Category: clarence

Not Frontin’

  • Buy an annual pass and tour the Louvre from top to bottom (this will take a while, so I’ll list the collections so I can cross them off periodically:  Egyptian antiquities; Near Eastern antiquities; Greek, Etruscan, and Roman collection; Islamic art; sculpture; decorative arts; painting; and prints and drawing).

  • Eat a Pierre Hermé white truffle macaron and a foie gras and chocolate macaron (if possible)

You totally thought I was kidding about this list thing, didn’t you?

Like I’m some kind of procrastinating slacker who talks a big game but doesn’t follow through, often neglecting her blog for weeks at a time!

But seriously, guys, I’m seriously serious about this thing. So serious, in fact, that after writing “The List,” I went out and bought a rotisserie chicken with fingerling potatoes roasted in the roasting grease (so. good.) and a new Bordeaux that I hadn’t tried (Eat as much charcuterie, foie gras, rillettes, truffles, rabbit, duck, rotisserie chickens, and oysters as possible and Try as many French wines as possible and keep a record of ones I love, respectively). Somewhere in between the wine shop and my apartment I began blubbering again about having to leave Paris, so the following morning B and I dutifully shuffled over to the Louvre. We recently discovered that despite not feeling especially jeune, we both still qualify for the 30 euro annual youth pass, which means unlimited admission to the permanent collection, all temporary exhibitions, and cultural events. Quite a deal, especially for people who definitely don’t get carded anymore. So sixty clams and two questionable ID photos later we were in the Egyptian antiquities, which we figured would be easy to bang out in a day. Wrong, wrong, wrong. You know the fantasy plan, that one where you spend a week going through the Louvre and see everything from top to bottom? Add another week or two to that itnerary. Three or four hours of devoted museuming and we had only managed to cover half of the Egyptian antiquities, buzzing through the sarcophagi and mummies far too quickly at the end.

Oh man, the Louvre is so great. I had sort of forgotten how amazing and astounding and totally humbling it is. It’s the kind of place that really reminds you what a speck you are in the great march of human history. Also, there’s nothing better than watching little kids go through and look at things from Ancient Egypt. Having been one of those six year olds who declared that I wanted to be “an Egyptologist” when I grew up, I particularly love the really serious ones. There was one boy, probably eight or so with bottle-thick glasses, who was carefully sketching various hieroglyphs that caught his interest. Both B and I melted in the face of his diligence and rigor. While I don’t really remember much from my Egyptology days (I get my sieve-brain from my dad), B is a perfectly preserved antiquities-nut. I would throughly recommend touring any kind of antique or medieval museum exhibition with B, and I don’t just say this because I’m dating him. He’s really the best guide ever in these places because remembers all of the gross and interesting stuff, like which organs went into which urns during the mummification process and how they extracted the brain via the nostrils and how cursive hieroglyphic script is formed and who the major and minor gods and goddesses were. He also doesn’t mind spending extra time in the jewelry displays and humors me when I spend twenty minutes or so deciding which ring I would want in the imaginary universe where the precious antiquities collection at the Louvre is actually a flea-market.

My camera died before we reached the mummy (!), but here are a few things I really liked:

I’ve got puppies on the brain, obviously.

The eyes have it, every time:

Ancient Egyptian castanets were shaped like hands!  Did you know this?  I didn’t:

* * *

Finally, let’s not pretend that you come here to see my stupid museum photos. You come for the food! As you can see above, they finally released the white truffle Pierre Hermé macaron. B and I picked two up, along with some green tea/ginger/red bean and chestnut/green tea ones. A savory afternoon tasting, paired with a splendid smoky black tea that our friends from Hong Kong brought us as a gift and that B has finally learned to brew like a pro (it’s a tempermental beast, but well worth the effort). We saved the truffle macarons for last, as we had been told that they are palate-killers of the first order. They even bag them separately from the other macarons because their scent is so strong! I can’t even describe how fantastic these are. I wish that I was someone like Jeffrey Steingarten or Chandler Burr, someone who can vividly evoke tastes and scents in their prose. Alas, I can’t, so I’ll just say that they are slightly sweet, but mostly savory, with a delicate shell and buttery interior cut with macadamia nuts. The taste of white truffles is pronounced but not overpowering. They taste of autumn, and of the earth, and of luxury. When I asked B if it was among the top cookies he’s ever eaten, he corrected me and said that it was among the top things he’s ever eaten, and I’d tend to agree. They are perfect in every way. Even their white iridescent sheen is amazing. You should buy some immediately if you are in Paris and if you aren’t, I’ll concede that this is one thing you should be unabashedly jealous over. Pierre Hermé, I tip my hat. You are macaron Gods among men and I suspect that what you do qualifies in most cultures as alchemy.

