They have bbqs in Paris??

It has come to be that I am now house sitting a three bedroom house with a back yard. Now if you have the luxury of a back yard, then you know it is your obligation to the rest of the world to throw at least 1 or 2 bbqs a week. However, if you know me at all, then you also know that I have a little OCD issue with cleaning, so this bbq business makes me start to twitch a bit. I love the idea of friends getting together to speak French around me while I stare blankly at the wall or clear plates from the table as much as the next guy, but when I spent all day excitedly vacuuming, dusting and laundering various items around the house to de-cat them, then the last thing I want to do is destroy my hard work. I look at cleaning like this beautiful thing I can control in my life. There are so few of these that I revel in every minute I get to spend in peace with the hoover.

So does this mean that I am socially screwed? Or more importantly, should I care more or at all that I am socially screwed? I am starting to slip further and further away from the desire to interact with humans, and continuing to feel quite contented with books, sun, and the little furry animals that are in my care. I am still soldiering on, 2 bbqs in a row in fact. Yesterday, I even inadvertently watched a 7 yr old for 6 hours and still managed to complete my housework and somewhat prepare for the arrival of adults. And, as usual, the company was awkward, aside from a few guests, and I ended up chilling with the 7 yr old and watching Catherine Deneuve in a rather f'ed up version of Cinderella called Peau d'Ane (English: Donkey Skin- this should support my claim of f'ed up.)

Well, I decided I would at least describe the differences in the French bbq. There are no hamburgers or hot dogs hitting the grill. Here we cook merguez, which is a red, spicy sausage from Algeria. I don't usually go for sausage, but it is quite tasty and goes really well with salad and red wine. The rest is your standard french fare, baguettes, cheese, and copious amounts of all kinds of wine. I have noticed a few interesting wine trends here: one, they add ice to white wine, two, they love rose in summer, and three, they don't necessarily care whose glass is whose as all drinks are community drinks. I do not go for this last trend at all, find it sort of disgusting, so I guard my glass. Perhaps they are not as disease ridden as we are in the US, but I'll keep my germs to myself and carefully select the germs of others whom I choose to ingest.

Tonight is round two, I slept well and the crowd will be completely different, so perhaps there is light at the end of the hoover. Today, I plan to relax in the sun, start a new book (Iris Murdoch's The Black Prince) and watch the cat follow the dog all around the house.

The Just Onces

Many travelers have a list of things to do when they arrive at their destination. I tend to be the opposite, as I usually don't even have a clue what a city boasts until I am knee deep in tourists and searching for an escape route. Well, I suppose that isn't totally true, but my list is always the same, search and consume all local food specialties. I can plan an entire day around fish and chips or gazpacho. I throw in a little site seeing for good measure, but the final destination (be it breakfast, lunch or dinner) is always chosen by my stomach. She is a pesky beast, but rarely leads me astray.

My recent excursion was no exception. Scotland, the land of the Loch Ness monster, castles and golf, also is the land of haggis, black pudding and deep fried Mars bars (all of which fall into the category of "you must try them, even if it is just once"). Since I don't believe in Nessie, nor Santa or the Tooth Fairy for that matter, and I have yet to find the idea of golfing appealing, I figured it was a safe bet to head straight to the pub for some of this mystery meat folks are so disgusted by. Ok, so it is a minced mess of sheep's heart, liver, and anything else lying around, simmered in some animal's stomach for a few hours, but how bad can it really be? It just so happened that on the day in question I had done a little hike up to Arthur's Seat and on the way down was caught in a rain shower (I can't really say that this was unexpected, but I was totally unprepared). By the time I made it to the Holyrood Palace I was quite wet and cold. I stopped under a tree to speak to an old Scottish couple, and here I learned that the weather report is just nonsense and you should always prepare for rain. The wife was upset as this was the first day this year she had braved wearing sandals. They were extremely sweet and made some suggestions as to where I should eat lunch. At this point, I was shivering, so all suggestions went out the window and I hit the first pub on the royal mile, Jenny Ha's. It turned out to be a lovely place and served up a nice plate of haggis with neeps and tatties. Not really knowing what any of the three items were other than a vague idea of haggis being something involving a sheep's stomach, I asked our friendly waiter to explain (by the way they also serve vegetarian haggis, but that takes a bit of the fun out of it). Haggis is mostly oats, but essentially mixed with all sorts of animal bits, neeps are potatoes and tatties are, you guessed it, potatoes. I didn't argue, as anything involving potatoes and gravy is fine with me, double potatoes sounds doubly fantastic. So, I came, I saw, and I ate every last bite of that haggis. Turns out that after a day of hiking and rain, haggis is just the ticket. Meat, potatoes, potatoes and gravy, there is nothing wrong with that at all...plate cleaned and I would do it again.

