Another night in Paris, oh what fun it is! Truthfully, most of my evenings are spent cuddled up with my heatilator bunny nuzzled up against an aching ankle, hand or back, surfing the intertubes, but as I make friends & meet people, I am going out more and more, TFG.
I met up with American George on the Champs Elysee to tour the holiday lights, but he needed a drink, so a quick yee hah at the lights and we went directly to Market, at 15 Rue Matignon. They had some lovely bourbons at the bar and that was greatly appreciated. I miss whiskey, it's not easy to enjoy in Paris or Europe for that matter, but I was a great afficianado back in the States. I had many memorable evenings enjoying good bourbon, always straight double with an ice water back. I couldn't stand American beer, the standby beverage in most bars, and when I discovered Belgian beer, I learned what real beer is all about, finally. I totally get it, the connoiseurs raging about Trappist Belgian beers made by monks. I haven't yet found a Belgian beer I don't like, even the cheap, .63c by the can stuff, Leffe. And I found I can get good beer, really cheap in the Chinatown area, and rarely pass up Tsing Tao, since it's so cheap. It's nice to keep a can or two in the fridge for those hot August in Paris days (and nights)! Don't get me wrong, I love wine; my motto is, never buy cheap French wine and never pass up cheap Italian wine. The French get it right with their expensive wines, that's an absolute, irrefutable truth. But their cheap wines are horrendous. Just don't do it. However, cheap Italian wines are sheer bliss! My favorite is Pinot Grigio from Venezia. When I was living in Cannes, I'd drive up to San Remo and buy cases of it for less than a Euro per bottle. I love that stuff!
Before I moved to Europe, I took a quick trip to Venice with Doctor Heather. We found a deal we couldn't pass up, something like 500 bucks for round trip airfare and hotel, LA to Venice for 4 nights, just after Mardi Gras. I also happened to score tickets to the newly re-opened Fenice, truly one of the grandest opera halls in the world. It was a presentation of Mozart's first opera, written when he was 12.
Word of advice, never eat the veal on Air France. By the time we were crossing the Atlantic, I was quietly barfing every few minutes into a very elegant bag kindly provided by the airlines. Doctor Heather said I was the most discrete barfer she's ever known, and once again, she played Doctor as best she could. As Shrek says, better out than in, and the upside was that the air crew got us off the plane first and headed to the infirmery. We had a connection to make, and by gum, we made it and got to Venice in the early evening. We stayed in a stunning little hotel near the Grand Canal and quite close to the big Piazza bus terminal, where we found a great little restaurant for the locals, and I even had a delicious chicken soup, restoring me to health and vigor very quickly.
It was so magical, that first night, even with some residual pains, but we were in Venice, in the middle of winter, in February. The cobbled streets were adrift with light snow fall mixed with sparkling confetti, We spent hours that night wandering those empty streets and canals, it was so quiet and the fairy dust was everywhere...
The next night was our Opera night and we went to the Fenice, only to find that the spectacle had been moved to another Opera house! So we raced through the streets with another couple, in our heels, long coats, gloves and scarves, twisting and turning through alleys and narrow passages following and trusting our new companions, to the other Opera house. I was really disappointed that it wasn't the Fenice, that was the point after all, so we enjoyed it for an hour and left to find dinner at about 10:30pm. I don't remember much about the meal, but I do remember the wine! Served by the pitcher, that house red was the most delicious red wine I'd ever, ever indulged in, so completely different from anything I'd experienced in the states. It changed everything for me, from then on in my little wine world. Since then, in my expert analysis and research, my Wine Rule has proven itself time and again. Never drink cheap French wine and always drink cheap Italian wine. Works every time.
If you know nothing about wine, just stick to that rule, you'll be fine.
Right, so dinner at Market, 15 Rue Matignon, Paris, just off the Champs Elysee. Lovely place. Modern, sleek, dark, beautiful room, discrete, quiet, very good service. The bread girl was very nice. I had a killer calamari starter with a horse radish sauce, one of the best I've had in France. I had a pork chop glazed with something or other, and that thing was like a dinosaur bone. The French style of meat leaves a lot to be desired. Usually they remove any trace of fat or just avoid it altogether, and I think that's just wrong. Pork and beef need their fat, and I refuse to back away from that assertion. This was just a wad of meat on a stick, the bone as it were. It wasn't overcooked for what it was, it was perfectly cooked and not too dry, but it had no flavor and it just wasn't interesting. Not like the onglet of beef I'd had the day before out in Versailles.
