Quasi fast-food

Working in big (or rather, middle-sized) city, one is always faced with the noontime delimma: where do I eat? While cities are abound with restaurants big and small, fast-food joints and way too many delis, the choice is always difficult. Denver, for example, has tons of nice restaurants with unique and appetizing menus, but paying $15 a day for lunch can get quite pricey over time; that’s an average of $300+ dollars on weekday lunches over the course of a month. Of course, one could head over to the corner McDonald’s and buy a few 99 cent hamburgers but that would prove quite detrimental to ones health. And who wants to eat poor quality burgers everyday, anyway? There is also the option of going to a deli for a handmade sandwich, but a $7 sandwich or salad does seem quite excessive. The point being, finding a cheap alternative to the brown-bag lunch is not an easy feat.

Enter the quasi fast-food restaurant. These restaurants have been popping up all over the place for quite a few years now and yes, they usually are franchises. Their claim: real food, prepared fast at an affordable (though not dirt-cheap fast-food) price.  They prepare a meal with freh ingredients (i.e. not defrosted and reheated) in a matter of minutes (though not quite fast-food speed) and the best part: no tip required. They also boast a certain quality to their products (i.e. all natural, organic, local, etc.) Examples of such restaurants include: Noodles and Co., Illegal Petes, An’s Lemongrass Grill or Panera Bread (though this one borders on deli). At Noodles and Co., your plate of noodles is delivered right to your table in a real bowl (none of that disposable plate thing) and usually costs between 6 and 8 dollars.  It is quite a nice alternative to the cold turkey sandwich with greasy chips.

Paris cuisine

During my recent trip to the book store, I decided to satisfy my word palate by perusing the cookbooks. I am quite aware that the pages of books are hardly edible and pictures of good food will hardly do anything but exacerbate hunger and craving, but I find a sort of solace in the pages of cookbooks. Each plate is described with a palette of rich and savoury words, each appetizer resting on a bed of lucious, fresh adjectives. Just looking at colorful food brings tears to my eyes. Food is poetry. And I love great poetry (especially when it’s garnished with a sprinkling of parsley and served with a tasty culinary style).

On this particular visit to the cookbook section of my favorite independent bookstore, I decided to browse the international cookbooks. A self-proclaimed francophile, I was immediately drawn to the books on French cuisine. Some people say that French cuisine is the foundation on which all fine cuisine is based. I happen to disagree but I still enjoy French cookbooks because they are oftentimes filled with pictures of French people taking grand pleasure in eating. I also love seeing pictures of open-air markets with rows of fresh produce crying out, “Eat me!” From the comfort of the local bookstore, I was taken on a journey into culinary France across the countryside and into the terroir (or soil), the origine of all rustic French cuisine.

The French do, after all, have an certain attachment to their soil/land/earth (however you would like to translate terroir) in a way that usually escapes Americans. It is from the land that all good things come. In fact, each region in France defines itself not only by its culture and traditions, but also by the foods it produces. The local products are then used (with great care) to create local specialties that are savored and enjoyed (with much pleasure). French cuisine is enrobed in this tradition, this attention and attachement to the land and soil. It’s the passion for the terroir that gives French cuisine its classic touch. And this passion makes for some good lunchtime cookbook browsing.

French cooking being based largely on regional specialties de terroir, I was quite suprised (or rather bemused) to find a fairly large selectin of books about Paris cooking. Does Paris even have a terroir? What do people believe to be Parisian specialties, anyway? There is, of course, the soggy, onion-y broth (or French Onion Soup) that some people often crown the must-taste specialty of Paris or the classic steak-frites with poorly cooked steak, mediocre fries and if you are lucky, a few overy cooked (and thus, smushy) string beans. These so-called specialties don’t really even have Parisian origins. What soil there once was has been paved or built over. True, there are a few gardens on Parisian rooftop terrace and Montmartre prides itself not only for its white basilica on the hill, but also for its “vineyard” which boasts the famous “Clos Montmartre” wine (which apparently very few people have actually tasted); but in truth, mostly everything in Paris (including many Parisians) comes from other parts of the country.

