NOT ALL FRENCH WAITERS ARE BAD

While Elze's South African friend, Morne, was still here, we mostly enjoyed our evenings inside cooking wondrous things for each other. Foie gras, saucisson, boudin noir, cheeses, gourmet salads, and so on. But after a few nights of this we grew lazy and so one night we felt that we had no other choice but to go out to eat. We, of course, did not make this decision until I was reaching a critical point of starvation. You see, ever since I was a child I have had issues with hunger. What I mean to say is that when I'm hungry, really hungry, I morph from a perfectly normal human being into a full on psychotic gremlin. It isn't pretty.

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Luckily enough I had a few ideas of where we could go and eat, and even luckier they were all just down the street. But I was, of course, with Elze, who had her own ideas. And so though she completely agreed that we could go to one of the many places I had seen just down Oberkampf, she still wanted to walk around aimlessly and see if there was anything else that looked tempting. After passing place after place which failed to perk our interest, and after both she and Morne failed to make an executive decision on where to go, I started groaning in angst and hunger. "Well then why don't you make a the decision," she said to me kindly, "since you are so hungry."

Had I missed something? I believed I had said, numerous times, that we should just go down Oberkampf where there were at least four restaurants that looked promising. But perhaps the hunger pains were causing me to hallucinate. Though I could feel the famine monster growling not so deep inside of me, I managed to say, with some control, "I have decided! Before we even left the damn house I told you where I wanted to go." "Oh," Elze said in her oh-so-sweet chirpy voice, "well let us just go there then." Damn indecisive crazy women, I thought to myself. But at least I would be able to eat...soon.

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Right down Rue Oberkampf at Rue Saint-Maur were at least four restaurants that looked promising. They were all practically overflowing with people, and one was the restaurant Au Pied De Fouet, which I knew to be good and cheap. But, of course, Elze couldn't listen to everything I said and so instead we went to Chez Justine. I didn't complain, though it was far more expensive, because at least I would be eating. And from the amount of customers it would, at the very least, be good.

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The atmosphere was wonderfully cool and comfortable, like a hip couple's home where you feel welcome and chic just being there. We were seated in a lounge area and so while it wasn't exactly conducive to eating, it was easy to lean back and be comfortable, and after having to deal with Elze and her insane feminine ways, I was more than happy to do this. I had a hankering for fish tartare and avocado, and was lucky enough to see tuna and avocado tartare on the menu in both appetizer and main course sizes. Thank the lord!

After putting in our orders we had a chance to look around. And since my stomach was no longer aggravating me because it knew that it would soon be sinking its teeth into some delicious tartare, Elze and I were able to notice what was obviously the most popular draw of this place. And that, my dear readers, were the gorgeously handsome waiters. They were impossible good-looking. I had to gather my jaw up from the floor and hope that not too much drool had spilled at my feet. Poor Morne, the only guy in the trio, had to suffer through a night of Elze and I giggling over how beautiful these men were. We, of course, were not lucky enough to have our own waiter be one of the gods serving us, but the others did, at least, pass by our table every five seconds in the same determined and quick paced way that most waiters move about in this city. The only difference was that these waiters seemed to do it in floating swagger that made them even more irresistible.

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Elze and I shared two bottles of wine whilst Morne drank two pots (or half bottles) of red wine to himself. We ate our meals, which were good, though nothing to write home about, and drank two bottles more together, all while feasting our happy peepers on the eye candy dancing through the restaurant. Though Morne did not partake on the visual feasting, he certainly seemed to enjoy how much his female companions were making swooning asses of themselves. At some point, Elze was able to pull herself together just enough to make the astute observation that the restaurant seemed to be filled to the brim with single women, and it was no wonder why.

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Two of the waiters were more striking than the rest, and both looked as if they had been plucked from celluloid and dumped gracefully into this restaurant. They certainly knew what they were doing. And they looked undeniably sexy with fabulous coifs while doing so. One of them looked like Ryan Gosling and Jake Gyllenhaal's love child, while the other looked like taller, pointier version of Varsity Blues' Scott Caan covered in tattoos. When the latter warned Elze about the toothpick in her burger which lead to a conversation about how you say "toothpick" in english, he apparently found the word so hilarious that he couldn't help but flash a large grin. I practically melted right there in my seat. And it was hard for me to gather myself with the other one's puppy dog eyes looking sweetly across the room as he swiftly and deftly made the steak tartare.

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Though we were one of the first people to arrive in Chez Justine we were certainly the last to leave. The lights came on, the chairs were swung up onto the tables, and we were unceremoniously scooted from our seats. And much to our avail, though we had spent the entire night swooning over these hollywood look-alike french beauties, they certainly did not seem even remotely interested in Elze nor myself. But we had indulged ourselves in much too much alcohol to care. The three of us skipped home in our inebriated states and happily trotted up to our apartment. Elze and I were so giddy from our night of stalkerish staring, and Morne seemed more than happy with all the vittles and vino that he had consumed.

