotel) before noon. Some people on vacances like to set out early because there's a ton of things to do and see in this city. Me? I could care less.

One thing I'm determined to do is enjoy a holiday much like I had at the end of 2004 in Hawaii. Stuck on O'ahu the week between Christmas and New Year's with none of my vendors really wanting to do business, Jay's Shave Ice shut down for Christmas break and no way to do any real work, left me sitting around The Porn King's house for a week with, literally, nothing to do. It was one of the finest weeks of my life.

With that in mind, I'm determined not to leave or get out of bed or do anything of any urgency this week while in Paris. The lady wants to service the room? Well, she better service me as well or come back later.

An afternoon snack from La Tarte Tropenzienne.

I finally hit the streets just after 1pm. The Little Black Book of Paris, my trusted companion so far, has finally earned my ire. At its' suggestion, I decided not to change my dollars into euros at Charles DeGaulle Airport because the exchange would be better in the city.

It's an absolute Pain In The Ass to exchange money in the city.

At the suggestion of my hotel people, I walked several blocks to the post office and waited in line for half an hour (after a quick ham and cheese breakfast croissant) only to be told that their rate pretty much sucks. For my US$400, they would only give me E235. A quick iPhone reference showed that the exchange should be E270. I might try the Air France office by Metro Invalides on the other side of the Plaza de Invalides. I hike all the way there through the rain and cold. The rain wasn't bad because I visioned myself the honest romantic, crossing endless terrain, great fjords and torrential rains to rescue my "true love."

Of course, I'm just trying to get money with the hope of buying hookers. And booze.

I arrive at the Air France office only to be told that they don't do that there and that I can find exchange places on the rue Saint Dominique. That's the street I've been shopping on and I haven't seen any kind of money exchange place, but I forge ahead thinking that maybe I missed something.

I haven't and end up at the sister hotel: Best Wester Eiffel Park and ask the guy there. "There's a money exchange a couple doors down," he tells me. That's not a money exchange, that's a bank, guey! Stumped. He doesn't know either but suggests that there might be something along the Seine.

While I'm all for strolling along the Seine, imagining myself to be some sort of suave James Bond, I'm not going to continue this hike in the cold rain. It's time to do what I've been trying to avoid doing all afternoon: head to Tuileries.

The table setting at Angelina.

Tuileries is the Metro stop on the other side of the Seine. It's not far, but it's not close either. Inconvenient since I don't want to leave my neighborhood. The Little Black Book recommends a place there called MultiChange. I call them up, check the rate and head on over.

The Tuileries metro stop places you right on the rue de Rivoli, which evidently is "tourist central" in Paris. It fronts The Lourve and it's lined with fancy hotels, fancy shops and overpriced everything designed for the tourist market. It's the kind of place that gives me the Heebie-Jeebies and I want to get outta there fast.

Directly across from The Metro is a money exchange. Looks kinda shady to me and when they tell me that my US$400 will get me E232, I know they're shady and I'm off to find MultiChange a couple blocks away on the rue de Castiglione.

On the way there, I spot Angelina - a popular dessert place that Coco recommended I visit. I make a note to go back and check it out right away, since I don't ever want to come back to this place again.

The problem with being from America in today's world is that our dollar sucks. Once upon a time, it was power to carry dollars. Now, we're getting hammered. Should have done more traveling when I was younger. Based on my experience at the Post Office and the other exchange, I'm going to be pissed if these guys offer about the same. I could have stayed home and used the Postal. MultiChange is giving me an exchange of E262 for my US$400. Victory at last! And now I have some pocket money to play with.

Le Mont Blanc at Angelina.

Angelina is an old school kind of place known for their hot chocolate and their Mont Blanc. They have a take out counter and table seating. The Mont Blanc is E4,50 at the counter and E6,70 at the table. I decide to go for the full experience and sit next to the fancy dressed dark haired women wearing plush furs, designer sunglasses (in the rain) and supple leather boots over their tightly clad legs.

The decor is that European Continental style: ornate everything. The staff is nicely dressed, everything is presented on China and it's straight out of James Bond. I just wish they took the time to polish the stemmed water glasses...

The hot chocolate is known as Le Chocolat a l'ancienne dis "l'Africain", French style for E6,80. It's rich, dark, bitter and generally pretty good. But is this truly remarkable hot chocolate that I will dream about and plot a return trip for another? Or sit around trying to figure out just what makes it "l'Africain"? I can't say that it is. It is good. Very good. And I like how they serve it in a small porcelain pot that you pour into the cup and then add as much unsweetened whipped cream as you desire. The key: don't put a lot of cream. Otherwise, it brings the temperature of the beverage down too much and it's not as enjoyable. I know.

Entrecote In A Bag.

The Mont Blanc is very sweet. There's a baked meringue bottom inside a cupcake wrapper that's filled with whipped cream and liberally covered with piped sweet chestnut cream. The description: meringue, chantilly legere, Vermicelles de creme de Marron sounds excellent, but I found it too sweet to pair with the hot chocolate. Too much sweetness competing with each other and never complimenting one another.

