Denver is full of great restaurants. Unforutnately, as a single woman with no fellow foodie friends, I have yet to discover the dining delights of the city. I really can’t justify treating myself to a $45 meal alone in a restaurant surrounded by happy couples. Last week, however, I had a visitor from Europe and thus, an excuse to ravish myself in fine eating and drinking.

As the visit would be short (less than a week, not counting in jetlag and a mountain trip we had planned), I would only be able to squeeze in so many restaurants. After spending a week skimming the bestof Denver dining from Westward.com, I had come up with quite a varied list of restaurants both exotic and classic, unique and ordinary. I then did a general google search on Denver area restaurants. My findings: Denverites (especially suburban Denverites) tend to enjoy the dependable, albeit boring and unoriginal, chain restaurant. I wanted to treat my friend to a restaurant where a real chef de cuisine would prepare the dish, where fresh local produce would be used, where each bite would be gastronimic nirvana (in not so many words). I wanted innovative cuisine (at an accessible price).

After a few days of contemplating my list of Denver restaurants, I narrowed my list down to a handful (or more): Duo Restaurant, Lola, 9th Door, 8 Rivers Cafe, Arada, Stuebens, Encore, Vita, Rioja, Damascus cafe, Wild Thai Ginger, Osteria Marco… I also wanted to try some happy hour menus and a few uniquely Denver treats. Needless to say, the number of restaurants surpassed the number of meals we could eat in a 4 day period. And if we did eat at all those restaurants, we wouldn’t possibly be able to appreciate the food. My excitement quickly turned to frustration and disappointment.

During our 4 days in Denver, we ate out 3 times but we didn’t try any of the restaurants on the above list (except for Lola’s where we had margaritas and sangria). So where did we eat?

Day 1: Paramount Cafe. Across the street from the Hard Rock Cafe on the touristy 16th Street Mall, this restaurant/bar/cafe is known as “Denver’s original rock n’ roll cafe.” I am not sure if I agree. It is set in a historic building around the corner from the Paramount theater. The interior is plastered with black and white photos of rock stars and other famous people (I suppose). The fare? Classic American and Tex/Mex. We ordered hamburgers which were decent though not the best nor the cheapest burgers I have ever eaten. Classic French fries were served alongside the patty of garnished ground beef in a bun which, like the burger, were neither the best or the worse fries I have eaten. THe atmosphere was great, but as far as ground-breaking food and dining, the Paramount missed the target. I wasn’t expecting anything exceptional; the restaurant is afterall situated on 16th street mall and attracts the hungry mall dwellers. Next time, we will take the mall ride and head to Osteria Marco on Larimer which has earned rave reviews for its affordable Italian (in this month’s 5280 magazines Best of Italian).

Day: 1 afternoon: Lola’s (for Happy Hour). What can I say? THe historic Highlands district of Denver has a certain renovated charm. Lola’s is a Latin restaurant with a patio that offers great views of Denver. By 4:30 in the afternoon, the happy hour crowd had already descended upon the restaurant for its wide array of tequila and tableside gauc’. We ordered margaritas which we downed in 2 minutes due to the heat. Since we had eaten just earlier, we were not hungry for happy hour fare, but I have to admit that I was considering ruining my dinner appetite after seeing plates of $2 happy hour tacos served to the people next to us. Drinks were good; atmosphere was nice. I will stay for dinner next time.

Day 2: McLoughlin’s Restaurant and Bar. On day 2, dinner would be in the devloping Riverfront neightborhood in Denver. The restaurant was located in a nice area across from Zengo, the (overpriced) fusion restaurant. The prices on the menu of McLoughlin’s were much more reasonable. Run by two Irish brothers, the menu contained a variety of classic American fare. I ordered the Carribean Jerk Chicken which was well seasoned and served with a pinapple rum butter. It was not bad though I doubt it was authentic Carribean Jerk rub. (For authentic Jerk, I think I will try 8 Rivers Cafe next time). My European friend ordered the chorizo and spinach stuffed chicken – also not bad. The fare of McLoughlin’s was overall decent, but again, not the ground-breaking innovative food I was looking for, but good eats at a decent price.

