Iโm often asked by people coming to Paris what neighborhood they should stay in. The usual โoff-the-beaten-pathโฆbut not too far from the centerโ doesnโt help me figure out what fits those seemingly opposing bills. Everything in Paris is pretty close and most places are a 20 minute mรฉtro ride away. Like most cities, the good places arenโt clustered in the center of the city. Theyโreโฆ
We find ourselves eating in, rather than going out, more than not. For one thing, the food is often better, or just simpler. Maybe Iโm getting grouchy, but after a recipe trip where I ate out at every meal, all I wanted was a plate of grilled fish or roasted chicken, and some vegetables. Or just a simple salad with some bread and cheese. Anotherโฆ
Over the holidays, we were in the U.S. to spend time with my family (and โ gulp โ to see my editorโฆ), and I made brisket for Romain. He doesnโt like bลuf bourguignon, because it he says itโs always โdry,โ so decided for a treat, Iโd make brisket, a beef dish that is anything but. Because Iโm such a champ, I actually made it a few different times,โฆ
My desert island food is corned beef. Hot, piled up on a sandwich, between two pieces of rye bread with spicy brown mustard smeared liberally inside, corned beef is the one food that I could find myself being happily enjoying if trapped on a desert island. (With unlimited ice-cold pitchers of tropical cocktails, of course.) I also want cole slaw and half-sour pickles, too. Although if truthโฆ
[UPDATE: The restaurant has changed its format offering a fixed-price meal (currently โฌ67) that includes starters and main courses, but not desserts or sides. I havenโt been back since they instituted the change.] When Daniel Rose opened his first restaurant, Spring, it was a small, seasonally driven restaurant on an unremarkable street in the 9th arrondissement. Word quickly spread about the talented chef, who helped fuel a revolutionโฆ
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 (My memory is gradually been replaced by the camera on my phone.)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 soonโฆ
It takes me a few days to readjust to life when I come back to the U.S.A. On our last trip, as we stepped off the plane at Dulles, we were confronted with a huge picture of a giant overstuffed sandwich plastered on the wall of a restaurant, which was aptly named, Potbelly. Like the clever titling of The Pretty Kitty salon that I passedโฆ
Beef is very popular in France. And itโs not just for the taste: on more than one occasion, Iโve been told I need to eat more red meat by folks concerned about my health. (I guess I need to look in the mirror more often.) I like a good steak every once in a while, and, fortunately for meat-lovers, there are butchers in every neighborhoodโฆ
The good news about my trip to Sicily is that it wasnโt all eating almond cookies and cannoli, looking for parking spaces in Palermo (and paying one of the fellows lurking about to keep an eye on the car), gorging on fresh ricotta, and wiping and everything you possible can in generous drizzles of the amazing olive oil produced there. There was โpastaโ โ madeโฆ
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