Sunday Breakfast

Noisette.

Unlike most of America, most of Paris is closed on Sundays. The French for some reason feel that Sunday is a day of rest and not shopping, eating or making money. As such, it's kinda hard to find a place to eat.

Luckily, the 7th has a few places that are still open. One of them is Le Centenaire at the corner of rue de Saint Dominique and Boulevard Tour de Maubourg. It's an average-looking place and I decide to take a chance.

The server is friendly in a slightly homosexual way. This is not meant to be perjorative, just an observation. He's quite enthusiastic about the plat du jour, the lasagna, that he decides to order that for me. After a brief discussion where I let him know, in no uncertain terms, that I am not interested in lasagna, I order the Croque Poilane Madame - a typical croque madame with egg.

Ouef Dur - Hard Boiled Eggs with Mayonnaise.

Since this is France, I decide that a multi-course meal is in order and go with the hard-boiled eggs and mayonnaise. It's a nice presentation and I make a mental note to remember how to make this at home.

The breakfast itself is pretty decent. Nothing to rave about, but nothing to puke over either. Just standard bistro/diner style fare, with frozen fries.

Croque Poilane Madame - Ham, cheese and egg sandwich with salad and french fries.

Le Centenaire
27 Tour de Maubourg
75007 Paris
01 47 05 80 57

Getting Serious at The Crown

Phil and the fried calamari at The Crown.

In spite of my best intentions, I always seem perennially late. Just when I think I've got the timing down, it's off. This time it was way off. The last time I spoke to my cousin, Mimi, I thought I'd meet her in an hour. I was off by two hours.

You know how it is, you just get so into what you're doing that time flies past and you didn't even know it. Luckily, family is family and mine are very patient. Mimi and her husband, Phil, were out shopping in Picadilly Circus when I arrived.

I hadn't seen Mimi since I was last in Manila at the beginning of 2001 when I was able to participate and cover the EDSA2 Revolution. That was seven years ago and since then she closed up her shop and moved to the London area. Outside of the pastries at Flat White and Fernandez & Wells, I hadn't eaten anything, and I had consumed a large quantity of coffee and espresso at Square Mile, so I was pretty hungry and jittery.

Like all good Filipinos, Mimi and Phil suggested we eat Chinese.

Hell no. I didn't travel all this way to London just to eat Chinese food. I wanted real, traditional English food. I wanted Curry Chips.

Of course, we're around Picadilly Circus, which is an absolute madhouse of people and tourists. Prospects of eating well in a tourist area are low indeed. When searching the internet via iPhone turned out to be fruitless, we turned to people on the street. Lots of people with good intentions recommended all sorts of places. One even suggested a vegetarian place. God Bless That Girl.

In the end, hunger and desperation won the day and I chose a place called The Crown. It's a pub on the street level and a restaurant upstairs. The pub area was packed with rugby fans watching the Six Nations Tournament of England vs. Wales (Wales is my choice) and the upstairs restaurant was largely filled by Spaniards in red uniforms with a big, automatic handgun silkscreened onto their jerseys. Futbol or rugby, I couldn't tell. They were Spaniards, sans botas.

Home Baked Aberdeen Angus Cottage Pie with chunky minced lead beef in a rich gravy, cheesy mashed potatoes and fresh, green vegtables.

The room was manned by a woman who was somewhere between grumpy and rude (I really couldn't tell anymore). Maybe she was just British. Whatever the case, I was more concerned with passing out that understanding what her troubles were.

For our dinner, we ordered several dishes. First off was Fried Calamari (decent enough) with a sweet and hot Asian-style dipping sauce (that was pretty good). Phil went with a steak (not bad). Mimi had salmon and boiled potatoes (I didn't try it, but it looked pretty bland), and I went with both the Fish and Chips and a Cottage Pie. Of course I did because I wanted to try a variety.

Fish and Chips.

I hate to say it, but there's really no point in belaboring it any longer. If these dishes were indicative of traditional English food then it's no wonder the American Forefathers wanted to get the hell outta there. The fish actually smelled fishy when I cut into it. The batter was crispy, but so thick. Neither the tartar sauce or vinegar really helped to enliven the fish. Even the chips were bland.