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Only a few days later we were eating lunch a few blocks away from our apartment when Elze began to jump up and down in her seat screaming in girlish excitement, "Lora! Lora! Lora! Look! Look!" pointing out the window as she did so. Though I only caught the bottom half of the man that she was pointing at, I still recognized that confident swagger of the puppy-dog eyed waiter from Chez Justine. He wasn't a figment of our imagination, or all the wine, after all. We have ranted and raved about Chez Justine to every breathing woman we could get our hands on since then, though it does seem foolish to share these men with anyone else. But all the same Elze and I certainly look forward to going back there, in full hair and makeup, of course.

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JEALOUSY MAKES ME WONDER, "DOES GREEN LOOK GOOD ON ME?"

Though I fight to believe it, the end is fast approaching. I now have only a few sweet months left here in Paris, but at least with all of the glorious pastry shops in this city it will be as sweet as can be. My fellow friends have begun looking into the eye of their internship finales, and a few have already wrapped up their last days and said their farewells. As is common with endings, we have spent many of our past gatherings reminiscing over our experiences here and what we will take with us when we return from this bubble of french life to our realities laying in wait back home.

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As a part of her last month here, our wonderful friend Camila has come and visited us in Paris. She was one of our fellow students at the ENSP in Yssingeaux, but instead of joining us in Paris, she completed her internship in Bordeaux. And truthfully, if anyone could go off on an adventure into the heart of France alone, it is Camila.

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Camila is one of those people that you spontaneously love, like ice cream or puppies. Men and women alike fawn over her exuberant and bouncy attitude. She's impossibly fun and energetic, constantly on the go and she is so sweet and gentle that you cannot help but be pulled into the tornado of her exploits. Though it makes her unbearably embarrassed, we constantly, and truthfully, poke fun at how men seem to trip over each other just to speak to her. She has accumulated admirers from every city she has visited, and it seems as if the rest of us disappear from view whenever she enters a room. And though she is undeniably beautiful, I believe that it is her personality that comes shining through, because the truth is that Camila doesn't enter a room so much as she skips through the door.

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So, before leaving Europe to return to her home in Guatemala, Camila came and visited us, depositing a plethora of her crap in our apartment, then took off again to Spain. She will return for a week or so before her final departure, and we are all looking forward to spending these last few moments together. Since we have been deprived of her presence during our time in Paris, we were all more than happy to see her and hear all about her adventures in Bordeaux, specifically about her internship.

While hers started like so many of ours, with fear, insecurity, and a feeling of being alone in a room full of people, like the lucky ones, it eventually opened up into a place where she felt welcomed and content. Though her ability to parlez-vous francais surpassed ours by miles, she still felt struggles within the kitchen, and made her fair share of blunders. But because the people she worked with took the time to help her and didn't berate her for her mistakes like some animal who messes in the house, she came to enjoy her internship, to learn from it, and felt at home. Her boss even offered her a job, and she hopes that she will be able to return and take him up on that offer. Even so, on her last day her fellow kitchen-mates had grown so fond of her that they plucked her from the ground and threatened to throw her in the sink, just so that they could keep her. And considering the ample size of commercial sinks and the petite size of Cami, she would be more than comfortable taking up residence in such a large basin.

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As Camila shared more and more about her internship, so did Suanne, and Elze, and while I had my own stories to share too, I hated the negative spin that I was putting on things. Even more, I hated how each story, like some ghoulish acid flashback, forced me to remember how much these demons of dessert had robbed me of my dream. I have been baking sweets for as long as I could reach the oven dials. I've wanted to come to France and study pastry for more than half my life. And I anticipated my internship like a six year old looks forward to Christmas morning. Sure I cannot deny that I am still living a dream, I can't help but be just a tad pissed off that it was slightly dampened by a key desirable element turned torturous. And even more so, that so many of my fellow classmates were blessed with happy memories and wonderful experience and knowledge from their internships. Such positive experiences make me feel like an outsider, and that, yet again, this is some personal vendetta that god, France, and Pain de Sucre have against me. It's not that I wish we had all had horrible experiences, but I can't help but be jealous.

I know it's horribly immature, petty, and small of me to feel this way. I should just be happy for them. I should just look at all I gained from my internship. I should just enjoy these last few months here in France. And I am doing all of those things. But I also know that I am not a big enough person to look past those horrific weeks of emotional torture I was forced to endure, and even more so to not feel cheated because it didn't have to be that way. There are plenty of patisseries out there which welcome interns with open arms, instead of chaining them to the table and forcing them to zest box after box of lemons, or cut pineapples until their fingers bleed like some inhuman minion. Like Freddy Kruger, they managed to sneak their way into my dreams and turn them into some twisted nightmare, one which I am still recovering from.

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But like so many emotional scars, I am sure that only time will heal this wound. In the meantime, I just must work at enjoying my last few months here, reveling in the glorious stories my fellow friends have to share with me, and trying not to turn too green with envy. I am an autumn, after all, green really just doesn't suit me.

