I recently got hooked on Le Grand Perdant 2. Unlike French cinema, which has a way of importing the best of America, French television has a way of importing the worst of America. Which often means reality shows. I have little patience for watching women named Bambi and Jennie compete for husbands named Tristan and Chad, but at least this one has a positive spin.

Even people voted off have achieved a personal goal of fitness and weight loss. So The Biggest Loser 2 isn't necessarily The Biggest Winner. Call me sappy, but it's nice to see a program where competitors support each other to achieve their goals.

I guess I've been away from the states for too long...I know, I know...pas américain!

One of the questions I'm rather frequently-asked is for romantic restaurant recommendations in Paris.

It's not that I don't go out to eat. It's just that I don't get asked out to romantic restaurants, so I wouldn't know. Most of the time, I'm lucky if a paramour plops a falafel in my hands on the rue de Rosiers or I'm sharing a nasty bowl of stag stew with sex writers and rugby players—which someone commented made me look kinda 'horny'.

If I had to name my top three desserts, in that too-brief list would be Black & White Cookies. I can't visit New York without having at least one per day, although it's getting tougher and tougher to find a decent one there. On my last trip I found a lot of shrink-wrapped cookies, but there's nothing like biting into a jumbo-sized fluffy disk of cake that's been twice-smeared with chocolate and vanilla icing, left naked and exposed to the world, so the icing gets crispy. And when you bite in, the dry outside crackles a bit but the inside is still soft and the icing is just a touch gooey.

But trying to explain all that to a Parisian ain't easy. Some things just don't translate.

There's a debate in the blogging community, that some of you may not be privy to—or more likely, give a hoot about—concerning gifts from companies. I'm always reading these things on bulletin boards, such as..."I'm really conflicted. Mercedes-Benz would like to upgrade the S-class sedan they gave me last year with a convertible, but if I accept it, does that compromise my integrity?"

And I'm, like, "Dude, take the upgrade!...and kill the blog!"

Not that I'd want to be apart from you for too long. But if it was me, I'd take the car, go on a very long trip, and when I came back, donate the car to charity and start a new blog.

(Reality Check Time: Figure out which of those previous statements isn't true.)

I don't know where they get these, and I don't really care. But if you stop in da rosa and don't pick up a bag of them, you're making a terrible mistake.

These little dusty ovals of chocolate enrobe a Marcona almond tucked in the middle and there's just a touch for the smoky taste of pimente d'Espelette, the bright-red Basque chili powder that I like to sprinkle over everything from pumpkin purée to chocolate-peanut bark. Once I open the bag of Pimandes, it's assured that the rest will soon be history.

To be honest, I wanted to show you the inside of one.

Really I did.

I've been doing a dance with my oven all week. We've been circling each other; it mocking me because I'm afraid of being nailed by the door.

I, on the other hand, have a thing about eating. Call me crazy.

So we've tentatively called a truce for the next few days until I can get a handle on things around here.

Because I also need to get a handle on the massive amount of kimchi I've got fermenting around here (and there's more to come, if you can believe it...), I pulled up a great recipe that I'd tucked away from Arthur Schwartz's website for Olympic Seoul Chicken.

New Yorkers will remember Arthur as the host of a popular radio program in the city for well over a decade and he's knowledgeable about everything from traditional Neapolitan cooking to where to get the best babka in the Big Apple.

This weekend, I'll be featured in an episode of Diary of a Foodie.

Click on the link to watch the entire episode.

I find it odd that you can't get laundry detergent, shampoo, shaving cream, or deodorant that's not perfumed around here.

But French Fries?

They're available sans odeur.

Today I had what I call a "Welcome To France" day.

That expression came about a couple of years ago, when a friend who lives in Switzerland came to run in the Paris marathon.

Except when he went to register, they told him he wasn't registered even though he had a letter from them saying that he had indeed registered. And he wasn't alone; there was a roomful of other people with letters being told they weren't registered either. Luckily, he was there with a friend who was a doctor.

It wasn't because people were fainting from having traveled halfway around the world and being told they couldn't run in a marathon they'd spent the last 6 months training for. The French friend intervened (the French are much better at yelling at bureaucrats that we Americans, who crumble surprisingly easy) everyone was told they could re-register. But everyone would need to magically produce a note from their doctor attesting to their fitness.

So even though our friend specializes in breast augmentations and botox injections, he sat down and signed everyone's paperwork.

When I went to meet my friend after the marathon, he was shaking uncontrollably; very, very cold and tired.

Last week, when I had to go into my local France Telecom office, instead of the usual dread, a thought flashed through my mind: "Well, at least this might make a good story for the blog."

But I want to spare you all that stuff so you can concentrate on the glories of Paris rather than the indignities that we citizens of the state must suffer under a regime that seeks to oppress the masses of the working people, who pay exorbitant prices for mobile phone service (and scallions...but that's another story), who under the guise of state-run socialism are actually in cahoots with the only two other service providers that France Telecom will allow them to compete with themselves (yes...you read that right) so that we can pay 35 centimes a minute to make a call.

I don't know what one has to do with the other, but thanks for letting me vent. Oh, after I left their office I stepped a big mess on the sidewalk...the first time in three years.

Mais oui.