I have a birthday coming up and I just saw this at the bookstore:

There are recipes, apparently! Perhaps a way to stave off the want when I return to the States next year?

Zee Vinter Soups

So at some point in the past two weeks winter decided to come to Paris. Man, oh man, do I hate winter now. Especially in a place like this, where it more often than not means gray, overcast day after gray, overcast day, with a fair amount of freezing rain and howling winds on the side.  I keep buying coats with the idea that I will eventually find one that keeps me warm but doesn’t render me a sweaty, overheated mess when I go from the cold street into the hot, crowded métro. I haven’t succeeded yet, though I did sink my clothing budget for the month into a pretty serious puffy down coat from Uniqlo. I could tell you about how it is Jil Sander’s line and looks nothing like the puffy coat my mother wore to shovel the driveway when I was a kid, but I’d be lying through my teeth.  Like most things in my life, it is symptomatic of the fact that my mom was usually right about things, and I had my head up my ass. The universal realization of growing up, I suppose.

Anyway, all this WINTER has meant that we have been making a lot of SOUPS.  Some of them have been less stellar than others, but a few have been knockouts and I suspect that they will become a regular part of our schedule.  One that already has near-weekly place in the rotation is my lentil soup:

You see lentils and you think “healthy,” right?  Wrong!  I mean, I guess these are healthy in an abstract sense, but like most things in my life they actually contain a lot of pork fat and booze.  Surprise, surprise!  But they are seriously delicious, and get increasingly so if you make enough for leftovers.  They are easy and a hearty dinner in their own right, especially if you pair with some fresh bread (we buy our baguettes from the amazing Huré, 18 rue Rambuteau, Paris 75003, Métro Rambuteau, and will never pledge this kind of devotion to another bakery again) and a big green salad.

T’s Weekday Lentils

2 small, or 1 large, package of lardons (Lardons are matchstick or cube-cut pieces of bacon or larding fat cut from the belly of pork. In France, you can buy them in any supermarket in convenient packages. If you live in the States, you can ask your butcher if they sell pre-cut lardons, or you can buy pork belly and cut them yourself with a sharp knife.  Alternately, you substitute cubed bacon.  I’m a huge fan of Niman Ranch’s Applewood Smoked Bacon.  One package cut into strips would do quite nicely.)

3-4 large garlic cloves, chopped roughly

1 large (or two small) purple onions, diced

3-4 big carrots, diced

5 tablespoons of San Marzano tomato paste (or whatever you have, but seriously, spend the extra buck and get the San Marzano tomatoes from now on.  They will change your life.)

2 cups of chicken stock (We make our own, not because we are so sophisticated but because we eat a positively absurd amount of rotisserie chickens and my boyfriend is terrified of wasting anything.)

2 bottles of a burly red wine (One for the soup, one for you to drink with dinner.  By burly, I mean that this isn’t the time for a merlot or a pinot noir.  This is the time for a Bourgogne or a Côte du Rhône.  Maybe one of those punchy Australian syrahs would be nice! I’m not a wine snob, so just buy something cheap enough that you don’t mind cooking with it but decent enough that you enjoy drinking it.)

3-4 cups of French green lentils, rinsed and picked through for stones (I guess you could use a different kind of lentil, but it might change the amount of liquid you need.  All the more reason to buy and extra bottle of wine and eat another rotisserie chicken).

2 tablespoons of dried herbes de provence (I put this in everything, and it’s always good).