Day 3: Grazio Italian Grill and Bar. Grazio just opened at the beginning of June in the Entertainment district of Lone Tree, an affluent suburb of Denver. Most of the restaurants is this area are well-establised chain restaurants that suburbanites tend to flock to with children in strollers. Grazio was one of the few appealing non-chain restaurants in the area. After skimming the menu, we were seated at a booth close to the window. The ambiance was nice with a bar at the center of the restaurant. (I imagine it attracts quite the happy hour DTC crowd on week days.) As soon as we were seated, a server brought us freshly baked drop herb biscuits served with garlic butter. The menu consisted of pastas, risottos and various meat dishes. To start, we ordered the Parmesan Crusted Artichokes as an appetizer. The little patties of pan-fried artichoke hearts, spinach, parmesan and pinenuts were served with a basil pesto aioli. It was a good little starter. As a main course, I ordered the Lobster risotto (though I am aware that risotto is more of a premi platti than a main course) and my friend ordered the Pork tendorloin in Madeira sauce. The risotto was good, albeit quite heavy, but well garnished with lobster. The pork in my friend’s dish was very tender and well cooked. Overall, the meal was pretty good and the servings copious, but yet again, nothing over-the-top original to jump up and down about.

After a week of dining around Denver, I still have no claim to the real dining scene. We didn’t try any restaurants with world-renowned chefs. We didn’t have a 4 course, wine dinner where presentation tempted our taste buds before the food even touched our tongues. We didn’t have that lovely Denver dining experience I was dying for. Once again, my expectations were too high.

But fear not! I still believe that one day, I will have the chance to regale my palate with the fine cuisine of one of the restaurants on my list. It’s all a matter of planning. And one day, I will be able to boast about eating in the fine restaurant and enjoying every last bite (even if the portions are smaller and more expensive).

I am usually not one to go to chain restaurants, but an unused gift card for PF Chang’s led me to this well-established restaurant.  PF Chang’s is known for upscale Americanized Asian food.  The architecture of the restaurant was actually constructed to ressemble an Ancient Chinese village, complete with large replicas of terra-cotta horses and soldiers.  The dining experience could be likened to eating in the Ancient China museum exhibit, minus the museum, the history and a few hundred authentic terracotta soldiers and horses.  I will admit that the atmosphere was nice.

The problem was that we decided to go to the restaurant on a Saturday night and to make things worse, we went on a Prom night.  Having thought ahead, we made reseverations for 7:30 p.m. thinking that the crowd would have dissipated by the time we arrived.  This is Lone Tree, after all, and in this cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood of Denver, the average dinner time is 6 p.m.  Unfortunately, this was not the case.  We walked into the restaurant and immediately noticed the excess of tux clad teenage boys and a blinding assortment of prom dress colors.  We approched the hostess (trying as hard as possible to avoid the peppy years of high school we had left behind (thank God!)) and told her we had a reservation for 7:30 (it was 7:25).   She dutifully handed us a vibrating beeper contraption and told us they were running 15 minutes late with reservations.  It was no big deal – we could wait 15 minutes.

Around us, people were crammed into every corner of the room.  Everyone was waiting, armed with a vibrating beeper, waiting anxiously for a table.  The large bar in the very center of the restuarant was packed with people.  It was loud.  15 minutes later, still no table, but we were patient.  We continued tapping our feet as our hunger continued to grow.  No one cared, as it was too loud to hear our stomachs groan.  It was 8:00 and still no table (I remind you that our reservation was at 7:30).  We waited another 5 minutes before approching the hostess.  “Oh, it could be another 10 minutes,” she said nonchalantly.  It was apparent that this had happened before.  8:15 and I was about to run into the kitchen screaming like a madwoman. (Hunger can do that to a person, espcially a person who was expecting to eat at 7:45/8 at the latest.)

The problem was actually not the wait.  I am usually a pretty patient person, but a 45 minute wait with reservation seems a bit ridiculous to me.  I looked around me and the crowd of people waiting was only getting larger and more anxious.  The problem was that I was sure that almost everyone waiting had a reservation.  The restaurant, victim of its own sucess, had apprently overbooked reservations.  The hostess insisted that they usually kept reservation times, but I had serious doubts as I looked from the people crowding the entrance way of the restaurant to the people having a drink at the bar.  PF Chang’s had obviously adopted the ‘if you leave, you leave; there will be plenty of people who will stay’ mentality.  And people did stay indeed.  The bar was packed (where the restaurant generated mass profits by making people (with reservations) wiat; the waiting area was packed.  And there were even people who were leaving out of frustration.  I was thouroughly irritated, but we decided to wait it out.

