Of Bulk and Budget

When I was living in a 16 sqare meter (172 sq feet) studio apartement in Paris, I had a mini fridge with three shelves and a freezer that was hardly large enough hold a box of frozen peas, but it was plenty large for me.  In fact, most of the time, my fridge was half empty.  I went to the market or the grocery store every 3rd day and bought produce that was fresh and appealing.  My fridge was half empty because it was filled mostly with dairy with an occasional cut of meat and the typical condiments that one keeps refridgerated.  I kept most of my fruits and vegetables out on the counter to use either that day or the next.  It was a simple life without large wholesale warehouses and gigantic supermarkets.  I went to the market and bought what was in season (and thus resaonably priced).  And for some reason, I was able to cook for myself without having to worry about leftovers or rotton produce.

Now, I have a large American refridgerator equipped with a meat/cheese compartment, an egg tray and a little place to hide the box of baking soda (to hide the smell of that tupperware filled with who-knows-what).  My refridgerator now would be the size of my kitchenette in Paris.  It is huge!  And yet, strangely enough, (while my mini fridge in Paris was always half empty), my big white American fridge is always full.  There is a 5-pound bag of carrots on the bottom shelf, far too many eggs for my egg tray, a extra-large jar of peanut butter and everything else you can possible think of.  The shelves are literally overflowing.  It is more food than even I can eat (and believe me, I can eat freakishly larget amounts of food).   And yet, I still find myself going to the grocery store as if the food I already have is not enough.

As I was searching through my fridge the other day, digging through the 5-pound bag of carrots, it hit me: I had become a bulk shopper.  It is after all the economic solution.  I can buy twice as much for exactly the same price.  It’s the mentality of the hundreds of people who crowd the nearby Costco store every weekend.  I jump into my car and head to costco where I can buy a pound of blueberries, a 10-pound bag of potatoes, 8 porkchops + 2 free, a pound of sliced provolone cheese, a box of 24 (yes, 24!) frozen pizzas  and condiments and spices to last me a lifetime.  It is really quite thrilling…that is until I go home and try to fit everything in my fridge.  And then the real adventure begins: consuming everthing I just bought.  I open my freezer and frozen porkchops fall on my head.  No matter how many carrots I eat, I still seem to always have half a bag left.  And frankly, after eating 2 pounds of carrots, I can hardly even stand the sight of the orange, pointy roots, let alone the bland, stale, refrigerated taste.  I make a disgusted face at the food in my fridge and go, yet again, to the grocery store.

It is a vicious cycle, but I am beginning to realize that buying bulk may not be the most economic way to shop on a budget.  I do, after all, end up throwing away at least 2 pounds of spotty, mushy carrots after a few weeks.  My meat tastes like freezer burn and everything has lost its fresh flavor. I buy and I eat and I believe I am saving money, but I wonder if I have sacrificed quality for the quantity.  I can eat and eat; I can warm up frozen pizzas, pop some frozen pot stickers in the microwave.  But I am no longer satisfied.

I think back to my days in Paris, in my small Parisian kitchen (if you can even call it that) and the pleasure I took in eating.  I didn’t have a microwave.  My freezer could hardly hold a small box of frozen peas let along 8 porkchops or 10 frozen pizzas.   Everything had to be fresh; there was no other way.  I would have never been able to fit a Costco-size anything into my little mini-fridge.  And so, I went grocery shopping more often and as a consequence, I often had fresh, staisfying meals.  I bought fresh asparagus in the spring, tomatos in the summer and rich squash in the fall and the winter.  And food made me happy.

Because I think I was healthier in Paris, I am slowly trying to empty out my Bulk American fridge.  I am trying to revert to half-empty refrigerator syndrome and eat as fresh as possible.  And I might even be able to save a dollar or two in the process.

L’As du falafel

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.

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.

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.

Paris in retrospect

When in Paris, I always get a warm fuzzy feeling, a feeling of awe and breathlessness that seems to be quite absent for me in the US. It’s a strange feeling that some might liken to love. I have never been so infatuated with anything in my life. I pass the same streets, the long avenues every day and never tire of the grandeur surrounding me. “Comme Paris est beau!” I exclaim during the night or the day, the rush hour or the hushed Sunday mornings before the city wakes. And it’s not just the Eiffel Tower or the cathedrals that strike my fancy; it’s the city, its smells, its language, its diversity, its culture. And despite all its imperfections, it remains perfect in my eyes. I always leave the city wondeirng how it will change, how I will have changed, but I always come back to the with a same renewed sense of awe and breathlessness.