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CHEESE TUESDAY: FROMAGERIE BERTHAUT'S LE TROU DU CRU

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So I know that I said I was going to do a goat cheese for this week, and trust me, I had every intention of doing one. I even bought one. But by the time I finished my other errands, made a fool of myself at a few other stores, and lugged two armfuls of hefty bags up to my apartment, I had completely forgotten the name of the goat cheese I purchased.

Lucky for us, I only had a card on me and so had to buy a few other cheeses in order to reach their 10€ minimum. One of which, was the dainty, 60 g Trou du Cru. It was just so darn petite and adorable that I couldn't help but want to take it home. It was certainly a big expensive for what how big it was, at almost 4€ for the smallest cheese in the shop, but it came in its own little paper cup, with its own little sticker on top, as if it were all dressed up for winter. So in the bag it went and back home with me.

This cheese was invented by Fromagerie Berthaut and is one of their interpretations of an Epoisses. That doesn't really mean anything to me, but it may to you. Apparently an Epoisses is a cheese that is hand washed with a brine to encourage the right kinds of bacteria so that, after a time of maturation, it reaches the wonderful smell and flavor that is desired. The Trou du Cru is only matured for four weeks, with other types of Epoisses being left to mature for much longer, but since it is much smaller in size, it doesn't require as much time. O, the science of fromage!

The Trou du Cru is made from pasteurized cow's cheese and washed with a Burgundy Marc during it's maturation. Because it is made with pasteurized cheese, you can find it in the states and try it for yourself! The Trou du Cru is a formidable cheese, not to be underestimated just because of its size. It certainly packs a punch. Mine smelled quite strong with an air of ammonia to it, which according one of the websites I read meant that it hadn't been taken care of properly and was too old. I find this hard to believe considering that I'm in France and it's probably illegal to do this, but I really don't know. All the same, I ate it and loved it.

Unlike so many of my other favorites, this cheese, while stinky, wasn't the oozing and super soft fromage I usually go for. Yet, it still had a rich creaminess to it that made me feel decadent and happy. Texturally it was certainly not hard like a parmesan, but not soft like a brie either. It was somewhere in the middle, so that if you squeezed it, it would give a little bit but not ooze its contents all over you either. For this reason, it wasn't spreadable, but was still delicious between two pieces of bread.

This is, by far, one of the best cheeses I've had here in France. It had such a nice strong flavor but was still beautifully balanced and clean. It had all of the elements I love in a cheese, nutty, creamy, a tad sour, and with a sweet fermentation to it that brought all of it together. It was not at all bitter, so while it certainly had a strong flavor to it, I didn't find the need to eat it with bread because it didn't linger unpleasantly in my mouth after eating it.

So, while mine smelled a bit old, it certainly didn't taste like it. I'll have to go back and buy another miniature round to continue with the taste testing (and by "have to" I mean, I can't wait to). Be happy that this is one of the cheeses you can actually find in the states! It may not be easy, but it's there! Thank you Fromagerie Berthaut. They are obviously geniuses.

A NEW DISCOVERY: BOUDIN NOIR

I don't know if you remember, or if you've been paying attention, or if you even read that far back, but one of the many things I love about France is their adoration and complete acceptance of offal. I believe that this is due to the fact that they aren't a bunch of sissies who are in denial of the fact that when they order a steak it actually came from an animal, that had to die, in order for them to eat it. When you go to the butcher here to buy your chicken, or duck, or turkey, or rabbit, it will most likely still have it's eyeballs, beak, teeth, feathers, talons, or some combination thereof. In the states, people would be horrified. But here, they accept that something had to die in order for them to eat and enjoy it, and they certainly do enjoy it.

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So while offal may gross a lot of people out, I think part of the reason for it is because so many offal dishes remind us just a bit too much of the fact that it came from an animal. Take tongue, for example. Tongue is delicious! It has an amazing texture and flavor, and many practical applications. But when you go to the store to buy it it looks like, well, a tongue. Shocking, I know. Yet we'll eat a pork chop till the cows, or should I say pigs, come home, because a pork chop doesn't look anything like Wilbur.

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But truthfully, I think the French's ability to accept their place on the food chain is admirable. Especially since they accept it with respect for the animals they slaughter, cook, and slather in fabulous creamy sauces. Eating every part of the animal, from the nose to the tail, shows me that they value its life, and to top it off, it's tasty! Brains are wonderful. Bone marrow is heavenly. Liver? Oui, s'il vous plait!

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These past few weeks I have had the joy of spending time with a fellow head to tail consumer. Elze's South African friend, Morne, is visiting, and seems to love all things weird and delicious just as much as I do. He particularly loves boudin noir (which you may know as black pudding, or blood sausage), which I have never had the pleasure of eating before. I've always wanted to, but in the states it isn't exactly on the menu at most places, and I've certainly never been invited to a dinner at my friend's house for their fabulous family recipe of boudin noir.