8:26, one hour after we arrived, the red lights on the beeper were blinking.  FINALLY! As we were being led to our table, an irritated man slammed down his beeper and said, “This happens everytime I come here, reservation or not!”  He stormed out of the restaurant (just as I would have done if my dining mates did not insist on waiting).  Needless to say, the staff was unphased.

We were led to our table with an insincere “Thank you for your patience” from the host.  Every word was spat out with insincerity and a shrug of indifference.  We were given our bill before we had even finished our meal and our plates were cleared a second after we finished our last bite of food.  I know it’s all about efficiency and speed in America, but give me a break!  I do not appreciate the waiter waiting tableside to take away my place as soon as I swallow my last morsel of food.  The PF Chang’s staff was obviously quite accustomed to this sort of ancy, irritated, and high-speed atmosphere.  No one seemed to give it a second thought.

I will say that the food was good, different from normal Chinese fare.  But unfortunately, the bad service is what will stand out in my mind.  A restaurant of that size and reputation needs to learn how to keep reservations and not overbook.   And if a wait is necessary for those who took the time to reserve, a complimentary drink or appetizer would be much appreciated.  And note to the hostess, please do not tell us the wait is 15 minutes if it is really 60.

So feel free to join me in a boycott of PF Chang’s until service is improved.  Or better yet, just go to independent restaurants where the fare is original and the people friendly.  You will leave the restaurant thinking about the atmosphere and the food and not the long wait and poor service.

Comment ca se mange, un artichaut?

Quite a common question for anyone who has never eaten an artichoke before; It is quite a daunting little vegetable. Do you eat the whole thing? Do you take off the leaves? Which part is edible?  Where do you begin?  The questions go on forever. Due to the intimidating form and shape, I always passed up the fresh archichokes for canned or pre-marinated hearts.

The first fresh artichoke I actually ate was during my junior year of college when my roommate suggested we buy artichokes because were on sale (in Colorado, one dollar an artichoke is cheap and quite a rare occurrence). I had never eaten a whole, fresh (not canned, jarred or frozen) artichoke before, but unwilling to compromise my foodie pride, I acted like I knew exactly how to eat and cook this strange plant. Lucky for me, my roommate took care of the preparation. My only job was to eat the green thistle set on the plate before me.

I stared at the archichoke for a moment.  Where do I begin?  I glanced up discretely at my roommate and her boyfriend who were “eating” the leaves of the artichoke.  Following their example, I pulled a leaf off, dipped it in the prepared sauce and put it in my mouth. I chewed and I chewed and I chewed some more. It was fibrous and tough. After maching the leave into a somewhat manageable pulp, I swallowed. That was an effort. I pulled off the next leaf and reluctantly put it in my mouth. Chew, mache, chew.  And once again, with a little hesitation, swallow.  Two leaves down, and a whole artichoke to go.  This was going to take a while.  Were the fiborous, green bracts I had been eating even going to be able to pass through my digestive system?  After eating a few more whole leaves, I was getting distressed.  How was I possibly going to finish eating all the leaves?  It was likely to be a disheartening experience.

Then, I noticed the growing pile of discarded artichoke leaves on the plates of my roommate and her boyfriend.  They, in turn noticed the lack of discarded leaves on my plate.  “Did you eat the whole leaf?” my roommate asked.  I hesitated a moment.  I could lie, make up some irrational excuse (i.e. “the dog ate my bracts” (no, we didn’t have a dog) or “I just added my pile to your pile” or “it was so good, I couldn’t resist”).  Unfortunately, I don’t think that fast on my feet.  I had to tell the truth.  I chewed, mashed and swallowed entire artichoke leaves. Yes, I admit it now – my virgin artichoke experience was quite embarassing.   Now, just imagine how awkward it would have been if I had tried to eat the choke.

My roommate patiently showed me how to pull off the fleshy part of each leaf.  My whole perception of the artichoke changed.  Why had I never eaten a fresh artichoke before?  When I had eaten all the green leaves, I  arrived at what is known as the “choke.”  It was like hair and did not look too terribly appetizing.  I examined the choke a little and was yet again perplexed.  Now, how do you eat this?  It was pokey and coarse.  I was beginning to devise a method of eating this part of the artichoke when my roommate grabbed what was left of my thistle and spooned out the fuzz.  “You don’t eat that?” I asked.  “Of course not,” she responded. “That’s the choke.  You would choke if you ate it.”  Needless to say, I was a bit relieved.