We finished the meal with their cheesecake, which again, left a lot to be desired. It was nicely presented, but boring. A bit too gummy, and the sweet croustelant it was sat upon was a bit rancid. It came with a portion of pretty red berries in a sauce, presented in a wrapped wafer cup, but it was too gummy and thick to be really enjoyed. Reason number 10,324 of 'why I learned how to cook'. Because I can make it better at home and make myself really, really happy. And yeah, I could definitely turn out a far better pork chop and cheesecake than Market did, that's for sure. Someday I'll tell you about my baby back ribs recipe.
If you ever want to make the very best cheesecake on the planet, simply google Cheesecake Factory copycat recipes. Honestly, yeah, it sounds cheesy, but they are the best, you can't go wrong. I tweak the flavors a bit for the base and say for lemon or lime, etc, but the technique, portions and methods are spot on and if you follow the recipes exactly, you will be very pleased!
Monday, 3 December 2012
Saturday, 1 December 2012
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! I like spending Christmas holidays in beautiful places, including my own home of course. Fair enough, I just really like Christmas. Not so much when I was growing up, but as an adult I made the conscious choice to make my life exactly what I wanted it to be, instead of relying on others, therefore, I make Christmas MAGIC. And no other city on the planet does Christmas Magic better than Paris!
The lights, the glitter, the pomp, the markets, the delicious windows, the amazing food stalls on the Champs Elysee even in the rain like tonight, there is still a bit of magic in the air, it's the 1st of December, just 24 more days, yay!
Christmas is for kids, that's for sure, but these Parisians make it about family. I can't explain why, but it's just so much more elegant here! Suddenly, beautiful boughs of pine branches magically appear above shop doors and facades. I haven't yet seen a single string lit faux reindeer or a plastic Santa hung from a window, instead, beautiful lights, silver glitter balls, red or silver bows, it's lovely!
My last favorite Christmas was spent in Paris with my dear friend Doctor Heather from Los Angeles. It was the one holiday we spent together where I wasn't walking wounded or sick, and it was great for us to experience Paris together with the Kidlet. Meringues were involved. I haven't dared yet send her a photo of the new shop on Rue St. Dominique that has mountains of meringues in the street corner window. She'd be camped outside licking that window I think, along with the other tourists and children. It won't be one of her finest moments, but I know she'll be happy, that's all that matters.
A number of years ago Kidlet and I spent Christmas in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, in the Yucatan. We took along our Romanian Friend Ioana, aka, Iggie. Not a dignified title for a teaching Professor of Film at USC (she blames me for helping make that happen, cheerfully accepted), but a moniker of love and affection, nonetheless.
At the time Playa del Carmen was still a bit rustic, such a sweet little city, bursting with promise and great food, safe as kittens. Our favorite restaurant was 3 blocks away on the corner from the hotel. Open air, seating under the palapas at picnic tables, a grill in the front, and lots and lots of beer. Mucho Cerveza! My favorite menu item was the Grande Pescado, this HUGE whole fish, gutted fresh and tossed on the grill, cooked 5 feet away from you, served with buckets of guacamole and chips. Behind this restaurant we could see festive lights at night, and we went to have a look and found a nativity scene made by the locals, in the same tradition as what I now know as a Creche, as in, yes, (thump head) a nativity scene. I never have fathomed these Christian rituals, the logic of the stories just escapes me, always has, being kicked out of virtually every non catholic Sunday school in my small village by the age of 6 for asking too many of the wrong sorts of questions. A sceptic and and cynic at such a tender age afforded my mother even more reasons to not like me very much, the poor thing. We weren't allowed in the Catholic church at all, banned at the door, apparently.
So we appreciated this sweet, rustic home-made nativity scene, but the baby Jesus was missing, even I knew there was supposed to be one in there. We figured someone stole it or they didn't have money for it. We weren't worried, just baffled. The devil is in the details.
So every time we walked past the nativity scene, we'd stop by to see if they'd found the baby Jesus, and after 3 days of this, we were starting to get worried. It just didn't seem right. We may have discussed buying one, but none were to be had amidst the sombreros and hammocks, well intentioned as we were.