Morne was determined to eat some boudin noir while here, and when he suggested that I join him I was more than game. He investigated the internet thoroughly to see if he could find some restaurant in Paris that offered it but to no avail. It was cute to see how upset he was about the lack of boudin noir availability here. I thought only I got that emotionally attached to a planned meal. It's nice to be reminded, if only rarely, that there are other freaks out there who get just as excited over offal as I do. With his head hung, he resigned that there would be no boudin noir, and I thought I saw the faintest flicker of a tear in his eye. This was, without a doubt, a heart wrenching tragedy.

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Lucky for us, our trusty friend Elze was quick on her feet and suggested that Morne just walk down to our corner boucherie and buy some boudin noir. Though she fights her love for offal with a fury, she has to admit that she does enjoy so many of the things that this subcategory of meat has to offer (with foie gras being one of her favorite things in the world). Morne perked up instantly, threw on his walking shoes, his winter coat, and skipped out the door to go and buy us some boudin noir.

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He came back with a gigantic section of the stuff and I was surprised to see that it looked like any normal sausage. It was a bit maroon in color, but that was all. Morne caramelized some onions, crisped up some italian bacon, and sliced the boudin noir for the frying pan. In no time we were diving into this new discovery, and I was more than grateful to him for introducing me to this tantalizing treat.

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After being cooked, it had turned a terrifying black color. It looked like little discs of charcoal, and though I was too polite to say it, I had feared that Morne had burned that which he had been so excited to eat and share. But because my mother taught me proper manners, I still took a small slice to taste without comment. It was light as air when I picked it up, feeling as if it was just a shell of carbon, but when I put it into my mouth I was delighted by the flavor and texture of this unknown entity. It hadn't been burned at all, it was just black, which is probably why it has "noir" in the title. I guess those French aren't always nonsensical and ridiculous.

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The boudin noir was like something so familiar and yet something so new all at once. It had a wonderfully rich meat flavor to it, but the consistency was so delicate and almost bread like, that it melted in my mouth. The closest thing I could relate it to was juicy corn bread stuffing on Thanksgiving day, except this was more compact and to the point. It was inconceivable, and phenomenal.

While Morne and I enjoyed this wondrous treat, Elze sat and refused to try it. She was afraid she would like it, and she most certainly did not want to be the type of person who not only enjoyed foie gras, but who also delighted in eating blood sausage. She did not want the be the same type of freak that Morne and I happily embraced as part of who we were. But after much coaxing, she finally gave in and tried a slice, and even though she hated to admit it, and every fiber in her being was telling her that she should turn her nose up in disgust, she couldn't help but concede that the boudin noir was, undeniably, delicious.

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MISSION: ENTREMET (PART 1)

Entremet is essentially a French word for a fancy cake, except, of course, when it isn't a cake. How French, right? You see, the French have one kind of cake which they call gateaux voyage, or traveling cakes, which a pound cake would be considered, or anything else somewhat dense and usually baked in a loaf pan. An entremet, on the other hand, is anything that is layered, as a layer cake and so a black forest cake, or an opera cake would be considered entremets, but so would something that consists of layers of mousse, fruit gelatin (which is tastier than it sounds), ganache, and or sable. Most entremet's have layers of cake in them, but not always. Confused? Now you know how I feel...all the time.  

I decided to do more than one entremet mission since there are so many different kinds at so many different places, and because this week I got a bit distracted and so didn't go to as many places as I should have. I did manage to get my ever-growing ass to Carl Marletti, Sadaharu AOKI, and Un Dimanche à Paris, and tried a different entremet at each. It's been quite fun, and I look forward to stopping in some of my other haunts to see what they have to offer. 

Carl Marletti: Le Rialto 

Something I hate about going to pastry shops here in Paris is the pressure. There are so many options and I'm always afraid of choosing the wrong thing. I found myself in this very position when I went to Carl Marletti. Nothing was shouting at me to be eaten, and the male model behind the counter was looking at me through his spectacles in such a way as if to say, "Come on, hurry up and pick something already, you indecisive foreigner." 

The truth was that I was (a teeny bit) disappointed. I had built Mr. Marletti up so much in my mind that I was expecting much more. He was just known for being such a nice man, and his shop was in such a sweet and charming little corner of Paris. I wanted him to be fabulous. I wanted his desserts to inspire me and move me to tears. But they did not. Not even close. But I thought back to the religieuse I got from him and though it was homely and messy looking, it still tasted lovely. So while nothing was making my mouth, or eyes, water, I decided to go with Le Rialto. It had mascarpone creme, lemon zest and was described as being somewhat like a cheesecake, which I love, and with raspberry in it and on it it sounded refreshing and bright. I wasn't sure if it actually qualified as an entremet, but it had different stuff inside, underneath, and on top, so in my mind it did. 

The mascarpone creme was light as air with an ever so faint citron essence to it. I wished it had been a bit more dense and with a bit more citron but the mascarpone and the raspberry went nicely together with the citrus enhancing the flavors of the raspberry and vice versa.