The ideal choice would have been a black tea. A counterpoint to the heavy sweetness that is the Mont Blanc. I can't say I enjoyed it tremendously because all I wanted to do was swig on the water to wash it all down and prevent sweetness overload.

Back on The Metro and back home to Invalides where it's time to do a little shopping. My dinner tonight at L'Arpege isn't until 8pm, maybe a quick snack of Ficelle and croissants from Le Moulin de la Vierge on rue Saint Dominique and then over to the G5 grocery store for some fresh lychees, toothpaste, bottle of water and a bottle of Coke.

Does this really say "Horse Meat"???

Whenever I visit other places, I'm fascinated by their markets. Just what wonderous things lie on their shelves? What can I bring home? What can I put in my mouth? Their meat packaging is quite interesting with pictures of the beef rather than the beef itself. I kinda like it. Unless, of course, the meat inside is black. That's not ideal.

I spot a package of meat labeled "Viande de Cheval Fraiche" which, I think means "Fresh Horse Meat." I'm fascinated. I'm horrified. They do this in France? Sacre bleu!

But really, I want to try it. I mean, it's only E3.80. That's horse puckey! I make a mental note to go back to the hotel and see if I can commandeer whatever kitchen they have available. Maybe I can make some horse steaks while here.

I can't help but wonder if I'll need some A-1...

Packaged food a la America.

Meandering through the aisles, I see something that both warms my heart and makes it colder still: processed foods. It's the bane of America and I see that it's coming here too. It's heart-warming to know that yes, even the French suck at cooking to the point they'll buy microwaveable foods, but heart wrenching because the craft of cooking is a dying art - even in France.

I want to shed a tear.

Milk and Eggs.

Still, there are vestiges of civilization that we have yet to embrace in America. Like our penchant for refrigerating everything, including eggs. Good to see the French still know how to store their eggs. Of course, their UHT milk leaves a lot to be desired (but there is fresh milk available in the refrigerated cases).

Next door to the grocery store is a foie gras place. I love this place. They've got canned foie gras, canned cassoulet, canned duck confit - heck, they've got everything you want to eat in a can and I need to shop there before I leave. I'm spying the foie gras confit in the glass jars.

On the way back to the flat, I pass another grocery store and notice the very cute half asian girl at the register. I want to go in and make American small talk and invite her for a stroll along the Seine, but she's lazily working the very long line of customers, so I make a mental note to stop by again tomorrow and see if I still have that "old magic."

Ficelle and Mini Croissants. Just a bit of butter and all is well.

Otherwise, it's back to the flat to drop off my purchases, relax awhile, change and get ready for what's sure to be a crazy dinner at L'Arpege.

Chez Pierrot

The surprise of the evening, the Egg "Meurette".

I lay the blame squarely on Spike Gjerde's shoulders for this debauchery. And while I should take responsibility for my own actions, I feel as though I'm being driven by a calling. A calling to sample as much as possible in the short time I have in this city of love. Unfortunately, I'm not talking about women, I'm talking about food. It's been several hours since my last meal and since Spike and I set the bar at three meals per night in New York City, I think two meals should be do-able.

Since last night, I've been walking past this little bistro here on rue Amelie. It's a cute and comfortable looking place that's run by a husband and wife team that must be what every chef dreams of - a small bistro where they can cook to their hearts' content. If I'm going to make a serious push for other restaurants later this week, then I'd better sample Chez Pierrot while I still can.

Like I said, I had been staring at their menu both last night and this morning. I decided to start off with Eggs "Meurette" for 7.80 euros, and then move onto the Celestine Chicken (a Lyonnaise specialty) for 15.30 euros.

Of course, I had no idea what a "Meurette" was all about, and since I knew what French Onion Soup and Smoked Salmon were all about, I decided to go with the unknown. The "Meurette" is basically a poached egg (with runny yolk), served in a beef and mushroom broth with toasted baguette rounds. Kinda like onion soup meets Fogghorn Legghorn. Bake that under a salamander until everything gets hot and serve.

It's tasty. The broth is rich of beef and red wine and just a tad salty. Mushrooms and beef chunks are floating in their and show up in spoonfuls. The egg white is well cooked and once you reach the yolk and it starts to "bleed" into the brown sauce, you can't help but to get excited and start digging in - hoping to spoon up the yolk and see how the flavors meld together (lovely).

Celestine Chicken - a bit overcooked.

Once finished, the chicken arrives. When I first sat down, the lady of the house recommended the beef - as that is their specialty. But I had beef earlier and wanted to try the chicken since it sounded so good, so I went for that instead. I should have gone for the beef.

Not that the chicken was bad. It was just, well, disappointing. I was expecting something revelatory. I got something that seemed more Italian. Deboned chicken breast and wing that was overcooked because it was pretty tough to cut into, layered over fettuccine noodles with a tomato, mushroom and bay leaf sauce. Nothing spectacular, and it was overcooked. Maybe it really is a Lyonnaise classic, but I was in the mood for something other than "Italian" tomato sauce based food.