So haggis is checked off, what is next? I actually wasn't really sure what culinary adventure I would have next, so I opted to dine at a very old restaurant called the Cafe Royal. It is a very beautiful spot, close to the Princes street shopping nightmare, but slightly off the beaten path. You really have to know where you are going in order to find it. It was supposedly the hang out for literary celebrities and is a stop on the literary pub crawl (which I missed by one week). Anyway, I sat at one of the side tables beside the bar and surveyed the menu. Immediately, I see Cullen Skink with Arbroath Smokie, and since I can't even begin to imagine what the heck that is, I order it. I soon discover that it is a fish and potato (shocker) soup, bones in, so watch out. For the main course, I ordered the seafood platter as I was making an attempt at eating something healthy. One of the main draws of this place was that they feature an oyster bar, but I was sad to see my three oysters just sitting there sans ice. Lukewarm oysters are not ideal, but then again, just three oysters is not ideal either.

Here I would just like to say that Edinburgh was an amazing trip for me. I stepped out of the train station and could not believe my eyes. I was in a fairy tale, castles, uber green grass, flowers everywhere, the sound of bagpipes, and not an uncastle like building in site. I walked towards my friends' house and couldn't stop giggling. I have never considered myself to be a princess kind of gal, but I suddenly wished that I was wearing a huge ball gown with glass slippers and riding a white horse. I spent those few happy days just meandering through the streets snapping what turned out to be about 300 pictures. That was the most touristy I have ever been, but I couldn't help myself. I almost attempted to go into the big castle at the end of the Royal Mile, but then got my normal twitch once I got to the gate and saw the mass of tourists that I would be forces to walk beside. So, I snapped a pic of myself at arm's length and stamped it a close encounter. I was happy that I escaped the mind fog of castle mania in order to gather myself. I walked until my poor little feet could no longer carry, and then I went home (well to Guillermo and Cecile's home). Each night I was greeted so warmly at the door and stuffed with a homemade dinner courtesy of Cecile. After dinner we would sit and chat (and laugh) over ice cream and herbal tea. I really could not have had a better vacation if I had truly planned it. I can wholeheartedly say they I would choose a quiet evening with good friends and good conversation over drunken nights out till 4 AM any day. I felt so relaxed and welcome, oh and did I mention that I could speak guilt-free English for 4 days. I think I talked more in those few days then I have the entire 2 months I have been in France. I digress...


Anyway, as a thank you to my lovely host and hostess, I took them to dinner at the restaurant of their choosing. They chose Blonde and they chose well! It was like an eater's dream. Warm salads, so many types of local meats, braised, stewed, mashed, all words I like to see. I ordered the warm salad with black (or blood) pudding, raspberries and walnuts for a starter, then the casserole of venison, slowly braised in a red wine, root vegetables and chocolate (yes, chocolate!) and topped with mashed potatoes and parsnip crisps for the main course. Guillermo had the mussels to start and the grilled swordfish for the main course. Cecile had the Aberdeen Angus rib-eye steak, lemon and green peppercorn butter, stir fried vegetables and fries. We shared the raspberry creme brulee for dessert. I highly recommend this restaurant.

To end, this was such an amazing, but too brief, adventure. My only regrets are that I couldn't stay longer and that I failed to find the fried Mars bar. I haven't even touched on all of my adventures, perhaps I'll write a non-food blog. The take home message for this blog is that you should always try the local food, you don't have to like it, but you can say you've done it, even if it is just once.

I'll leave you with a shot of the castle I did explore (almost alone), Craigmillar Castle, and an unreal photo I took of the flower of Scotland, the thistle. Enjoy!!