The pie wasn't mush better, just a lot cheese. And a lot of mush in the form of mashed potatoes and the meat and gravy filling. Actually, the brown gravy and meat were pretty tasty - with some salt, but where was the "life"? Where was the "ooomph" in the cuisine?

Perhaps that's why I've like Curry Chips so much. There's actually flavor and spice in the curry. Layer that over my favorite french fries and how can you go wrong? I just wish they had it here on the menu.

Mimi and the salmon.

The rest of our time was spent catching up on family gossip, how things are in England and plans for the future. Like a good family member, the inevitable question came up early on. The question of: "When are you going to find a nice girl and settle down finally?"

A loaded question indeed but one that no amount of diversion would divert. Sooner or later (always sooner than later), she would bring the story around to my needing to settle down (it's really amazing how women in my family are so good at that). We could go on and on about my womanizing (or desire to womanize) and she'd bring it right back.

Finally, I had to tell her the only thing that made any sense. That I thought I had found someone who I wanted to "get serious" with and plan for a future, but that relationship was over now. That as much as I had tried and hoped for the best, that's not the way it's going to be - and that maybe one day I would be ready to try again, but right now, I don't.

That worked for about half an hour, then it was back to scheming and planning on how I should meet a nice girl to settle down and get married...

This must be a conspiracy orchestrated by my mom.

C'est la vie!


The Crown
64 Brewer Street
Soho, London W1F 9TP
020 7432 9711

London Coffee Is Falling Down

Twin La Marzocco Lineas at Flat White.

From the Eurostar to the London Underground to Picadilly Circus, up Shaftesbury Avenue, left on Rupert Street, through the Porn Alley, go for a quickie lap dance, continue on Berwick and Flat White is on the right.

Flat White. American baristas like me wonder: just what the hell is a "Flat White"? Evidently, it's some sort of Aussie thing, or some kind of Kiwi thing, or - well, I'm from America, we just don't know anything outside of McDonald's. Whatever it is, Flat White is just about the best coffee shop in London and quite probably all of the United Kingdom.

Good thing the British aren't too hung up on national pride, otherwise they might have burned the place to the ground for showing them up so roughly. Flat White is run by New Zealanders. They've brought their style of making espresso coffee to London and are doing a seriously good job at it. The shop recently underwent renovations and the place looks sharp.

First off, I'm really surprised they can offer a food menu as well because the space is quite small. Maybe five hundred square feet, at the most. As you walk in, two La Marzocco Lineas line the counter to your right and the friendly Kiwi owner is there to greet you. On this Saturday morning around 10:30am, the place is packed. They probably seat about 25 and all the seats are full. A long banquette lines the left wall and a cash register sits next to the espresso machines and then a partitioned section is where the food is made. The girl next to me is eating scrambled eggs with toast and it's looking very tempting.

Since they're from New Zealand, little things poke out at me calling attention to that fact. The poster on the wall of an upcoming party of Kiwi DJs and the Hei Tiki made from the Maori pounamu(or material supposed to resemble pounamu) stuck to the back side of the Mazzer grinder facing customers. Cool touches from their homeland that someone like me can appreciate.

My Flat White at the eponymous Flat White.

Since this is the Flat White, I might as well order their "Flat White." The girl behind the counter is friendly and eerily reminds me of my high school crush Sarah with her dark eyeliner eyes, white skin and dark brown hair. The physique is different but the overall look is so similar to Sarah's that it's scary. I break into a sweat for a moment as I remind myself that it's been over between us for over twenty years.

The place is not only packed but it's jamming. There's not a line out the door but the customers come in at a steady pace, one after the other. I would love to chat with the owner and ask some questions but it's so busy in here that idle chatter is out of the question. Cheerily, he brings over my Flat White.

I have to say, for a drink called "Flat White," it's still quite brown. And it looks very similar to what we call a cappuccino. A glance at the menu on the wall and the price is the same as a cappuccino. So, what's the difference? I don't know. I can't tell you. Everyone is too busy for idle chatter, remember?