So why this interest in Paris’ cuisine? The thing is that every part of France seems to converge on Paris in some way. Paris concentrates (for better or for worse) every region, every terroir, every specialty in France (and elsewherem it would seem). And while the crepes made at a crepe vendor in Paris may pale in comparision with the crepes in Brittany or Normandy, you can have your crepes in Paris, you can have your choucroute, your bouillabaisse, your quiche lorraine. Paris offers variety. Paris, with its name and renown, also seems to attact a certain number of budgeoning chefs. With innovative chefs comes innovative cuisine. True Parisian cuisine is based on invention, bringing together the tradition and the rich terroir and adding a certain flare and spice. It is about taking the influences of the urban landscape and transforming it into something that makes your tastebuds dance with pleasure.

So the verdict: did the Parisian cookbooks offer inventive recipes that incorporated French terroir? Unfortunately, with the exception of a few books about luxury restaurants in the city, the Paris cookbooks were hardly refreshing. Most of the books offered recipes for the classic bistrot dishes: croque-monsieur, (la fameuse) soupe a l’oignon, an omlette here and there and the occasional quiche. Apparently, Paris cuisine means bistrot cuisine, means mediocre fare. I guess if you want a mishmash of classic French fare, you can throw the umbrella term ‘Paris cuisine’ over it, but what a waste.

However lacking the French cookbooks were, they still offered a certain solace to a foodie like me. The photos are always beautiful and there is nothing better than seeing images of people, fork and knife in hand, taking great pride and pleasure in eating. It still brings a smile to my face.

They tried to make me go to grad school, I said no, no, no

At one point in my life, I angonized about the prospect of going back to school. Everyone tried to make me go to grad school, but I said no, no, no. (My little tribute to Amy Winehouse, not becausse I listen to her music, but because I found her lyrics quite fitting, grad school being a little like rehab and all.) My professors badgered me about pursuing my studies, saying I was talented and could contribute something to the academic world. I said no. It wasn’t rocket science; I was not made for grad school. All the compliments and flatteries were but that. They never held any meaning. My professors could sing my praises as much as they wanted, but the truth remained: I had no desire to return to the elitist world of theory and stuffy academics. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself that academia was for me, I knew it wasn’t. I applied anyway.

Now, as the admissions responses come flooding in, I realize it’s not me saying no, no, no, it’s them. Rejection after rejection. It really comes as no shock to me. It’s a mutual rejection, really. I didn’t want to play their game. I didn’t want to take the GRE 3 times (or prepare for the test, for that matter). I didn’t want to write a personal statement about Foucault, Derrida or whatever other theorist names I could drop. I am passionate about literature, but I am not passionate about the study of literature. Academia is looking for people whose passion for literature can be converted into scholarship. My passion is just passion at its purest, passion that has no place in academia. Bottom line: I am not fit for academia.
Am I disappointed? Not really. In fact, just one day before I received my first rejection letter, I had stated quite confidently to my parents that I really had no desire to go back to school. I hated feeling inferior and nervous in class. I hated trying to act like an intellectual. School was painful for me: the teachers, the students, the jargon… I hated sitting in class trying to be invisible, trying to avoid the eyes of the professor lest he call on me. It was hardly enjoyable.

I adamantly refused to go to grad school. No, no, no! It wasn’t for me. My professors would sigh and shake their heads. “That’s really too bad.” But they couldn’t have gotten me accepted into grad school any more than I could have gotten myself accepted. The rejections are the proof I needed. It’s liberating, really. Academia is not for me.

I am not disappointed. I do admit, however, that the self-esteem boost that comes with acceptance would have been nice. I didn’t want to go to grad school and I still don’t. I applied to see if I could get in. I applied in hopes of getting accpeted so that for once, I could feel good about myself.

We regret to tell you that you have not been recommended for admission…

Tattered Cover

While many of my colleagues enjoy al-desko dining in front of their computer screen during their lunch hour, I prefer to go outside and get some fresh air (or frigid snow-filled air, depending on the current weather conditions in Denver, CO). Yesterday, as the sun was shining once more after a chilling winter storm the day before, I wandered down the 16th street mall to the historic Tattered Cover Book Store.