The sable cookie bottom was incredibly delicious, with a salty, caramel flavor to it, and it was nice and grainy, which added textural interest to the dessert, complementing the soft, fluffy mascarpone and the seedy feeling of the raspberry sauce and the whole raspberries hiding deep in the mascarpone. 

While each of the components were admirable enough on their own, and while together there was some semblance of cohesion, it really just wasn't right. It tasted like a first draft and needed some heavy tweaking. The sable cookie was the strongest element, and definitely the tastiest, but it stole the show when it really just should have been a nice foundation for the mascarpone to sit atop and shine from. It completely overpowered everything else in the dessert, but instead of dumbing down the sable, I would enhance the other elements and elevate them to a status worthy of participating with the cookie.

If the mascarpone had been just a tad bit denser, and the citrus just a tad bit stronger. But as it was, the mascarpone was much to dainty to be the main element, and the citrus was lost under the robust taste of the sable.

Not a complete waste of calories, but not a slam dunk by any stretch. You see, when I try a pastry it goes on one of three lists, "Eat Again", "Don't Bother", or "I'm So Pissed I Wasted Calories On You."  This definitely went on the "Don't Bother" list. Not offensive, but not something I'm going to miss when I leave France, either.


Sadaharu AOKI: Zen 


Unlike Carl Marletti, there were so many things at Sadaharu AOKI that I wanted to try. Everything was perfectly beautiful, colorful, and decadent. I read all of the descriptions and though Elze begged me to buy the Bamboo, I went ahead with this little number, the Zen, because it sounded quite interesting. Something about Sadaharu AOKI makes me feel that I have to get a dessert with green tea or matcha in it, and the Zen fell into that category.

It was made up of layers of matcha, cognac, and sesame/hazelnut dacquoise. It sounded delicious. It looked delicious, and more than that, it looked beautiful. I was excited to take it home and photograph it. The layers were extremely smooth, almost perfect. And the flavor combinations sounded intriguing and imaginative.

But when I did finally get it home and taste it, I was quite let down. Elze pulled the classic "I told you so routine" and I had to admit that she had, most likely, been right. Perhaps it is just me, but this dessert was disappointing. It's appeal was superficial. I tried each layer separately, which was turned out to be a mistake for it certainly tasted better all together than separately. The white chocolate cream was nice, sweet, and buttery, bringing to the table all the best elements of white chocolate. The matcha cake was the biggest let down because it was quite weak in matcha flavor, and that was sort of the whole point for me. But then, I got to the bottom layers. 

The cognac layer was painfully strong. Luckily when you ate it with the rest of the cake, it helped with the alcoholic bite. I like my desserts with a lot of alcohol, especially when it's cognac, but part of why I love putting liquor in dessert is that there is usually cream involved, which softens the painful strength of such alcohols. But not in the Zen, the punch of the cognac was still quite present. 

Then there was the sesame. Even with the cognac powering through with determined fervor, the sesame was still the strongest flavor in the entire dessert, and I was not appreciative of it. Mixed with the cognac it combined to create an almost medicinal taste. Like a kid with their first glass of alcohol, I continued eating it in hopes that it just took getting used to.

It most certainly had to be eaten all at once, with each layer being equally represented, in order for it to be at all pleasurable. Separately the components didn't seem like they would taste well together, but in reality they certainly melded much better than I suspected, with the sesame coming through more than anything else. 

This is one of those desserts that I certainly will never bother buying again, but which I imagine might be a favorite for some people. If you love sesame in desserts, and your cognac strong and painful (I can be quite a sissy, so it's not unbelievable that there are people out there who would appreciate that), then this is something you should try. The technique behind each layer was executed with near perfection. The cream was beautiful, the cake nice and soft, the cognac was texturally intriguing and the sesame/hazelnut bottom and sesame decoration on the side added little explosions of crunch and interest. So while this dessert isn't something I went crazy for, I won't begin to assume that I can speak for everyone on this one. For me, I did not reach a Zen-like state, but for you it may induce such feelings of peace and calm that you insist on eating one every day.

Un Dimanche à Paris: Opéra  

I have been inside of Un Dimanche à Paris before and fell in love with the charm of the store and the 

adorable cobbled, walking street that it sits on. As such, I find it surprising that I haven't been back to actually buy something OR write about it for you guys. So I went out of my way to include it in this Mission. I was excited to go back to Metro Odeon, and back into the enchanting store. 

Un Dimanche à Paris is quite modern in both its interior and pastry design, but instead of many other pastry shops, there is something comforting, welcoming, and charming about it. It makes me excited to eat its desserts. Maybe it's because I can walk around the counters and look in on the men working in the kitchen, or maybe because the ceiling looks like tree branches coming down and hugging you. Whatever it is, I love it. I don't feel like a naughty little kid about to break something. Instead I feel like a little kid about to eat some goodies. 

I was also happy to see that they had an entremet I recognized, the Opéra. I actually made an Opéra in class, and always like to see how I stack up in comparison to the professionals. Plus, it's a cake soaked in coffee and so I think it makes complete sense as a breakfast item.  