Either way, the latte art on the Flat White looks fantastic. Nice proportions and good definition. When I drink the Flat White the first thing that pops to mind is "bitterness." Not bitterness in the negative sense, but a bitterness that punches through the milk. The bitterness of nice coffee. And while the milk isn't sweet, the flavor blend together for a very tasty Flat White.

It's taken awhile but finally Stephen Morrissey arrives. it's been awhile since I last saw Stephen at the Canadian National Barista Championship in Toronto back in September. He's doing well and getting ready to compete in the Irish Barista Championships at the beginning of March.

After a few moments, James Hoffmann, the 2007 World Barista Champion (of the world), makes his grand entrance. Like a proper world champion, everyone here knows him and a cheer erupts from the bar. The welcome is so enthusiastic I'm half-expecting a pair of guards with spears to come in, stomp on the floor and shout "God Save The King!"

The three of us hang out and chat for a bit and then we're off on a brief and quick London Coffee Tour.

Stephen Morrissey and our loot at Fernandez & Wells.

First stop is just around the corner (literally) at Fernandez & Wells. This place is a bit bigger than Flat White with a completely different approach to interior design. Very modern, white, pine colored wood, steel and a bit on the cold side. Evidently, these are Spanish hipsters bringing their stuff to the London Coffee Scene (are there no Brits involved in this London scene? I begin to wonder). The place looks slick and they've got a wide assortment of baked goods on the front counter, as well as some sandwiches and a big, three-group Synesso Cyncra pulling shots.

I grab a custard and a piccolo while Stephen and James both have a couple almond croissants and drinks. The left wall has a long counter and steel stools to sit on. It's a sharp-looking space but the design is a bit on the cold, industrial side. Not much in the way of getting comfy and sitting for a spell. The piccolo is actually quite good and goes great with the custard's sweet baked filling. We're there only for a few minutes because we still have a bit of ground to cover between here and East London.

Londoners braving the cold as Italians would do at a corner cafe in SoHo.

As we stroll around Soho, they take me to see a few other coffee spots, notably Monmouth Coffee where I sample a Melitta brewed Indonesian that's a bit on the heavy dosing side. Heavy enough that it's coating the mouth and just making everything dead. Note to Monmouth: less coffee in the Melitta, please.

After more than a few samples at the local cheese shop and a viewing of the hip Italian joints, we're back into The Tube heading out to East London (the dodgy part of town) to see the new home of Square Mile Coffee.

Located in warehouse space, under railroad tracks in a part of London where the neighbors laughed at their original sissy padlocks, Square Mile's HQ isn't in the trendiest part of town. But beyond the barbed wire walled fence, the armored steel and cockney gangs is a new and pristine space promising to become the new "It Girl" of the London Coffee Scene.

Since they haven't opened for business, I won't disclose much about the space except that I think exciting things will be developing between those walls.

I hung out with James and Stephen for several hours. They were great hosts. We chatted about all sorts of topics. Industry gossip. Competition theory. Recipe ideas. Who knows who in the restaurant business, and whole lot more. Unfortunately, my time in London is short because there's still so much for us to discuss. Perhaps we'll have more time when James comes to America in a few weeks.

We left James at HQ and I left Stephen as he took the tube to Heathrow for a flight back to Jenny. And I made my way back to Picadilly Circus to meet my cousin.


Flat White
17 Berwick Street
Soho, London W1F 0PT
020 7344 0370
www.flat-white.co.uk


Fernandez & Wells
73 Beak Street
Westminster, London W1F 9RS
020 7287 2814
www.fernandezandwells.com


Monmouth Coffee
27 Monmouth Street
Covent Garden, London, WC2H 9EU
020 7379 3516


Square Mile Coffee Roasters
www.squaremilecoffee.com

En Route to London

The morning sun peeking over the French countryside.

After a week of lazily languishing in bed, the alarm and the phone started ringing at 6am for my wake-up call. Nothing hurts more than getting up at six when you went to bed at two. It's killer and I just want to laze around the bed, but I can't. I've got an 8:07am Eurostar train to London to catch today.

