Unpretentious Foam

The Metro strike hit on our second day a Paris in protest of Sarkozy's proposed retirement reform plans. We were prepared for it (thanks Franck!) so we didn't end up spending half an hour on the track looking for the train that would never come. That left us with a leisurely hour stroll across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. I'm not complaining. There's certainly worse things than walking through Paris in autumn. Like wondering what's going to happen with one's pension. Or trudging through the Portland rain for that matter.

We arrived arrived at the Eiffel Tower just as the sun started to dip towards the horizon. There were two entrances open, the north and south. The north was for the elevator service and was accompanied by the snake of people reminiscent of the Viper at Magic Mountain minus the misters and lemon ice. The south was for the 200 stairs up to the second landing and was accompanied by a lonely ticket agent and little else.

Unfortunately stairs access only gets to the second level and not all the way to the top, otherwise, we were totally up for it, for reals! We made it up to the top just as the sky was turning pink and purple. Which was pretty awesome-tastic. A little bit. Kinda sorta.

Our jaunt up the Tour d'Eiffel complete, we went in search of our first proper French dinner sans reservations. Thanks to all of the great recommendations from friends and family we located Bistro L'Ami Jean in the seventh just a stone's throw (a brioche's toss? how far can you throw a lamb shank?) from the Eiffel Tower. The dimly lit chalkboard outside listed several courses but included only a few words that I could remember - creme brulee, poule and that's about it. Thankfully those weren't in the same dish. Chicken creme brulee sounds terrific. MMM.

Kamla knew several more foods and there seemed to be at least a couple fish options, so we were in. We sat elbow to elbow with two businessmen - one of them was wearing eyeliner, I don't know if that's a trend or what - and a older woman dining solo, finishing up before the second seating rush started. The conversations were all French all the time. As were the menus. We stared blankly, trying to piece together what possible preparation was going to be used with the aforementioned chicken or fish. Is that French for wrapped around haggis? Maybe streaked with gold leaf and saffron threads? It was a sort of culinary lottery. We knew were getting fish, but how's it going to turn out?

I started with chicken - form of! force-meat! shape of! terrine! - which i would have never ordered if any of the description included terrine or pate or the like but the flavors were light and balanced and the garnish of curled pork charcuterie added a lovely salty element.

Kamla's first course was a petite steak of salmon resting in an herb broth, topped with an herb foam and crispy scallions. The salmon was just warmed through - something fancy happened here, like sous-vide or something - and perfectly tender. The flavor of the herbs with the texture of the salmon was just remarkable. It was a miraculous dish that set the bar high and few other dishes for the week approached it.

If we could even move on from the salmon, our main courses arrived. Kamla's grilled dorado garnished with fried salami was tasty but suffered from following Prince, you know, if Prince were salmon. And my braised beef brisket with pork belly and root veggies was earthy, soul-warming stuff. We closed with creme brulee and roasted figs and creme to top off a perfect introduction to a Paris bistro.

Paris: Premier Nuit

We recently returned from our honeymoon in Paris. I won't try to sum up how wonderful and special it was in a single post. I can't do it. Just know I had a perma-smile on my face and I'll remember it forever.

Instead, let's just forego the pleasantries and get right to the nuts and bolts: the food. Although we never took on a full 11-in-11 crusade, we did hit up the 1st-17th arrondissements in search of the best baguette and pain au chocolat. Along the way we also found ourselves wishing we had a pocketsized French to English food dictionary, dining with Canadians and Los Angelenos, praising the virtues of the snail.

After a jet-lag induced 5 hour "nap" on our first evening in Paris, it was 10pm and we weren't in any shape to actually sit down at a restaurant and try out our dusty French language skills or to even try to find a restaurant in the first place. That left us with two options: either hope that the Asian salad we managed to lug from JFK, through CDG customs and the RER and metro trains in to town, to our apartment's refrigerator had sufficiently survived the voyage or hunt down a take-in meal.

And so it was our good fortune to be within walking distance of Falafel Ace (L'As du Fallafel) in the Marais. I had been craving a good falafel for months after enduring the cafeteria's rendition at work -- texturally similar to a cue ball and about as well seasoned -- and my inability to locate Fat Kitty Falafel in SE Portland. Al supposedly has a stand on 21st and SE Division but I keep going and he's never there. Dude has been hiding from me, I swear.

Which leads me back to the Falafel Ace. Their posted menu listed the usual rundown of schwarma platters, not to mention the personal endorsement of Seal (my power, my pleasure, my pain!), but I'm there for their namesake. I managed to blurt out the first French I had to speak to another individual in Paris, "Bon soir. Je voudrais deux falafels, s'il vous plait." He seemed to get the gist, I passed over my 9 Euros and soon I was carrying two falafel sandwiches, filled with pickled veggies, doused in tahini and hot sauce and the crunchy, crumbly, lovely falafels. I agree with Seal, the falafels were delightful.

Opening Day

Here it is. I feel... transformed? renewed? Temple of Tesh re-launches 2007 style. Say farewell to Entertainment Tonight and celebrity fanatic web sites. It's a new day. Think more A Passionate Life, Web 2.0 and celebrity fanatic blogs.

As before, please remove your shoes and kneel before the one and only John Tesh.