Horse Eaters

Oh geez, I am late with the updates.  Nevermind the timing, I assure you our last meal at Verre Vole (with Milosh and Jakob) was top-notch.

And, we tried the horse tartare.

H-O-R-S-E.

I'd heard it can be tougher than beef, so I was intrigued to try it raw.  It was definitely gamier and more flavorful than a traditional beef tartare.  (Or was it more flavorful because I'm used to the taste of a beef tartare?  hmm...)  It was very lean and almost sweet, as well.  

We all enjoyed it, but poor Melora was visited by a freakish horse-like character in her dreams that night.  Probably the second coming of our delicious Black Beauty.  

Crispy fishies.

Pulpo with green papaya.

Halfway through some squid.

Deliciousness.

Zombies at Astier

We really did make quite an attempt at dinner, despite a prolific jetlag that attempted to take down at least four of us. You know what, jetlag, we had reservations and limited time and a cheese plate calling so you'll have to do better next time!

It's all about sharing at Astier, where you can help yourself to as much herring as you'd like for your starter.   M described it perfectly as the salad bar coming to you!

And the baba au rhum is bar none.  This really doesn't capture the depth of the rum at the bottom of the bowl, so let me tell you that there was plenty.  After a lengthy pour (I think we were sitting there with our mouths open when he finally stopped pouring), the waiter told us that if we wanted more rum just to ask for it!  This is definitely a dessert to be shared.

Candelaria

J + F were in town this weekend, so we went to all of the haunts.

Candelaria has been heaped with praise since word got out.  And it's all justified.

(My props go to Ashley for discovering this place when it just opened.  I'm sure I would have been a regular by now, but the thought of going without it in those months is just awful.)

As you can imagine, there is a dearth of Mexican food in Paris.  Oh rather, a dearth of good Mexican food.  We are lucky enough to have both El Nopal (good for burritos) and El Guacamole (good meats, but the tortillas are not house-made) in our neighborhood.

And Candelaria, well it's almost in our neighborhood.  I'm not complaining about a 10-minute walk for tacos this good.  And I'm definitely not complaining about the fact that it is both on my way home from work and a realistic (for timing and location) lunch spot.  Yeah, maybe I'm actually sorta bragging about that.

Because once you try these tacos and tostadas, you will want to have them every day.  And that is actually feasible for me.

*ppfffbttt!*

Le Chateaubriand

Dinner yum yums with J + F.

Bon sang!  

Is that blood on the wine list?!

My photos of the food didn't turn out that great, so I am not posting them.  It was my first time at Le Chateaubriand (though I have been to Le Dauphin enough times to be thoroughly enamored with it), and I was fairly certain I knew what to expect.  I would be challenged, confronted, made to question.  Yeah, I am still talking about food.  People either love Le Chateaubriand and hail Inaki Aizpitarte as a crazy genius, or they think it's all just silly and cold.  I also know people who have left hungry.  After a tasting menu.  Shame!

So what did I think?  I guess I'm one of the weirdos who was sort of "meh" about it.  The whole thing didn't elicit any extreme emotional response.  The ingredients were fresh and at their peak and perfectly prepared.  And there was some "wit" that I appreciated, like a watermelon salad with watermelon jellies in the same size/shape as the real bits of watermelon.  But overall, I didn't find the menu inspired enough to have me either raving or hating.  It was all just... alright.  

Again, I clarify that the ingredients were perfect and delicious, but I expected more from the 9th best restaurant in the world.  More molecular gastronomy and science, more odd flavor combinations that connected just right, more inspiration.  

But that's the beauty of the 55 euro tasting.  There's really no harm done to my pocketbook.  I'm madder about the dimes I dropped on those sadistic OC shoes.  

My further contributions to Aizpitarte's bank account will likely be from Le Dauphin side.

American Frenchie

We went to Frenchie Bar a Vins* last night, and this entry is not going to be about the food.

You are right to wonder.

Well, I can’t not mention it, so I will tell you what we ate, just to get it out of the way.  We had cured pork belly from a black pig (this was sliced thin and was like eating butter) served with rosemary-infused crispy flatbread.  Then smoked trout with… honestly, I can’t remember all that was with it, but the presentation was beautiful and the levels of taste divine.  (I should have just taken a picture, but I didn’t.  More on that later.)  Then we had burrata with peaches and balsalmic.  Then we had tete de cochon, which was chunky and magical and covered in mustard seeds.  Then we had napoleon cheese (sheep's milk) with truffle honey and shaved summer truffles.

Y-U-M.

Needless to say it was worth the 20-minute wait outside and another 20 minutes inside standing (but now with wine!) to experience these tastes.


But the clientele that had me conflicted.

How to say this without sounding like a hypocrite?  Or maybe I just embrace the hypocrisy of it and say... that it was way too American for me.

Now here's the hypocrisy.  I am American.  And I love being American.  My French is passable, at best, so sometimes it is a comfort to converse with a Parisian in my native tongue.  But I was thoroughly irked by the fact that every table, every person in the place was speaking English natively.  (Except for the waiter/bartender.)

I realize that Paris is a foodie destination, and that many foodies are from the United States.  And that good restaurants attract foodies from all over the world.  Frenchie is a destination restaurant, for sure. (According to TripAdvisor, it is ranked #1.  Yikes.)  But why does all of the English-speaking lessen my experience?  Because I am in Paris, I suppose.  And because I crave authenticity.  And a room full of English-speakers in Paris does not an authentic environment make.

(Again, I must state that the food was amazing.)

But I am conflicted because this is my tongue and these are my people.  I saw at least three groups that I knew were on holiday.  And how lucky am I that I live in a city that people choose to visit?  I knew that if we didn't get into the wine bar last night, we could come back next week... or the week after... or whenever we damn well pleased.  But for one especially dolled-up group, I knew that last night was their only shot.  (Did I let them have my place at the bar, though?  No.  First come, first served!  But I would have felt bad if they had been turned away entirely.)

And, oh yeah, about the lack of photos.  I didn't want to be another "tourist" snapping away over my plate.  Usually, I photograph my food with no problem but the environment made me want to act as authentically Parisian as possible.  Not that I was putting on, and not that I won't go back there.  Because if you come visit, we should totally go.  If only so I can photograph the delicious offerings next time.


* Frenchie is a hot resto in Paris that books out months in advance.

StL Times

Some captures of the last week in St. Louis...

The great room has lots going on.

Great signage across from Bevo Mill.

The Bevo Mill! Went for brunch with Maria, Big Ger, and Aunt Helen. The building has a rich history and was built by August Busch. It was originally his private dining room and was built midway between the brewery and Grant's Farm. During the prohibition, Bevo (the non-alcoholic "beer" drink) was served there. Busch studied various Dutch windmills before building his own, which is 60 feet in diameter! The building was completed in 1916 for the large sum of $250,000.





The dining room. Sadly, the brunch wasn't so hot, but it was definitely all about the atmosphere. Plus, we had Groupons! So it was, like, totally cheap! :) Either way, I will not be yelping about this one...

The gnomes were exhibited at the Paris exhibition of 1898 and cost $50,000 in 1916. Pretty nice.

Aunt Helen, dad, me.

Mom and Aunt Helen.

Also took in a Cards game. This is an iphone photo of Albert Pujols batting. I swear. I mean, you can tell the stance, right? Also, Brad Penny hit a grand slam home run. Woop!

Pattern on pattern! And new hairs!

This is Hilde cat. She is a scared-y cat.

So she likes to sit here, in her self-imposed jail.

Later, Hilde cat!


Artsy at the airport bar. Will I ever remember to check flight status before I get to the airport?? Delayed, of course...