Before me, only the heart remained – the only entirely edible part of the artichoke.  I ate it in small pieces in order to savour each bite and take pride in the fact that I reached the heart.  And the heart, my dears, was well worth all the bract maching and choke scooping.

Artichoke season is a wonderful season – the beautiful green and slighly purlish thistles lined up neatly in the product section of the grocer and the sound of squeaky leaves.  I love artichokes now.  After my first experience, I have since eaten many more.  All you need is a little patience and a friend who knows the way to the heart.

It has been years since I have been to the Easter Sunday church services, years since I was a young Catholic jumping up and down in my most flowery Easter dress awaiting the most sacred and joyous of all Christain celebraitions. It was supposed to be a grand affair, but in truth, except for the overly crowded church service with people standing in the aisles in their best spring attire, Easter has become just another day, just another weekend. Even after church, most people just return home and lazy around just as if it were any other Sunday in the year. But just like any holiday, Easter is an excuse for eating.

This Easter, as I have the house to myself for the first time, I decided to try something new and delight myself with a homemade Easter brunch. After browsing a few websites with Easter brunch ideas, I came up with a fascinating menu filled with scrumcious chocolate concoctions. But of course, only chocolate for a bruch would probably not be the best idea. I thus picked up my bags and headed to the grocery store (which in the US remains open on Easter). I browsed the aisles for the perfect mix of ingredients. In my basket, I had a loaf of bread (still slightly warm), a bunch of asparagus (on sale this week), a jar of Bonne Maman preserves (because it’s the only reasonably priced jam made with real sugar and not high-fructose corn syrup), some feta cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, mushrooms and a bunch of cilantro. Strange mix, I know, but how can you go wrong with items that are completely fresh, natrural and thus non-processed. I was convinced, I would be able to create a delicious and satisfying bruch with the items in my shopping basket.

As I began unpacking my grocery bags, I started searching my brain for the long lost brunch recipes. Eggs (which I already had from a previous grocery adventure) are next to essential for any brunch whether you are making, scrambles, egg benedict or an omelette. I needed an egg dish. I tossed around the idea of a feta and asparagus omelette or an egg hash of sorts (made with potatos -also already in the pantry). I even thought a quiche would be nice. I also would need something somewhat sweet, something like pancakes, waffles or crepes. But the something sweet will definately have eggs in it and if I made an omelette or other such savoury egg-based dish, I would be doubling up on the eggs. I decided to forgo the savory egg dish. To try something new for my something sweet and doughy, I decided to make a German pancake, a super simple recipe that is great served with cream and strawberries or just maple syrup. Egg-based dish – check.

To go with my German pancake, I needed some vegies and maybe some starch. I decided to use a little of everything. I blanched my aparagus in boiling water and tossed it with a bit of olive oil, salt, peper and a tiny bit of feta (for color) and then, topped it with some sliced sun-dried tomatos. I sauteed some sliced mushrooms with onions and garlic, added a little cream and seasoned and garnished with chopped cilantro. For the starch, potatos seemed the logical choice. I cubed a potato and sauteed it in butter and olive oil, seasoned with salt, peper and paprika and then garnished (again) with chopped cilantro. It was beginning to look appetizing. The vegies were cooking, the German pancake was baking.

I needed just one more thing: meat. Now, as you will recall, I didn’t buy any meat at my recent trip to the grocery store. I rumaged through the fridge for what unfrozen meat could be salvaged for an Easter morning brunch. Ground beef? No. Chicken breast? Double no. It was beginning to look dire, but I decided to have one more look. In the cheese and meat compartment of the refridgerator, I saw it, a chunk of ham. Don’t worry – this is not a ham that has been sitting in the back of my fridge for who knows how long. It is a ham that we bought for the sole purpose of making sandwiches and as deli-sliced ham often goes bad quickly, we thought it would be a good investment to buy a hormel half ham for sandwich making purposes. I pulled out the ham and cut 2 thin slices and threw them on the griddle for a few minutes (to warm the ham through and give it slight charred flavor).