Balance in the universe

Thirteen years seems like a long time. In that period, I went to college, then grad school, worked in SF, moved to NY and now reside in Paris. I was just a kid, just months from being 18, but on this day 13 years ago, I grew up. Life suddenly became very real and very finite. One phone call is all it takes to change your life forever, makes your hatred for certain adults very focused and founded in their basis. It is also all it takes to realize all of the "what ifs," " should haves" and "never agains." What if I had never been cruel, what if I had been home, what if I had disposed of the source of the pain long ago. I should have done all of those things, regardless of the drastic change it would have had on my personal life, but would have spared others. Never again will I get to share a story of my life, you will never meet anyone that is important to me nor be there for any momentous occasion. Of course, the memory will not disappear and thirteen years is nothing compared to knowing you for 14 years. I understand why you chose to leave, I applaud your bravery and determination. It was no easy decision and I am sure it was not made in a day. I saw your pain, your walks in silence around the dining room table when you thought no one was watching. You were not meant for this world, but you were a beautiful part of it. I am so thankful that you were in my life, and your death has made me a stronger person. I will not let anyone hurt me, and I will never let (if I can help it) anyone hurt those that I love. I do not love carelessly, and when I do love it is unconditionally. I see people for who they are, almost instantly. I do not trouble myself with false friendships and try to avoid the toxic people I encounter along life's path. I may not always succeed, but because I know that in one day I could lose the one's I love, there is no other way to love than unconditionally and specifically. I also know what it is to love myself, and seek to find joy within me so as not to rely on others to provide it. There are walls, yes, but there are also doors and windows.

So, forever, I will remember you, but not with sadness, but with great pride and appreciation. I am sorry that I could not help you, but I hope that you found your peace. In remembrance, I will make this day, July 18, a happy day. It brings me great joy to know that a little boy is celebrating his first birthday party on this day. He has the love of a wonderful family, a family that I consider to be part of my own. I know that there is balance in the universe. Happy birthday little Donovan! p.s. I'd like you to marry Kate unless of course, I someday reproduce...just putting it out there. Regardless, the Bortner-Palmer family is my little Brooklyn family, and you all have been a great comfort for me. It is nice to feel that I have a true support team and people that I can rely on to help me when I need to throw a mattress off of a sixth floor balcony :) Go team StellKat Van!






Jerrod, you will always be here, I love you and miss you and will forever.

90:10

Now I'm not one for dressing up or spending too much time worrying about how I look. I prefer to go for comfort over style, and less is more when it comes to makeup and accessories. So, why is it that I keep getting this very unwanted man attention? There is no cleavage to be gawked at or uber high heels and dresses to show off my legs. Is it that the only vocabulary these men know in English is of a vulgar nature? Whatever it is, I am over it! I don't like people touching me in general, and when drinking is involved I don't like to feel hunted. I end up completely miserable, uncomfortable and desperate to run back to my hermit hole and hide. I miss my true male friends! There are those guys out there that can be friends with a female, have actual discussions about something other than sexual positions, have no ulterior motives and would be sure to take care of you should you have one too many. Here, I really just don't feel safe. And, in reality, I know most of the guys are harmless and I am sure that it is meant to flatter, but I still can't stand it. I'm not looking or trying and if I was, you would know it because I'm not shy. So, not that any French men are reading this, but back the fuck off, cause you are ruining the joy of my evenings out in Paris. I suppose the bonus is that I am drinking more water and saving money on booze :) Must find that silver lining...

So, as the title states, my plan of attack for going out is to hit the 90:10 gay to straight ratio. I want to go dancing and not be molested or propositioned or really even spoken to. I'd like to close my eyes, sing out loud and dance in my nice little air space free of other inhabitants.

Ok, so that is my rant for today. I would also like to say that I have met a few nice guys so this doesn't apply to everyone, and there may even be one that can enter my air space.

Dear Catastrophe Waitress, can I get the coq au vin?

In Brooklyn, there is this cute restaurant called Le Barricou that my friend and I frequented. He always ordered the grilled chicken sandwich with fries and I, the coq au vin with mashed potatoes. It is this magical dish made of common ingredients (chicken, pearl onions, red wine, bacon), but concocted in such a way to produce chicken (technically it is supposed to be old rooster, but who knows) that is juicy, falling-off-the bone delicious. And to top it off, the entire dish is swimming in my favorite thing...sauce. A red wine reduction with hints of bacon that marries with those mashed potatoes so perfectly that I literally lick the plate at the end. Now my hope upon arriving in France was that I could get this dish, a rather traditional, old school, french country staple, and it would make Le Barricou's version look like something from the freezer section. So every day, I walk by tons of restaurants and quickly skim the menu looking for it, and alas, it is never there. Beef tartare, duck confit, and hamburgers are always there. I want to cry.

