I’m pretty sure I can’t eat anymore. But for some reason, I keep testing out that theory in New York. There’s so many places to try, old favorites and new ones, that it’s hard to stop. But when I found out a friend from Australia was in town, as well as my Frenchman in tow, when faced with the task of choosing a place to go. So I suggested Texas bbq, which surprisingly, everyone was up for it. Including me.
One of the great things about France is that people spend a lot of time talking to each other. True, it’s not so great when you’re behind someone in line and they’re carrying on a conversation with the sales clerk at the bakery as if they have all the time on the planet, when you’re hopping up and down behind them (and there are people doing the same thing behind you) because you just want to get your baguette for dinner. But if you take the time, it’s nice the enjoy the jovial nature of the French and slow down for a bit. As someone who is normally hyperactive, it’s a lesson in patience that I’ve had to learn, which I practice on a daily basis.
Many visitors forget that and don’t always have great experiences because they’re in a hurry to do so much on their trip, or try to tick off the restaurants written up in the travel section of newspapers or magazines from back home. I always tell people to take a day off, and stroll a market or just sit in cafés for a while. Or find a restaurant off-the-beaten path for dinner, taking the métro into one of the outer neighborhoods.
I woke up this morning, and could not even make it through to the second half of my flagel.
My stomach was stuffed from yesterday, which began at Baked in Brooklyn, then extended through to a burger and fries at Shake Shack, across the border to Connecticut for steamed lobster, then back into New York City with a quick detour through the Apple store, then home to polish off the box of cookies I absconded with from the boys at Baked. Because, you know, I had to eat them while they were still fresh. Right?
So you can imagine that I didn’t wake up with much of an appetite.
However…
During the summer months, when the temperature in Paris shoots up to nearly unbelievable heights, it turns my up-on-the-rooftop apartment into a furnace, and many nights dinner will be enjoyed on the roof, overlooking the city, watching the rest of it cool down after a broiling day. Somehow, my apartment doesn’t enjoy the same cool-down period, perhaps its the price I pay for being closer to the sky? Because the roof is quite pitched, I’m always careful about not having a glass of wine with dinner. But if for some reason you ever stop hearing from me, well, c’est la vie.
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