After an hour of slaving in the kitchen, I was ready to eat. My Easter brunch for one was as follows:

German Pancake:

3 wholes eggs

1/2 cup milk

1/2 cup flour

a dash of salt

1 tablespoon melted butter

powered sugar for sprinkling

Mix eggs, milk, flour and salt until well blended. Put melted butter in a bottom of a baking dish. I used a square pyrex dish, but I am sure you can improvise and use whatever you have lying around as long as it is not flat and has sides (because the pancake dose poof). Bake in a 400 degree oven for 20 minutes or until poofed. Serve with anything sweet you have lying around (syrup, jam, honey, fruits, etc.).

Blanched aparagus with feta and sun dried tomatos (no recipe needed)

Sauteed mushroom with onions and cream (again no recipe needed)

Ham (throw on skillet/griddle and warm. Now, did I really have to explain that?)

Skillet potatos (sautee in butter/olive oil until soft)

Final evaluation – best Easter brunch ever. Serve with freshly pressed orange juice and you’ve got yourself a meal that would have cost you at least 12.50 at your local restaurant. Cooking yourself make eating a lot more satisfying. And with that, I am off to do the dishes.

Most bigger European cities have thier architectural sore thumbs sticking out in the traditional city landscape. These are usually works of modern architecture towering over old city centers and while not necessarily ugly, they definately seem somewhat out-of-place. In Paris, for example, the modern, asbestos-ladden Tour Montparnasse pokes out of a typically uniform city where building rarely depasse the 8 story mark. At 59 stories, it rises way above the Parisian skyline and man, is it an eye-sore in a rather beautiful city. In Lyon, the city skyline is broken by a big red crayon, otherwise known as the Tour du Credit Lyonnais.

That brings us to the Swiss city of Basel (or Bale as it is known in French) where the tallest building of Switzerland, the Messeturm, stands a towering (drum-roll, please) 105 m (344 ft) tall with 32 floors (quite puney really when compared to the Tour Montparnasse, or many an American skyscraper for that matter). In Basel, a relatively small big city (as are many Swiss cities), the blue tower does stand out. Now, this building, which is home to a Ramada hotel and some office buildings would hardly be worth mentioning if it wasn’t for the bar located on the 31st floor, the famous Bar Rouge.

When you first walk into the Messeturm, it is the typical building, nothing too impressive. There is a hotel bar/dining area and arrows pointing you to the elevators. A special elevator takes you up to the 31st floor where a glowing red light greets you; it is called the bar rouge, after all. The entire bar is surrounded by floor to cieling windows which offer an impressive view of the city. The atmosphere is nice, the drinks expensive and the view of Basel breath-taking (but then again, it is just another view from a skyscraper in an otherwise skyscraper-less city). One half of the Bar Rouge is a bar and the other half is a restaurant/lounge. And as the name would suggest, mostly everything is red: the walls, the floors, the furnishing, etc. It is actually quite kitsch, but it is a nice place to enjoy a drink and a view of Basel.

This is just the typical bar. Right. But then, after a few drinks, you feel your bladder beginning to give and you begin looking for the restroom. The arrow points down. You walk down a few steps and contrasting the red from above, you are greeted with an strange green light. Ok… You push open the door to the bathroom and chose your stall. As you sit down on the toilet, you find yourself saying, “Well, this is a nice view.” You do your business facing the window, admiring the view of Basel. “What a strange set-up,” you think as you are washing your hands but you really don’t think too much of it. You head back to the bar.

It was overall a nice spot. You enjoyed yourself and you got a great panoramic view of Basel by night. You head towards the elevator and make your way back down to the ground level of the building. As you exit the building, you are reminded of the toilets. What if… Nah, it couldn’t be. They have to be the windows where you can see out but they can’t see in. But as you step out into the Messe Platz, you are tempted to make sure. You look up at the Basel Messeturm. The red light from the bar catches your eye, but it is the green light one floor below that stops you in your tracks. There, on the 30th floor, you make out little figures moving around. In disbelief, you blink you eyes a few times, you take another look. Sure enough, people are sitting on toilets, peeing into urinals, washing their hands and doing what not, completely oblivious to the fact that the whole city can see them.

You are reminded of the green light in the restroom, the goregeous view and then it hits you.  The city of Basel down below and a green light from a distant tower.  In a Gatsby-esque moment, the people of the city, drawn to the green aura, turn towards the blue Massetrum.  And there up above, shadow in the green light, you are peeing completely unawares that below, a city is watching you just as you are watching it.