This weekend I met a restaurant owner who said that it has basically gone out of style. How weird that I can't get a yummy, stewed chicken dish because it just isn't cool anymore. I understand that it was a poor man's dish, and that there is nothing particularly special about it. But, that being said, I love duck and beef and fish far more than I normally like chicken. In fact, I would say that it is rare that I order a chicken dish of any kind. Ok, I'm not a picky eater either, but this dish is really freaking delicious, so much flavor...and sauce, how can it be too old school? I am still on the search, I've heard rumor that it may be served at a restaurant called Chez Georges. Now my only dilemma is to determine which Chez Georges it is. One, which caters to the stock exchange crowd, is in the 2nd arrondissement and has the history I like, opened in 1964 and run by three generations of the same family. The other is in the 17th and has been around since the 1920's, so really either option seems appealing. Bonus points to the one in the 2nd for being within walking distance from my house. Chez Georges (whichever one) has moved to the top of my "must eat" list.

Wish me luck...

I don't because...

I don't cook because I love to eat.
I don't dj or produce music because I love to dance.
I don't write because I love to read.
I don't act because I love to watch.

This short blog is simply a statement of appreciation to those who create the things that bring joy to my life. Thank you beautiful chefs, artists, singers, playwrights, actors, writers, producers of all entertainment for being so talented and sharing your gifts with the world...and me!

Burritos, margaritas, chips & salsa, oh my!

I can rarely use this statement, but google failed me! I searched for "burritos Paris" and received a very unsatisfying list of blogs bitching about the lack of just that. The results ranged from Paris Hilton in Rio to David Lebovitz's conversion from self-proclaimed San Franciscan burrito king to Parisian le poulet roti boy (that's right, I said boy). So too bad for you losers, cause I hit the Mexican food jackpot today.

I was just minding my own business on the Rue Dauphine, headed straight for the Village Voice to pick up some new reading material when I happened upon the word "Fajitas." I did an about face and marched right back to that word. There it was, "Fajitas Mexican Restaurant." I have walked down this exact street at least five times already and somehow, I just missed it. All the things I love and miss were on that menu, margaritas, chips & salsa, guacamole, and BURRITOS!! Since I knew exactly where I was, there was no need to bust out the journal and write down the address. It exists!! A burrito in Paris, so close to my house no less, exists! I wasn't hungry, so I kept moving, but the joy of knowing that I had a weekly spot just waiting for me was fabulous!

Today was great! I purchased some new books, ordered some others and hit the Jardin de Luxemborg for some sun. Sitting in the sun doesn't usually make you hungry, but it does make you want a frozen margarita...and some aqua! I trotted happily back to Fajitas and, just as I suspected, was greeted so kindly by the staff. I ordered a frozen margarita and chips & salsa, thinking I wasn't hungry. I downed that, the chips were exactly like I like, thin, crispy and perfectly salted and the salsa was delicious. To me that is the indicator of a good Mexican restaurant, perfect chips and salsa. I ordered another margarita and settled in for a bit to start reading The Sun Also Rises. I learned that the waitress was Colombian and the other lady (the owner) was from Massachusetts. The owner, Amy, then came over, to correct the waitress who said she was from Boston, and we struck up a conversation. She came to Paris to study abroad while in college and fell in love. She has been living here for 2o yrs. She married a man from Veracruz, Mexico and he, Miguel, is the co-owner and head chef of Fajitas. They opened the restaurant 9 years ago, and the menu was created by Miguel. The atmosphere is just what you would expect from a Mexican restaurant, even one in France, relaxed, comfortable and welcoming. They all speak perfect English, Spanish and French, so there are no worries when heading inside. You just get to enjoy your time!

After my second margarita, I decided I was hungry enough to try out some small appetizers. I ordered the ceviche and taquitos con pollo. Amy was super sweet and attentive, made sure that everything was good, gave me some extra jalapenos and even a tequila shooter after I paid the bill. Let's just say I was completely happy, and maybe a wee bit tipsy. I let them know that they better ready a table because they'll be seeing me at least once a week for my burrito fix (I'm be ready next time!)

So if you are in the 6th and want to have a nice, yummy meal, then head to Fajitas, 15 Rue Dauphine!! I'll probably be there! Sorry, Lobo, I love you too!

With a full belly, I walked home in the perfect weather, crossing the Seine at sunset, which by the way is around 10-10:30 pm. Not a bad day, if I do say so myself!

Tomorrow is the big shopping sales day Paris-wide, better rest up! Saint Germain, Rue de Seine, here I come!

Good night!