I liked how Un Dimanche à Paris's Opéra looked. It was modern and eye-catching, but not gimmicky or ridiculous. The layers were a tad bit messy but knowing from personal experience, it's not easy to get these perfect ( unless of course you're my adorable little chef, Chef Baccon, then perfection is as simple as breathing). 

The chocolate tops were a bit too thin, in my opinion, and obviously hadn't been stored properly, for they had been allowed to curl. The curling had no effect on the taste, but if they were a bit thicker they would've added a much needed crisp. The cake was beautifully moist, efficiently imbibed with coffee, and was wonderful to eat, practically melting in my mouth.

The flavors were great with the chocolate and coffee evenly balanced, but there wasn't anything particularly exciting or different about it. It wasn't like I wanted something different, but I was expected to be a bit more blown away. There was no imagination, no bit of Un Dimanche à Paris in it. You see, to me the best places take something classic and recognizable and do it in their own way, without being too new or scary, without stepping too far from the norm to be unrecognizable. They just add something that, when you eat it, makes you wonder why people haven't always made it that way. 




This was not the case with Un Dimanche à Paris. It was good, it was satisfying, but it was also something that I felt I could make myself and be just as happy with it. But that's just it. I was happy with it, and if I were at Un Dimanche à Paris with a hankering for coffee/chocolate (or cake for breakfast), I wouldn't hesitate to buy this again. Especially since I felt it was reasonably priced at €5.50.

Un Dimanche à Paris: Fruit de Passion et Citron Vert Cheesecake

Okay, cheesecake may be pushing the entremet definition to it's limits. But I just couldn't help myself. There I was buying my Opéra and sitting right next to it was this little temptress. 

You see, one of my favorite things in the world is cheesecake. It's just so rich and guilt inducing that I can't help but love it, deeply. Plus it comes in an array of flavors and variations, from goat cheese cake, to chocolate cheesecake, New York to no-bake. So when I saw that there was, for the taking, not only a cheesecake, but a cheesecake with passionfruit and lime, I had no choice in the matter, I had to buy it and I had to buy it now. 

It didn't hurt that this cheesecake was absolutely breathtakingly beautiful. The glossy passionfruit top was beckoning me to it, shamelessly flirting with me. The crumble sprinkled around the edges were practically laughing at me, knowing that they were too scrumptious looking for me to resist. And they were right. Fighting was futile. I had no say in the matter, it was coming home with me. 

When I sliced through it I was more than happy to see an inner center of hidden goodness. I didn't know what it was, I suspected that it was some sort of passionfruit heart that would explode in my mouth when I finally indulged in it. It was hard to contain myself long enough to take pictures. But I did have strength enough for that. 

Finally, after much anticipation, I placed a large, un-lady like bite in my mouth. It was delicious. There was no denying that. An incredible cheesecake, and due to my abiding love for all cheesecakes, I can be a bit picky when it comes to cheesecake. I have high expectations, and this cheesecake met them. I was more than happy to waste a few calories on this little beauty. 

The cheesecake part was silky and soft, much smoother and less viscous than your standard slice of New York, but still with enough body to have interest and give my mouth something to play with. It reminded me of the undercooked cheesecakes I make for myself, because if there is anything I like more than cheesecake, it's cheesecake batter. The crust was incredible with a sweet caramel flavor and with the ability to hold together just long enough for me to get it into my mouth before falling apart into a crumbly mess that was an absolute delight to eat! 

Overall, this was an amazing cheesecake, and I was completely powerless to its perfection until I remembered exactly what had been so enticing about it when it was sitting coyly behind the display case glass. The passionfruit and lime flavors had tempted me into buying it, and yet they were barely detectable. The passionfruit was so faint that I had to concentrate on it in order to even be aware of it. The lime, on the other hand, was completely absent. 

The fact that the cheesecake was so darn good I forgot about these things says enough. I would certainly eat it again, but just don't expect to get your passionfruit/lime rocks off. I guess I would say that they were there, just enough, to be somewhat cleansing in a way that citrus can be, but that seemed to be all they were there for. But really, I didn't miss them, not one tiny bit.

So this week there is no winner. I'd name the cheesecake because it's delicious but it didn't actually hold up to its name, so I feel it would be improper to congratulate it for fraud. All the same, Un Dimanche à Paris certainly won overall in comparison to Carl Marletti and Sadaharu AOKI. 

SOMETIMES IT'S GOOD TO BE THE AMERICAINE

Yesterday I woke up early and so decided to take advantage of being awake when normal people are awake and called the US embassy. I don't know what it is about bureaucratic websites, but for some reason they insist on being as complicated and uninformative as possible. Especially since I've been in France. But, after many days of searching I finally came across a phone number I could call that wouldn't charge me 50 centimes by the minute.