And now for your tummy-growling, mouth-watering enjoyment, the long anticipated review of L’As du falefel (or the best falafel in Paris).

Everyone who owns a Paris tour guide has read about the famous restaurant in the Marais apparently recommended by Lenny Kravitz. I don’t know anything about Lenny Kravitz but I do know about the restaurant that so proudly displays pictures of this so-called Mr. Kravitz. The restaurant is L’as du falafel.

On the rue des Rosiers in the Marais, there is no lack of falafel restaurants, every single one claiming to have the best falafel in Paris.  Because of the typical long line outside L’As du falafel, I have been known to give into hunger and try the falafel sandwich from the place across the street, down the street, around the corner and a few blocks down.  Hell, I have also been known to give into my falafel craving in the touristy Saint-Andre-des-Arts neighborhood known for an over-abondance of mediocre restaurants (both take-out and eat-in) and camera-touting tourists.  It seems that the further you wander from the Marais, the worse the falafel.   But despite all my falafel adventures in Paris (both good and bad), I always end up at the same falafel joint.  Believe me, there is no falafel like the falafel from L’as du falafel.

So what sets L’as du falafel apart from the rest?  It is all in the layering, my friend.  A good falafel sandwich usually consists of some combination of the following: falafel balls, marinated cabbage, other assorted vegetables in salad form, hummus and if you are lucky, a variety of sauces and the to-die-for fried eggplant.  The layering technique at L’as is apparent as soon as you walk up to the take out window.  The falafel artist (I will call him) slices open a warm piece of pita bread and begins layering the ingredients with a precision and technique unmatched by his competitors.  First, he slops on a good serving of hummus onto the pita, then adds some cabbage, some salad, and 3 or 4 warm, well-seasoned falafel balls.  Lather, rince, repeat.  No, just repeat.  After the 2nd layer, he adds the fried eggplant and spoons a white sauce over the top layer of falafel balls.  Then he asks the essential question to which the answer is always a resolute oui.  “Sauce piquante?”  “OUI!”  The sauce piquante is the perfect blend of spices and spiciness and is the perfect finishing touch to the falafel special.  The sauces seep into the falafel balls and the pita.  There is rarely a part of the pita sandwich that is too dry or bland and I attribute this balance to the layering of ingredients.  And like I said, no falafel stand layers the falafel quite like L’as.

Another reason L’as stands out in the falafel district of Paris is quality of the ingredients and the blend of spices used in the falafel balls.  Each falafel restaurant has its own chick pea goo recipe that it sqeezes into balls and plunges in frying oil.  The chickpea fritters come out crisp and delicious.  The falafel balls at l’As are particularly garlicky (and in my book, the more garlic, the better).  The hummus is als very smooth and tasty.  The vegetables are always crisp and fresh and of course, the ’sauce piquante’ adds the certain je ne sais quoi to an already well layered falafel sandwich.

I never go to Paris without getting my falafel fix.  Unfortunately, since my first trip to Paris, the price of falafel has gone up quite remarkably.  In 2003, I chomped dwn my first falafel special at a mere 3.50 euros for a falafel to-go (and this was back in the day when we were bemoaning the 1.20 dollar to 1 euro exchange rate).   In 2006, the price had already climbed to 4 euros and by the summer of 2007, the price was  a whopping 4.50 euros.  And in January 2008, the prices rose to jaw-dropping 5 euros (with a tamper-tandrum-throwing exchange rate of 1.47 dollar to 1 euro).  L’as du falafel did do a renovation of the restaurant interior (for those of you who prefer not to have falafel juices running down your jaw as you walk through the Marais) which now is far less cramped than before.  The prices, however, have remained fairly stable for in-house dining  (6.50 for a falafel special.)  It almost seems worth it to pay that extra 1.50 euros to eat in the restaurant, out of the rain,  with a carafe of water and as much sauce piquante as your heart desires.   But then again there is just something about the falafel to go experience: the sauce running down your cheek, the napkin balancing act (try throwing an umbrella into the mix), the cool Parisian drizzle and the stories of falafel-eating in old Jewish quarter of Paris.

*Suggestion:  If you aren’t full after a falafel (as is often the case with me and my bottomless stomach), a nice crepe nutella always makes for a good post-falafel snack.

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.

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.