This book store has always been an landmark of my life as a Coloradoan. In fact, when I was in 2rd grade, I entered a writing contest and won a gift certificate to the Tattered Cover. It would be my first visit. I remember pulling open the front door of the historic lodo building in which the Tattered Cover is housed (there are actually 2 other stores currently in the Denver area) and being completely overwhelmed by the shelves and shelves of books surrounding me. I walked around the store several times searching for the perfect book on which to spend my gift certificate. There were so many choices! Oddly enough, I don’t even remember the exact book I pulled off the shelf that day to add to my small personal library, but I do remember holding the book close to my chest like something precious that could slip away from me at any moment. That was my first visit to the Tattered Cover. Everytime thereafter that I was in lodo or the Cherry Creek area (where the flagship store was originally located), I would jump at the chance to graze through the shelves of books new and old.

The striking thing about the Tattered Cover is its unique charm. The furniture is eclectic, the bookshelves don’t match and there are still employees whose sole purpose is to give you book advice (which is becoming rarer in bookstore chains). It is intimate and personal. In a world where huge conglomerate bookstores hold a monopoly over the book industry, it’s always nice to find a cozy independent bookstore with a large selection. Don’t get me wrong, I love Borders and Barnes and Noble and I order books on Amazon like it’s no one’s business, but there is something about the independent stores where you can browse at your own pace and cozy up on a comfy couch. After spending half a day in front of a computer, it’s really nice to find a little nook in the Tattered Cover and retreat into the world of the printed word (with an occasional coffee).

2nd week on the job

I am half way through my second week at my new job.  My thoughts/impressions thus far:

1.  Everyone works (which is actually quite amazing).  I guess when you have so few people working, everyone has to work extra hard to meet deadlines.

2.  I can now recognize the word “printer” in 37 different languages.

3.  The elevators are speedy and make my ears pop.

4.   I am going to learn much more about printers than I would like to know.

5.  I actually find the work somewhat interesting (which is actually not good news for me…)

6.  The English call periods full-stops.

Notes from the job search front

So after over 5 months of resumes, cover letters, interviews and temp agencies, I finally have a job (and no, unfortunately, it’s not the job in Paris). I just finished my first week on the job. I am tired, sleep-deprived, and overwhelmed by all the new things to learn, but man, does it feel good to get off my ass and do something productive. I am officially off the job market!

The job is actually better than anything I could have asked for (except for the fact that it isn’t in Paris…)  It is a job I found myself (from craig’s list) and it’s actually related to my field (as much as it could be).  The work seems interesting and the best part is that it is not a customer service job.  Granted, I am currently on a 3-month contract, but they have told me that they do not see this position going anywhere after 3 months, so it looks like it could lead to a permanent position with a lot of room for growth. If I do get a full time position, I will have 18 days vacation in my first year. After my first year, this will be increased to 20 days. This is almost unheard-of in the US.  It is quite exciting.  The pay is decent (more than I have ever earned in my life) and the people are nice.  The group in the US is still small so there is no heirachy yet, which is quite refreshing after my last corporate job.

So, for now (i.e. the next 3 months), I am a working girl.  It is a nice change.

Cafes Verlet

256, rue St Honore 75001 Paris

One of the things I love about Paris is the cafe life. There is nothing like sitting in a cafe, sipping espresso and people watching. It is one of the essential experiences of being Parisien, whether it’s for the morning caffeine fix at the comptoir or a long contemplative Sunday afternoon coffee. Even with Starbucks popping up all over the city and the growing coffee to-go craze, there is a certain charm to the Parisian cafe where people still take the time to sit, talk and think.

If it wasn’t the strong scent of roasted coffee beans that drew us to Verlet, it was the candied fruit gleaming in the window. Our noses were immediately pressed up against the glass as we ogled the slices of fruit tart being served along side cups of smooth espresso. Exhausted and dying for a caffeine fix, we pushed the door open of the historic cafe. Sacks of coffee beans greeted us as we entered the quaint, albeit crammed space where tables were squeezed in between jars of tea leaves, rows of candied fruit and the imposing baskets of coffee grinds. There was nonetheless a certain old world charm to this cafe that opposed the cookie-cutter feel of the Starbucks around the corner.

As all the tables on the main floor were taken, we headed up the narrow, uneven stairway to the salon a l’etage. With a large arched window facing the Rue Saint-Honore and photos on the wall, the spacious room upstairs held just as much charm as the crowded room below. The room reminded me of a remodeled artist’s loft. Unlike the ground floor, the salon had many open tables. In fact, the only other clients were a couple of French intellectuals passionately discussing politics and literature over a cup of espresso. I was slightly bemused. How very Parisian!