Too much "chantilly" and too much chocolate sauce - can't believe I just wrote that.

Initially, I was going to hold off on dessert, but that resolve withered away and ordered the Coupe Chocolat Liegeois - Chocolate ice cream and chocolate sauce with chantilly. In other words, a chocolate sundae without the cherry.

It was okay. Too much whipped cream and too much sauce, not enough ice cream. I mean, look at the size of that thing. There should be more ice cream in that sucker. A simple plate with the ice cream, a drizzle of sauce and a dollop of chantilly would have been enough. I think I left half the volume afterwards.

Overall, Chez Pierrot was okay. Decent food. Nice setting. Very nice people. You want to go back. Problem is, I didn't find the food that compelling. I mean, it was just myself and one other person and the chicken was overdone. I really want to like Chez Pierrot because I love to support small restaurants just like this, but I can't write that it was amazing and that's disappointing. Because I really wanted it to be amazing. I'm hoping it was just an off-night because the veal white sauce a la ancienne makes me want to try it one more time.

Chez Pierrot
9 rue Amelie
75007 Paris
0145 51 50 08

La Brasserie de l'Ile St-Louis

The Rosette de Lyon.

Strolling across the bridge onto the Isle St-Louis is wonderous sight to behold. The cathedral of Notre Dame in the distance and the revolving beacon from the Eiffel Tower crossing the skyline. How majestic. How nice of these French to build this all for my enjoyment.Merci.

After my visit with Victor at Soluna Cafes, I was feeling a bit over-caffeinated and quite hungry - having not eaten anything since this mornings' baguette and jamon iberico, so I made my way to La Brasserie de l'Ile St-Louis, as recommended by my guidebook: The Little Black Book of Paris.

I've never been one to put too much reliance on travel books but it finally dawned on my why we do. As with anything else, it's not always about finding "the best", it's about avoiding "the worst." With a guidebook recommendation, at least you know that someone else has been there and it must not have been that bad. And with a bewildering array of places to eat, like here in Paris, it really helps to have something help you cut through the noise.

Prior to Soluna Cafes, I came across a restaurant/bar called La Perla that served Mexican fare. Seems that I can always go for some Mexican (and I did need an afternoon snack), and their Enchiladas de Mole sounded tasty, but they weren't serving food until 7pm so that was that.

Pave de faux filet du limousin au poive vert

La Brasserie de l'Ile St-Louis is everything you expect when you think of "classic French brasserie." They've got the old floors, the old tables, the old tin ceilings with years and years of paint, the old everything - even a very huge, antique espresso machine like the one you see in the Tolouse Lautrec paintings. The waiters are old French guys who have been doing this for years and are truly "pros."

The special of the day is the Pave de faux filet du limousin au poive vert with pommes frites maison for twenty euros. I'll take that and and order of the Rosette de Lyon sausage for six euros to start.

I was expecting links, instead I got something that looked like salami. Not that it was bad. It just wasn't what I was expecting. Of course, it did state "Lyon Sausage" and if I actually knew what that meant, I would have known what to expect. Chalk that up to "Jay-Ignorance." Like salami, it was thinly sliced with a sheen of natural oils and a lightly salty flavor. Paired with the sourdough bread and the fiery moutard(mustard), and it was darn good eating - though the cornichon was soft and not crispy the way I prefer.

As the steak was coming, I decided to order a Coke as well. While most civilized people would prefer a wine, after a weekend in Moscow where it was non-stop drinking, I'm shying away from the alcohol this week. Just as well, because I really like Coke. There's something about that fizzy-ness and the sizzle of the phosphoric acid that just clears away fattiness. Coke cuts through most everything and as long as it doesn't have HFCS (like in America) then there's no aftertaste or heaviness on the tongue and coating your mouth. Bring it on, monsieur.

I had read through Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles Cookbook that French beef and their cutting methodology was different than how we do it in America. I'm starting to see that. The meat was flavorful and tasty but lacked the marble that we see in most American beef. Of course, that could also be the hallmark of this particular cut and I'm waxing with more "Jay-Ignorance," but I did say that I am also a charlatan. Flavorful and beautifully cooked to a delightful medium, it was red throughout. The green pepper sauce was tasty and I started to see how our American "French Fries and Gravy" developed. Any sauce that was left was sopped up with the fries.

Speaking of which, unlike last nights' fries, these were quite good. And real. Real potatoes, blanched and then fried. They even got a bit soggy as they got colder - just the way nature intended.

The Brasserie so you can find your way.

I thought briefly about dessert, but then I had also read that the best ice cream in Paris was just a block away. Overall, the food was good. I'm starting to see what French food is all about. Last night was a pretty poor representation, but tonights' meal was definitely much better. Maybe it is time to start planning for at least one fancy meal here. It would be a shame not to, oui?

La Brasserie de l'Ile St-Louis
55 quai de Bourbon
4th Arrondissement Paris
01-43-54-02-59