Results tagged pigeon from David Lebovitz

Chez Dumonet

Chez Dumonet French bistro in Paris

One of my downfalls is that I do not have a photographic memory. Sometimes I go out to eat and the next day, I have less of a recollection of what I ate (and drank) than some of my esteemed colleagues who write about restaurants so eloquently do. (My memory is gradually been replaced by the camera on my phone.) In this case, as soon as I got home, I wrote up some notes from the meal and quotes from the chef, which some rather concerted efforts to find on my computer failed to turn up.

Chez Dumonet

That said, all the meals that I’ve had at Chez Dumonet, a spot-on classic Parisian bistro, have been memorable – regardless of the evolving ways that I have of preserving them. The memories last long after that feeling of being absolutely stuffed have diminished — the next few days after a meal here are invariably “salad days.”

Chez Dumonet

Fortunately, not much changes at Chez Dumonet, which is sometimes still affectionately called Joséphine. For those who want a place that is carrying on the traditions of the Parisian bistro, you can’t do better than Chez Dumonet. The only concessions they’ve made to modern times (and waistlines) are offering half-portions of certain dishes, which are massive enough to make you wish le doggy bag was more popular in Paris. (I, personally, do not mind rewarmed bœuf bourguignon the next day for lunch.)

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Chicken Basteeya

Basteeya

When I went to get the chicken to make my bisteeya, I wanted to follow the recipe to a T. So I went to the butcher to get a precise amount of chicken in grams. Since I wasn’t sure what one chicken thigh weighed, I took a guess that I might need 3 or 4 thighs. Judging from the reactions I get when ordering things by weight, they don’t get a lot of recipe-testers or cookbook authors shopping at my butcher shop. When the butcher put the poulet fermier thighs on the scale to show me, I wavered, thinking that the quantity looked a bit stingy and perhaps I should get a few extra. Then I started thinking (which often gets me into extra-trouble), “Well, since I’m here, I may as well get a few more.”

Chicken

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Restaurant Alain Ducasse

Uncharacteristically, I’ll spare you the specifics, but I need to catch up on about 147 hours of sleep. And while we’re at it, I could use a hug. And since the former isn’t necessarily easy to come by here, as is the latter, I was embrassé by dinner at Alain Ducasse restaurant. While it’s been tempting to remove the “sweet life” byline from my header until things return to normal, since one of the sweeter sides of Paris is an occasional foray into fine dining, I dusted off my lone, non-dusty outfit, and rode the métro to a swankier part of town.

When I was in Monaco and I went to visit the chefs and the kitchen at Alain Ducasse’s restaurant, Louis XV, the pastry chef asked if I could possibly stay and taste their lovely desserts. Unfortunately I had to catch a ride back to Paris because I didn’t want to miss, well..nothing – I couldn’t stay. Then a few weeks later, a lovely invitation to his Paris restaurant arrived in my mailbox and I cleaned myself up, then headed into the aquarium.

waiter at Alain Ducasse Alain Ducasse restaurant

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Consider Yourself Warned

Spring in Paris is truly a glorious time.

Even though this winter was relatively mild, it’s nice to peel off the wool scarves and mittens that we’ve all been bundling ourselves up in to ward off the damp, chilly air and start packing them away.

Deep-scarlet strawberries start appearing at the market and cafés waiters across the city slide extra seats outside as all of Paris starts to stir from its winter hibernation.

Paris

Unfortunately, that includes the pigeons too.

Those wicked beasts that coo outside our windows, who wake us up at the crack of down with their incessant warbling on windowsills and ledges everywhere. They soil and permanently damage all of the magnificent churches and monuments of Paris. And like the rest of the city, I suppose, they’re celebrating spring by enjoying more time outdoors socializing with their friends.

But unlike (most) civilized Parisians, they don’t care where they let loose.

During this week and the next few, they’re poised high up in the trees, causing much fear of being the recipient of their crotté droppings. (And whatever they’re eating doesn’t seem to be agreeing with them.) It seems to be pretty well-known amongst the locals to avoid standing under trees at all costs, but I’ve seen plenty of unsuspecting tourists and a few newcomers get nailed by those feathered foul lurking above.

Consider yourself warned.

And sorry about the icky picture. But if I have to see it, then so do you.)

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