We found a little table close to the window and settled down on the bench seat. The waitress dutifully brought us a menu and we began to skim the list of exotic coffees and teas. The list was actually quite impressive. In most cafes in Paris, an espresso is an espresso. But Verlet offers a large variety of coffees and teas to choose from and quite a descriptive variety indeed. In addition to the “normal” coffees, the menu also included a selection of ‘cafes gourmets’, rare finds with subtile and complex aromas. Not feeling too adventurous, I ordered a coffee from Nicaragua, described as onctuous and aromatic. My boyfriend, on the other hand, decided to try something a little different and ordered the coffee from Yemen which was described on the menu as ‘aromatic and rich, with honey and butter notes, slightly spicy’.

The waitress arrived with the two small cups of espresso and set them down on our table along with 2 glasses of water. The scent of the coffee was so aromatic, deep and lulling. We decided to taste the expresso black first. Carefully, I dipped my spoon into the steaming espresso and lifted a small spoonful of Nicaragua coffee to my mouth. At first taste, it was bitter, uninviting and extremely strong. “This is a situation in which the glass of water is really indispensable,” my boyfriend remarked. I don’t think I had ever tasted coffee so strong. I put another spoonful into my mouth. Again, I winced at the bitterness of the black liquid. But with each additional sip, it became complex (like a glass of good wine) and with each sip, it got better. After drinking a few sips black, I decided to add some sugar. With sugar, this espresso came alive. As I am not a grand connoiseur of coffee, I cannot exactly describe the taste or the depth, but as someone who has had her fair share of Parisian cafe expressos, I can definately say this was not your average cafe espresso.

The cafe de Yemen which my boyfriend had ordered was just as rich and complex as mine, if not more. I felt it was less stong than the Nicaragua I had ordered, but had different flavors that my coffee was lacking. With sugar, it was alsolutely delicious (as much as an espresso could actually be delicious).

We sipped our espresso slowly, letting it rest on our tongues and drain slowly down our throats. We watched the chic Parisians below on the Rue Saint-Honore passing by with their hands full of shopping bags and the tourists confusedly searching their maps. We took in the sweet and bitter odor of steamy espresso (without the heavy odor of cigarette smoke thanks to the new law forbidding smoking in public places) and we took in Paris. I put my head against his shoulder and he squeezed me close to him. And we sipped our espresso. Our afternoon passed by without our being aware. It was the tap of the feet, the deep sighs and the silence of the busy city outside.

After an hour or two (or maybe even three…), we asked for our bill. Now, for those of you who have been to Paris, you know that the price of a simple espresso in a cafe can range anywhere form 1 euro (if this still exists) to a whopping 7 euros (I have even heard 10 euros, but it might just be an urban myth. Can you imagine a tiny shot of espresso costing 10 euros? Unbelievable!) depending on the location, the status and/or the clientel of the cafe. Although many French people will decry the cost of a 2 euro espresso, I have come to find 2 euros for an espresso quite reasonable, considering the fact that I have paid up to 4 euros for the exact cup of espresso at other cafes. It doens’t really even depend on the quality of the drink or the service. It’s all about location (and a few other things, of course). In some cafes, an espresso is served with a glass of water and a little speculoos biscuit or piece of dark chocolate; at other cafes, an espresso is served only with a grimace from the waiter. If I pay 4 euros for an espresso, I expect at least to get a glass of water with the coffee…unfortunately, this is rarely the case.

When I first set foot into Verlet, I was expecting quite a pricey espresso. Cafes Verlet is, after all, situated on the Rue Saint-Honore, right in the center of Paris, one street from the Louvre. Continue up the Rue Saint-Honore a few blocks and you will be in the middle of one of the high fashion districts of Paris lined with designer boutiques with 1000 euro purses and 2000 euro shoes in the windows. I didn’t expect to pay anything less than 3,50 euros for my espresso. But to my suprise, the classic espressos were only 2,70 euros. The gourmet coffees were a little more pricey at 3,50, but well worth it in my opinion. For the quality and the service at Verlet, the price of the coffee was quite reasonable. And on top of the quality and service, the coffee was served not only with a glass of water but a piecie of dark chocolate – much more than can be expected from any typical Parisian cafe.

Verlet exceeded my expectations. It’s always nice to find new cafes in Paris offering charm and a little escape from the bustle of the city.