Christmas morning arrived and in our daily stroll to find breakfast, we made our pilgrimage to the creche, and lo and behold, there was the baby Jesus, nearly 5 times bigger than all the other figures in the scene, and with this HUGE head! He immediately became dubbed 'Hydroencephalitic Baby Jesus'. All I need to do to get a huge snort out of Kidlet is say 'Hydroencephalitic Baby Jesus' in the 'Andy' voice (Little Britain). Memories and laughter are had for at least 10 minutes as we reminisce about one of our favorite Christmas's. Yes, the Baby Jesus arrived, as written in at least one version of the book, on Christmas morning, in keeping with a few traditions somewhere.
The lights, the glitter, the pomp, the markets, the delicious windows, the amazing food stalls on the Champs Elysee even in the rain like tonight, there is still a bit of magic in the air, it's the 1st of December, just 24 more days, yay!
Christmas is for kids, that's for sure, but these Parisians make it about family. I can't explain why, but it's just so much more elegant here! Suddenly, beautiful boughs of pine branches magically appear above shop doors and facades. I haven't yet seen a single string lit faux reindeer or a plastic Santa hung from a window, instead, beautiful lights, silver glitter balls, red or silver bows, it's lovely!
My last favorite Christmas was spent in Paris with my dear friend Doctor Heather from Los Angeles. It was the one holiday we spent together where I wasn't walking wounded or sick, and it was great for us to experience Paris together with the Kidlet. Meringues were involved. I haven't dared yet send her a photo of the new shop on Rue St. Dominique that has mountains of meringues in the street corner window. She'd be camped outside licking that window I think, along with the other tourists and children. It won't be one of her finest moments, but I know she'll be happy, that's all that matters.
A number of years ago Kidlet and I spent Christmas in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, in the Yucatan. We took along our Romanian Friend Ioana, aka, Iggie. Not a dignified title for a teaching Professor of Film at USC (she blames me for helping make that happen, cheerfully accepted), but a moniker of love and affection, nonetheless.
At the time Playa del Carmen was still a bit rustic, such a sweet little city, bursting with promise and great food, safe as kittens. Our favorite restaurant was 3 blocks away on the corner from the hotel. Open air, seating under the palapas at picnic tables, a grill in the front, and lots and lots of beer. Mucho Cerveza! My favorite menu item was the Grande Pescado, this HUGE whole fish, gutted fresh and tossed on the grill, cooked 5 feet away from you, served with buckets of guacamole and chips. Behind this restaurant we could see festive lights at night, and we went to have a look and found a nativity scene made by the locals, in the same tradition as what I now know as a Creche, as in, yes, (thump head) a nativity scene. I never have fathomed these Christian rituals, the logic of the stories just escapes me, always has, being kicked out of virtually every non catholic Sunday school in my small village by the age of 6 for asking too many of the wrong sorts of questions. A sceptic and and cynic at such a tender age afforded my mother even more reasons to not like me very much, the poor thing. We weren't allowed in the Catholic church at all, banned at the door, apparently.
So we appreciated this sweet, rustic home-made nativity scene, but the baby Jesus was missing, even I knew there was supposed to be one in there. We figured someone stole it or they didn't have money for it. We weren't worried, just baffled. The devil is in the details.
So every time we walked past the nativity scene, we'd stop by to see if they'd found the baby Jesus, and after 3 days of this, we were starting to get worried. It just didn't seem right. We may have discussed buying one, but none were to be had amidst the sombreros and hammocks, well intentioned as we were.
Christmas morning arrived and in our daily stroll to find breakfast, we made our pilgrimage to the creche, and lo and behold, there was the baby Jesus, nearly 5 times bigger than all the other figures in the scene, and with this HUGE head! He immediately became dubbed 'Hydroencephalitic Baby Jesus'. All I need to do to get a huge snort out of Kidlet is say 'Hydroencephalitic Baby Jesus' in the 'Andy' voice (Little Britain). Memories and laughter are had for at least 10 minutes as we reminisce about one of our favorite Christmas's. Yes, the Baby Jesus arrived, as written in at least one version of the book, on Christmas morning, in keeping with a few traditions somewhere.
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