After a quick shower, I'm off to the taxi stand. Here in Paris, you just don't flag a taxi down like you do in New York. There are civilized ways of hailing a cab and Parisians aren't like the barbaric Americans (or so they think). It's still dark outside as we pick our way through the Paris streets to the Gare du Nord, or North Rail Station. Since it's a Satuday morning, it's a quick ten minute ride that costs nine euros. I give the guy ten euros and start to get out of the cab. The driver makes a motion to give me my change but I tell him to keep it.

Then it hits me: maybe I don't need to leave a tip because the tip is included?

The Little Black Book of Paris that I've been using states that you can give your taxi driver a ten percent tip. It also says it's okay to leave a little tip at the restaurant. Are these people pulling my leg? So far, I haven't had to leave an additional tip at any restaurant (I was even told by the owner of Chez Pierrot that it was unnecessary) and now this cabbie wants to give me back my change? This ain't New York.

First course on the Eurostar: yogurt, orange juice, croissant, mini baguette, butter and jelly.

Taking the Eurostar is like checking in at the airport. You have to go to the counter, go through security screening and passport control (I thought the UK was part of the EU?) and then you're released into the terminal waiting area compete with shops, coffee bar, magazine store and duty-free shopping. I grab a sausage and cheese combo for Stephen and a book titled: Talk To The Snail by Stephen Clarke for the ride - especially since I left my iPhone earbud headphones on the desk at the flat.

But one thing I didn't leave was my passport - and I was thinking about leaving it behind since I'm just heading to London and aren't they also part of the E.U.? I guess not.

Once the train is ready, everyone makes a mad dash for the coaches. Each is numbered and you're assigned both a coach and a seat number. There are three classes of service: Economy, Leisure Select and Business Premier. I chose Leisure Select since the Business Premier seat was $450 each way. To board, you walk along the train until you've come upon your coach number and a conductor checks your ticket to make sure you are where you belong (God knows we don't want those tourist riff-raff in Economy invading our foot massages).

The Main Course: cheese omelette, mushrooms, bacon and tomato.

The seats are wide and spacious - three across the width of the coach. Half of the seats face in one direction, half in the other, which means some of you are riding backwards (and I hate riding backwards) Half of all the seats are also in a face-to-face configuration so you can make gaga eyes at the cute curl sitting across from you, as well as play footsie under the table.

I get seated and, of course, I'm facing backwards. Our coach is pretty empty so I quickly switch to the four person face-to-face going in the right direction and I've got it all to myself.

The train gets underway and it's just like any other train. We start gliding out of the city and once we clear the city limits, the train escalates in speed to 186 miles per hour. Not as fast as the Shinkansen in Japan, but certainly faster than the Acela on Amtrak. The train is smooth and quiet at that speed and the French countryside speeds by while I get comfortable and wait for the meal service.

Today's meal is a cheese omelette, bacon and mushrooms with tomato. The food is standard airplane food. Nothing to get excited about. Actually, the most exciting part of the meal is the yogurt.

Like I said, I didn't sleep much and I'm pretty exhausted. I want to sleep, but I can't get comfortable. I squirm and I move, but the velour fabric on the seat keeps catching onto my jeans, twisting and contorting them into an uncomfortable twist.

I'm hating life at 186 mph.

Riding on the train is odd. As we blow through an underpass or careen through a short tunnel, the speed of the train causes such turbulence in the air that it creates pressure zones that fill the ear cavities. Every once in a while, I have to equalize my eardrums.

Then there's the Chunnel Tunnel. Thirty-five miles of water flow above us in one of man's greatest engineering achievements. If it somehow collapses, we're dead. If the train decides to derail at this speed, we're dead too. Good thing it's dark in the tunnel. We never have to know it's coming.

But the tunnel only lasts twenty minutes and then we're in the United Kingdom. Those blokes are driving on the wrong side of the road, but they couldn't care less. I vision for a moment forgetting this nifty fact and getting creamed by a lorry as I try to cross the road at Piccadilly Circus. Hopefully, that won't be the case.

After two and a half hours, we arrive in London at St. Pancras International Rail Station and onward to a London adventure.

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