Sunday, October 2, 2011

The Chicken in Paris

For those of you that don't know, my pet name is chicken. And I am in Paris. I arrived yesterday in fact; and because of one screaming airplane baby, yesterday was largely a manic blur. My friend Pierre took me to see so many parts of Paris that I had never seen. My favorite by far was the amazing Parc des Buttes Chaumont. It is off the beaten (read tourist) path which is part of what makes it so lovely. It has a beautiful view of the whole city, and near the "top" you can grab a drink and watch all of the families and runners go by. Who knew that Parisians exercised?

But (and it was bound to happen) after 2 verre de vin (I could have used that word "verre" the last time I was in Paris) I went back to the apartment and bought 4 slices of jambon sec and a potato pancake and fell asleep... For 13 heures.

Back to today, I woke up in yesterday's clothes and promptly looked up a place to go for brunch. Chez Casimir was the hands down winner. It was close to where I was staying and The Accidental Parisian gave it a good review. It was in the less desirable neighborhood around the Gare du Nord, but once inside the grit of the surroundings melted away like a kilo of buerre on a hot croissant. The place was small and rustic and the maitre'd was also the bartender and the jambon slicer. In the middle of e small dining room was a buffet of different plates: lentils, tuna, pates, braised leaks, salad greens, escargot, betterave (beets), bread, butter, moutard and even more bread (bien sur). In a shiny red meat slicer there was jambon sec though the aforementioned bar tender/maitre'd seemed to take e meat slicing portion of his job lightly.

From the kitchen came a small cup of squash soup and a plate with a slice of baguette covered with saumon fume and butter. With that came a soft boiled egg with the brightest orange yolk and a dollop of whipped potato and olive tapenade. In America we put cream cheese on smoked salmon, but after this dish I propose that as a country we seriously rethink this and opt for butter. And just when I thought I was full, out came a small cocotte of beef and white beans

"There is a dessert buffet," the kind waiter said to me in English. How could this be? The French do not eat like us piggish Americans. But I looked around and sure enough all the thin Parisian girls had their plates loaded with desserts. And despite the fact that I am not a dessert girl a small vaguely French voice in my head whispered, "Well, when in France..."

The strawberries put the strawberries at Mountain Sweet Berry Farm to shame. THESE were strawberries. And so one half of a strawberry rhubarb crepe, two strawberries and a creme caramel later, I paid for my feast which was 25 euros, but I was none the poorer for having
gone.

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