I just spent the last 10 days in France, getting my Paris fix. It was the typical I am not a tourist trip to Paris. In fact, I don’t think I did one thing that would be on the typical Paris tourist list. Let’s take a look at the highlights of my trip:

I ate falafel from the best falafel place in Paris : L’as du falafel (which, by the way, raised their prices yet again.) There is nothing like hot falafel balls wrapped in a warm pita layered with hummus, salad, grilled eggplant (to die for) and huge amounts of hot sauce à volontiers (sauce piquante as they endearingly refer to it). In a quarter teeming with restaurants claiming to have the best falafel in Paris, L’as is definately my pick and believe me, I have tasted my share of falafel in the Marais. I think their secret lies in the layering of falafel balls, salad, sauce and grilled eggplant. (more detailed review to come at a later date)

My Cheri took me to a Libanese restaurant close to the Bourse in the 2nd arrondisement of Paris where we ate classic libanese Manouche and tasted a few mezzes. The food was fresh, the quality good, the taste unique. To finish off our meal, we tried a milk flan au fleur d’oranger (because I don’t know the translation but it’s like an orange flavoured syrup made from the flowers or leaves of an orange tree) and a mix of nuts and seeds in a sweet syrup mixed with different fruits.

We had happy hour cocktails at the famous Charly Birdy. I had 2 cosmopolitans which left me feeling a little lightheaded afterwards, seeing as I didn’t eat the whole day.

I had an interview. The lady basically gave me 3 books and told me to write a summary in French for 2 of the books and a summary in English for the other book. She later gave me a dictation. The response was positive. (more about this later).

I ate enormous amounts of cheese in many different forms.

I went to the boulangerie Eric Kayser, one of my favorite bakeries in the city, and bought fresh holey bread. There is nothing like fresh French bread!

I went to a concert at La Sorbonne.

Had a 5 hour, 5 course Sunday lunch at a gastronomic restaurant.

I spent some good quality time with my cheri and his family.

Et voila in a nutshell, my 10 days in France, 10 wonderful days in France. It was a productive trip with fairly positive results. I can’t complain. I am glad I went. I am glad I was able to spend time with my two greatest loves. Now, we will have to see what the future holds.

Can you say impulsive?

I am going to Paris next week.  Am I insane?  Yes.  Can I justify my decision to fly across the Atlantic? No.  Do I have enough money to go?  Technically, I have some savings, but as I am unemployed (with over $10,000 of student loan debt), I really cannot afford the trip.  Then, you ask with your right brow slightly raised, why am I going? Impulse, my dear, pure foolish, reckless impulse.  I am chasing a whim.  I am trying to keep my youthful idealism from getting too far away from me.

Next week, I will be on a plane across the Atlantic (as long as Chicago weather cooporates).  It is a 10 day trip.  I will hardly have enough time to get over my jetlag before I am on the plane heading back towards the USA.  It will probably do more harm than good, but I am going.  Frivolous.  I will meet with a potential employeur and then take a trip to the east of France.  10 days will fly by and then the tears will flow once more and I will be back on this couch blogging about another failed interview.

I am impulsive.  I am going to Paris for a stupid reason.  Everyone tells me I am being stupid.  I know I am being stupid, but people in love often do foolish things.  I cannot give up the chance to return to the city I am in love with.

Paris, je t’aime.

Je reviendrai…

T’inquiètes pas… j’arrive.

Paris update

Update from the Paris internship front:

Looks like I will be in Paris during the week of January 14th. No one knows yet. I have not even purchased the plane tickets or asked my friend whether I can crash at his appartment for a week. I hardly have enough change to scrape up enough money to go to Paris, but I am going. I know. But I refuse to tell anyone; I refuse to have to explain myself. I am going – that is certain, but everything else remains in the dark.

The trip will be short and sweet – a voyage across the ocean to meet with a potential employeur. I know the chances of emloyment are slim but it is well worth the risk for all that I might gain. My friends and family might give me those reluctant looks and tell me to reconsider, but as far as I am concerned, there is nothing to reconsider. I want to go to Paris. I want to find work. I can’t find work in the US. Apparently, I am too overqualified for admin and too underqualified for any other job. I have gone to 4 different temp agencies, none of which have found me anything worthy of mention. The fact being that this employment opportunity in Paris could lead to a carreer, a future and some hope. The job, be it administrative and repetitive, is in a secteur that interests me. And just being in such an environment would be beneficial.

So, wish me bon voyage. In a few weeks, I will be on a plane to Paris to meet my future. If it works out, great and if not, at least, I will know.