However I'd like to stay focused, if I can, and talk about the Chez Panisse Almond Tart.

I'm a little confused.

I just watched House Calls on CNN.

Everyone agrees there's a crisis in America, part of it being that 15% of the population is uninsured. But people keep saying they don't want a system like in France because they didn't want the government making decisions about their health care.

Except in France, the government doesn't make decisions about health care; your doctor does.

Presidential candidates on both sides keep talking about changing the system, yet they're also saying, "We're not advocating a system like the one in France."

But if French health care is considered the best in the world, covers everyone, and the average premium per family is less than $150 per month—why not advocate a system like it?

For some reason, people think I eat out all the time. While I like eating in restaurants, I don't like being served something that I don't like. (Funny, huh?) So I mostly make food for myself, since when I do, I get to pick and choose exactly what I'm going to make, what I'm going to put into it, and how to cook it.

I've become the proverbial free man in Paris.

Working as a pâtissier for so many years, thought, it's assumed that I want complicated, fancy desserts bulging with buttercream and towering with spun sugar and whimsical bits of foam, spheres, and powders strewn all over the place. While I appreciate the work and skill that goes into those kinds of things (Sam Mason has really impressed me with desserts that were creative and delicious), I really like simple food, especially after a rich or spicy meal.

I don't think dessert should be the proverbial "nail in the coffin" after dinner and I'm always curious when people say, "That restaurant wasn't very good. When we left, we were still hungry!"

I've been writing a bit about Korean food, but Japanese cuisine is a pretty good example of how I like to eat too.

I know some of you've been thinking; "When is David finally going to clean-up and organize his links page?"

Well, that day has come and gone folks, and instead of the previous mish-mash of links added haphazardly, they're now neatly organized into categories and specialties. I've added a couple—and given a few the heave-ho, especially the stale ones that are perhaps older than a few of you out there.

As I clicked around to make sure there weren't any clunkers, a thought flashed through my mind. It was something "hardened and naked." No, it wasn't my other secret blog, it was Deb commenting on the citrus in her refrigerator; all those forgotten fruits that have been zested and left to dry up.

Now that's not very blog-worthy...or hot, is it?

Let me brag here a bit—my kimchi was a huge success...although I'm still giving it a few more days of fermentation before I go ahead and chill it. I could hardly taste it four hours later as opposed to living and breathing the taste of kimchi for the next two days.

I loved reading all your feedback and comments since although Korean is one of my favorite cuisines, I think it doesn't get the attention it deserves. And judging from your responses, apparently I'm not the only one!

In addition to being a little gaga for Korean food lately, I'm also on a caramelizion kick, craving anything with caramel. Ribs, tarts, cookies, cakes, frostings...you name it, I'm gonna caramelize it. But hold on to your hats—I have the ultimate caramel dessert coming up sometime later this week.

As mentioned, I'd bookmarked the recipe for Vietnamese Pork Ribs in Caramel Sauce over at Chubby Hubby, and let me tell you, folks, this recipe is a winner.

What doesn't it have going for it?
Let's see...

Over dinner the other night with a group of friends, I was talking about the excessive use of plastic bags in the world. I told them I easily recalled 20 years back, when traveling in Europe, it was just a given that you brought your own bag to the supermarket and shopping with you. Now, plastic bags are everywhere, but I like to re-use them.

Curiously, some vendors have told me I shouldn't do that because of les bactéries.

Which I find even more odd considering they don't think it's pas hygiénique to rip open a clementine with their teeth, then hand over the sections for customers to taste.

If you're coming to Paris and have special needs, such as access for a wheelchair, here's a list of resources that will help you plan your trip. Please note that I haven't used many of these services, especially the tour outfits, so ask as many questions of them in advance as you need to get the most information about the services they offer before you sign on.

Paris is a very old city and although new construction includes accessibility for wheelchairs, the older buildings and narrow sidewalks aren't always easy to navigate. However over the past few years, there's been a heightened sensitivity to people with various abilities and services to assist them. Below I've put together this list of websites and services that I hope will help. If you have limited time and want to make the most of your trip, hiring a guide or at least a van for the day may allow you to see and do more, and the additional expense might be mitigated by the convenience.

A few things to remember:

If I had to name my favorite cuisine, it would be a toss-up between Vietnamese and Korean. Both offer charbroiled meats, pickled or marinated vegetables, and a lively and sometimes spicy array of seasonings.

What's not to like?

Most unfamiliar ethnic foods become instantly accessible if you take a trip to a local shop to stock up on a few specific ingredients. It wasn't until I learned about Moroccan spices that I realized that a tagine is basically a braise seasoned with specific spices mixed in the right combination, such as turmeric, paprika, saffron and ground ginger. Mexican food isn't all that difficult if one familiarizes themselves with chilies, cilantro, and corn tortillas.

Ok, and a nice hunk of pork shoulder as well.

Every time I go to a specialty market, whether it's Mexican, Japanese, or Chinese, I invariably lug back bottles of vinegars, odd herbs, specialty sugars and some sort of backside-burning chili pastes home with me. The other day when I was at Tang Frères, the gigantic Asian market in Paris, I heard a voice calling out for me to make Korean bbq this weekend.

It was a little strange: unlike the usual voices I hear in my head, this one had a Korean accent. And it was insistent.