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The phone rang and I was so pleased to find that there was an automated option for english. Alas! My native tongue was going to come in handy! I went through the selections and eventually chose the one that sounded like it made sense to me. But when the real human answered the phone, I felt a sinking suspicion that this was going to be a less than helpful phone call. Though her english was perfect, she was, in fact, French. I tried to be as cheery as possible and asked her my oh so important question.

You see, my visa expires the beginning of next month, and while my school promised me that they would send me a letter saying the school didn't end until March, they have yet to do so and I have yet been able to get a hold of the newest failure in charge of foreign students. And considering that I just want to be a tourist, oh the joys and carefree life of being a tourist, I didn't really need such documents anyway. I just wanted to know what I had to do in order to remain in France, legally, as a tourist. The last thing I wanted was to be hauled away by men with guns when trying to leave the country, be stuck in some foreign prison where I would be forced to make berets and only spoken to in french. Though I'm sure that under such conditions my ability to communicate in this nonsensical language would, no doubt, improve.

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But since my desire to learn french isn't that great, I decided that I would try and figure out how I could stay here as a tourist. I did what most people do these days and looked it up online, and while I found a few forums discussing the topic, I didn't find any concrete, legitimate source telling me what to do. Apparently this isn't a question that comes up that often, though I don't really understand why. I can't imagine that I am the first student who has wanted to remain after her visa expires and take in all the joys that Europe has to offer before returning to real life back in the states. But no official website had any information on this matter.

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I even went to the US embassy to try and ask them this question but the guards wouldn't let me in. This, they told me, was a question for the Paris prefecture. But what I really didn't want to do, almost as much as I didn't want to make berets next to my fellow inmates Brigitte and Genevieve, was deal with the Paris prefecture because I had heard horror stories from my friends about their interactions with these people, their refusal to speak english, and their overall bad attitudes. While my french may be good enough to ask them what I needed, I wasn't so confident that I then would be able to understand their response, and really, that was the more important part of the transaction.

So here I was, calling the US embassy because they wouldn't let me in the front door. Surely these people had to know the answer to this. It seemed like a simple enough question! The woman told me that she couldn't help me, that she suspected I may have to leave the country for 90 days in order to be allowed to return as a tourist, because that was how it worked if you had a tourist visa. But, she admited, that she really didn't know. She told me that I had to call the prefecture, and gave me the phone number to call. Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I dialed the number, and instead of being connected with a human, or at least a prerecording of a human's voice, I was lucky enough to be allowed to listen to the shrill buzzing, beeping, and workings of a fax machine. Oh joy! Not only did the woman at the embassy not know the answer to my question, she had also given me the prefecture's fax number. I scoured through the prefecture website to see if I could find the correct number, but still was unable to.

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I was starting to lose it. No one had the answer to my question, and if I had to leave for 90 days?! Then my entire trip was ruined, and both my sisters, their families, and my boyfriend, had already bought plane tickets. I had already reserved hotel rooms for my trip across Europe. Not to mention the emotional attachment I had to this sojourn. This couldn't possibly be the correct answer. I started freaking out, cried a little bit, and then collected myself. I couldn't break down because that was not going to help anything. And if I were to end up in a French prison somewhere, I doubt that Brigitte and Genevieve would take kindly to an blatant display of weakness such as this one. I was not going to be some French felon's salope. If I had to put on my detective hat and spend the next few weeks figuring this out, so be it.

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I called the US embassy back. Obviously they could give me the right number for the prefecture. Obviously they had this information written down somewhere, easily at their disposal. This time, a different woman answered. I decided that I would ask her my question again, about staying in France as a tourist, because perhaps she would have the answer. But the woman on the other line, with her french accent, apparently had no interest in helping me. "You need to call the prefecture. This is not of my concern. This is not a question we answer." When I asked her if she had the number of the prefecture she responded with, "That is not my job. I cannot help you." I kindly thanked her for being completely useless, and went back to the prefecture website in an attempt to unearth the information I needed.

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An hour later I was dialing up the prefecture. I managed to bumble my way through the automated french robot to an actual human being who, thank god, spoke a little bit of english. But just as I asked her my question, she told me to hold on and connected me through to someone else. Apparently I hadn't understood the french robot as well as I thought. This next operator did not speak any english, or at least that's what she said. I find it hard to believe that anyone here doesn't speak english, especially considering that these people work with foreigners all the time. Sure, I may be the classic American stereotype, believing that everyone should speak my language while I fail to speak theirs, but honestly, it's kind of the universal tongue. And France really isn't that big. Plus our educational system is a mess, while theirs is, apparently, much better. With my poor french and their poor english, I would think we could come to some sort of middle ground. But no, this woman either failed out of english in school or was refusing to show off her skills, and so I was left looking like an idiot trying to figure out how to say, "travel" in french (it's "voyager" by the way).

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Eventually she understood me. Sure it may not have been perfect, but I had managed to get my question across. I believe what I said went something like this, "Hello, I am a student in Paris. My visa is finish at three, third, of February. I would like to tourist after my visa finish. I would like to travel, but I don't know. How can I do?"

