Get in my belly

Twelve days, sixteen hours of sleep and five games of Boggle daily, three books, three orders of escargots, four of bucatini all’amatriciana, four Michelin stars, fifteen bottles of wine, and many hundreds of miles in the heel of the Boot: some highlights and observations.

First up, the City of Light (though believe me, after four straight days of pork, pork, duck fat, and a little more pork, we were feeling anything but):

Le Comptoir was the perfect consolation after a somewhat disappointing and shockingly expensive meal at three-star L’Arpège. Sure, Passard’s vegetables vs. Camdeborde’s jarret du porc ain’t apples with apples, but that was soul and honesty I tasted in Comptoir’s chestnut-celery root soup, not just foie gras (though that was admittedly the best part, along with the tapioca pearls). Both soul and honesty were lacking — though I tried my damnedest to find them — in the twelve dishes of the set menu at L’Arpège. They were well executed, to be sure, but there was nothing revelatory, nothing transcendant, nothing really even that interesting about the food. And I tell you, I feel funny about eating €50 carrots. I fail to understand what’s so destination-place about this place. (We did, however, have a knock-your-socks-off bottle of Vernay Condrieu — Coteau de Vernon, I think — that had such a long, beautiful finish that I think I can still taste it.) Comptoir is always my best meal in Paris.

My second favorite meal on the Paris leg was a two-parter in the Marais, late on Saturday night: a mountain of steak tartare at a hip (but not too) wine bar surrounded by locals that reminded us of our drinking partners back at home, and an icy cold plate of oysters, served up by a shucker in an orange jumpsuit, and eaten while standing at the bar of a tiny little virtually huitres-only joint full of old men and working stiffs (romanticizing it, I may be, but this is Paris, after all).

My third favorite meal was acquired at Le Grand Epicerie (in between snacking on samples and admiring the fromage and charcuterie displays) and consumed on a park bench nearby. (The blood sausage and trois saveurs pâté had an airy plushness, with all the melting sweetness of pork and duck fat. Now THAT is some good forcemeat.)

One of our favorite sights in Paris.

I was surprised by the informality of high-end dining in Paris. So we weren’t at George V or Les Ambassadeurs, but still, jeans at L’Arpège? Not sure how I feel about the casualness of service both there and at Table du Lancaster. Isn’t part of the meal the careful choreography of the waitstaff? Attention to detail, anticipating needs — you know, service?

Next stop: Roma, la città eterna.

there seems to be this weird tendency for everyone to avoid making any kind of connection between corsica and sardinia, but having seen both now, i feel like they couldn’t be more similar. they even have virtually the same symbol.

like sardinia, there’s the same sort of harsh mountainous terrain perfumed with all kinds of wild herbs and vegetation (maquis or macchia, depending on your country). corsica is a little less burnt looking and has probably a little more flora. and then

there’s also that predilection for lamb and grilled meat and rustic cheeses. this is at the restaurant niobel in belgodere, near île-rousse in the north, where we were. la planche niobel: figatellu (pork liver sausage) is the dark thing in the back. there’s lamb and pork or maybe beef on here and that slice in the front seems to be a large piece of bacon or something.

called pagliagju (yeah, i couldn’t say it either) in dialect. to the right of the salad, there’s lonzu, coppa behind that, salami further to the right, and cheese beignets on the end.

from nice, a couple weekends ago (because summer just doesn’t feel right without a trip to the côte d’azur, sun-ravaged germans notwithstanding):

the bio tomates guy at the market.

tripes à la niçoise at lou pistou, with delicious, delicious chickpea fries.

on saturday, i insisted that we eat at yves camdeborde’s le comptoir, right by the odéon in the 6th. i’ve been dying to go, having followed the endless praise the bloggers and other writers have been heaping upon camdeborde and his food. unfortunately, i wasn’t around for one of the weekday dinners, when they fancy it up a bit. weekends and lunches are brasserie-style. that is, simple, straightforward, classic food that is just mind-blowingly, deliciously good. when i move to paris (someday), i’ll be a regular here.

my gazpacho andalou: sparkling, summery and bright with acidity. definitely helped me cool off in that heat wave over the weekend. there were all kinds of little treasures floating within and hidden in the depths of my bowl (including a staggering amount of garlic).

MIHT’s dodine de lapin (as made by someone’s aunt or grandmother. i didn’t do a good job of writing down the actual menu items.) a wonderful forcemeat with big meaty chunks of hare. the mustardy sauce and crisp lettuce offer great textural contrast while amplifying the subtle flavors of the dodine.

MIHT’s pig cheeks and ears with lentils. (i’ll let him describe his dish further.)

my cochon de lait, beautifully presented and so, so good. i wanted to eat it all over again, it was so good. the silky layer of skin and fat surrounding the yielding, sweet porcine morsels within — there were some choice little offal bits stuffed in there as well. some of the best pig i’ve ever eaten. up there with the middle white at st. john.

we had an assiette des fromages, a gateau opéra (MIHT) and crème brulée de caf� (moi). no more photos, though: i find the lingering taste of pork is best, don’t you?

this might make my top 5 restaurants of all time. (and i’ve not yet been for weekday dinner even!) there’s an attention to detail and well-defined aesthetic at work (and play) here. everything is pitch-perfect. if you’re in paris or anywhere near and haven’t been to le comptoir, go go go!

yes, on all the many macelleria doors here, there are signs that declare this town “the city of meat”. i’ve been here now for nearly a week (though the bulk of that was spent in a fog of jet-lag and general disorientation), and, as you might have guessed, i’ve discovered many interesting tidbits about bra.specifically, things you can find in bra: swiffer, philadelphia cream cheese, and outkast (”lend me some sugar, i AM your neighbor!”). all at the supermarket, naturally. and hamsters! there are hammies here. and excellent cheese. (neither of these are at the supermarket.) the cars also seem unusually large here; the number of SUVs that nearly run me over every day is disconcerting.

things you cannot find in bra: thai food (but there is a chinese “rotisserie,” and i actually discovered some fish sauce at the spice store), good bread, and, well, i guess you can find just about everything else here. that’s globalization for you, i suppose.

i had a mostly amusing/slightly scary run-in with the next door neighbor last night. you have to light the stove everytime you want to use it, and after some minor difficulties, i managed to run out of the matches a friend had donated to me, so i was compelled (by my desire to finally cook a meal at home and thus feel more at home) to borrow some. however, little old man next door invites me in and is immediately intrigued by my foreign face. he tried to ask me some questions about where i’m from, what i was doing here, but my minimal comprehension thwarted these efforts. and every time i tried to explain that i didn’t understand, he would laugh and grab my cheek and pinch it. sometimes he got so worked up, he would grab both cheeks at the same time, “che carina!” (apparently incomprehension is cute.) he started telling me how he’d lived in the town for 27 years and now he was in this house all by himself. when he started opening the doors to his closets, i made for the exit and managed to make it back to my dinner unscathed. that shit ain’t a joke.