The woman then informed me that I had to go to the international student center to get my question answered. She gave me the address and told me that it was at metro Porte de Clignancourt. This did not bode well. I may have never been there but from what I have been told, by everyone, is that it's the "bad neighborhood" in Paris. I wasn't exactly peeing my pants in excitement for a journey to this part of town, nor was I jumping with joy at the thought of doing it alone. But I was determined to figure this out, today, and so there was nothing to be done. I put on some shoes, grabbed my passport, and made my way on the metro.

Not to disappoint, Porte de Clignancourt was as sketchy as I thought. All the fabulously dressed, skinny-legged, rich french people were nowhere to be seen. I emerged from the metro at the intersection of KFC and discount middle-eastern shops selling miscellaneous crap. And, of course, there were no house numbers anywhere. I was looking for 92, which in french is 4, 20, 12. Apparently you are supposed to multiply, then add while counting. It makes no sense, and is the basis for my belief that this is a ridiculous language. So as I was aimlessly walking about a man shouted out from behind a street full of paraphernalia he was selling, "Quatre-vignt-douze?" (or, 4, 20, 12).

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Supposedly he could tell that I was out of place. I'm not sure if it was the color of my skin, the fearful look in my eye, or the lack of second-handedness to my clothes, but he knew I didn't belong there. He also knew where I was trying to go. I'm sure he found stragglers wandering the streets as aimlessly as I was looking for the same spot. What was more surprising than his deductive reasoning was the fact that he had gone out of his way to help me, without my even asking for it. I was, clearly, not in Kansas anymore. I was also walking in the wrong direction.

So I flipped a u-ey and made my way down the other side of the street. Again there were no numbers but I decided to rely on my own investigative abilities and see if I could figure it out for myself. Surely there had to be a sign somewhere telling clueless foreigners where to go. And, though not as big or bright as I felt it should be, I did eventually stumble across something that said, "Etudiants estrangers," meaning foreign students, but which I read as student strangers and which I feel is much more fitting.

Through security and up the elevator, I managed to figure out where I should go despite the lack of clear signage or help of any hosts or information desks. I did, however, make the mistake of waiting in the wrong line for half an hour until getting to the front where the woman pointed me over to another, less formal queue against the wall. This line moved much faster and soon enough I was at the front asking a very energetic and helping man with a decent sized mole on his cheek the question.

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The man with the mole looked at me as if I were an idiot. I had waited in line for 45 minutes just to ask him this? This was the easiest question in the world! Or at least, that's what his eyes seemed to say. "You are americaine?" He asked. "Oui..." I responded. "Then this is not a problem. You just leave the schengen area* and get a stamp on your way back," and as he said this he opened my passport and pretended to stamp it, quite hard, to ensure I understood. "But for how long?" I asked. "How long I travel?" "Three months," he responded, obviously not understanding my question. I didn't want to know how long I could travel but how long I had to leave before being able to come back. "Yes," I said, in my broken french, "but I go to United States for how much? One day, two days?" "One day, is enough," he responded. And in less than five minutes he had given me my answer. Why had everyone else acted like this was some deep existential question that required hours of thought and debate?

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But all of my worries and anxiety and frustration were gone. I practically skipped into the elevator as I left the building. The metro ride home seemed to fly by without care. And to top it off, I had just found yet another extremely cheap flight back home! I was going to get to bring all my crap, clothes, trinkets, and memorabilia back to the states and get to see my friends, dog, cat, and boyfriend again. Things were looking up! Plus there were some things I had to take care of in Colorado. I needed to move my stuff out of storage and into Grant's new apartment, saving me $100/month on storage rent. I had to go to the bank and get my new debit card so that I could continue spending, frugally, while in Paris. And by going home, I get to complete all of this stuff without having to worry about it, or make my boyfriend or mother do it. Sure my sister, Kathryn, may be a bit pissed that I'm coming home and, yet again, not going to California to see her but I'll just have to deal with her wrath and guilt trip, and really, isn't that what big sisters are for?

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For the first time since I've been to France I've actually been happy to be the Americaine. Yes the fiends who bossed me around at Pain de Sucre may have called me that as if it were an expletive, and sure so many of the French hate us, along with people from other countries, and sure I get questioned all the time on why we are so fat, why we concern ourselves with other country's problems, why we bomb so many people, and told that our government is evil, that our economy is failing, and that we have horrible taste in food. I don't know why they think I know the answers to these things but really, I dont care because I get to stay here as a tourist without barely any trouble at all! So really, I think it's just jealousy talking. Well that, and our obesity rate, and propensity to get caught up in external affairs, and the fact that we dropped the bomb, twice...but other than that, it's totally jealousy.

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* Through some of my research I had heard about this "schengen area" which is a collection of European countries. You can find a list of them online if you happen to be in a similar predicament.

So what I learned from all this is this:

• If you are an American living in France on a student or intern visa, you can remain as a tourist once your visa expires as long as you leave the Schegen region and get your passport stamped upon exit and re-entry

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