Salt, pepper, and crushed red pepper flakes (or Srichacha), to taste

Put a big pot on the stove over medium-high heat. When hot, throw in your lardons.  Cook, stirring occasionally, past the point where they release all their water, to the point where all the fat melts and they start to brown. Using a slotted spoon, remove the lardons from the pot, leaving the fat in the bottom. You should have enough to cook your veggies, but if it looks like they weren’t particularly fatty you can add a bit of olive oil.  Return the pot to the heat and add your onions. It should smell amazing. Once your onions have started to become translucent, add the garlic, carrots, herbes de provence, and browned lardons. Cook for a few minutes stirring regularly until everything has softened up.  Then add your lentils, stirring so that they become well-coated with fat. This is a trick B learned from a French lady, and it really does help your lentils cook. Then, when everything is nice and hot and starting to sizzle, add the tomato paste. Stir around, and then slowly begin adding wine. You want to keep the temperature up, so don’t add your liquid all at once. I usually put in about three-quarters of a bottle of wine.  You can do more or less, based on your own taste. I arrived at this magical amount because I usually drink a glass while I’m cooking, and give another to B when he gets home from work. Once I’ve added all the wine and the pot is simmering, I top it off with chicken stock until it reaches the top. I’ll be honest, the lentil to wine/stock ratios aren’t exact here, as different lentils need different amounts of cooking liquid.  Remember, you can always add more liquid if they start to burn, but you shouldn’t add wine too close to end of the cooking process because it won’t have time to mellow out. Turn down to low heat, partially cover, and walk away (stirring occasionally).  It usually takes about two hours for this to turn into something magnificent.  I add salt, pepper, and crushed red pepper flakes once the lentils have cooked, as I’ve found that I tend to over-salt if I do it beforehand.  You’ll know it’s done when everything is tender and thick.

* * *

B is a well-documented mushroom maniac, so when the chanterelles, death trumpets, oyster mushrooms, and enormous cêpes began showing up at the vegetable market, he became a jittery mess. I suggested that he make an autumn mushroom soup, which was perhaps the best suggestion I’ve ever made. After tinkering around with some recipes he found online, he created the following masterpiece.

B’s Manic Cream of Wild Mushroom Soup

1 pound, or thereabouts, of assorted wild mushrooms (we bought giant cêpes, death trumpets, and golden chanterelles, though shitakes and oyster mushrooms would have been terrific as well), cleaned and roughly chopped

1 large leek, cut on the bias

White flour

White wine (I believe we used a Mâcon-Villages, though anything dry and not too sweet would work just fine)

Chicken stock

Container of crème fraîche (or heavy cream for those stateside)

Fresh thyme

Salted butter (please don’t insult mushrooms like these with margarine or oil)

Set about one-third of your mushrooms aside (we set aside the otherworldly chanterelles).  Sauté the remaining two-thirds along with the leeks in butter until browned.  You will have to do this in batches, as it is important to not crowd your mushrooms as they cook (thanks Julia Child!).

When slightly browned, sprinkle with flour and brown a bit further until it looks and smells really yummy (highly scientific, I know).  Once you have browned all of the leeks and two-thirds of your mushrooms, gradually put the mixture in the food processor, using chicken stock as a liquid to get things moving. You should be left with an paste, which you should add to a pot with equal parts white wine and chicken stock. In another frying pan, brown up the mushrooms you reserved. These will not be pureed and will give your soup some texture.

Once browned, add to your burgeoning soup, along with the crème fraîche, thyme, and salt and pepper to taste.  Cook for about thirty minutes over low heat, be careful not to boil this delicate soup.  Serve with white wine, crusty bread, and a big salad (are you noticing a theme here?).

* * *

Finally, I’d like to share with you a soup that can be added to the annals of “growing up is good!” As my mom will certainly attest, I was kind of a weird kid when it came to food. I wasn’t a fan of many of the staples of American childhood, including peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apple juice, or tomato soup. And while the idea of peanut butter and jelly still makes me nauseous, I’ve been coming around on tomato soup, especially when pair with a classic grilled cheese. Now everybody has their own version of the “perfect” grilled cheese (mine is with buttered wheat bread, Colby cheese, and should slightly burned on one side). Lately, in the absence of my beloved Colby (you can take the girl out of Colorado…), I’ve been making French grilled cheeses with a combination of Mimolette and Emmentaler. At the suggestion of the genius Aarti Sequeira, whose show and internet videos you should be watching if you aren’t already, I’ve begun adding carmelized onions to my grilled cheeses. Amazing and very grown-up.

I’ve struggled a bit more with the tomato soup part of the meal, as I find conventional canned tomato soups to be pretty gag-worthy. I started playing around with combinations I liked and last night I found the holy trinity: tomatoes, roasted red peppers, and basil. This ain’t your momma’s tomato soup, that is, if your momma was in the habit of opening a can of Campbell’s.  But it’s pretty stupidly easy and paired with a grilled cheese it makes for a yummy winter meal.

T’s Consummate Tomato, Roasted Red Pepper, and Basil Soup

Extra-virgin olive oil for sautéing

1 white onion, diced

2-3 large cloves of garlic, crushed

2 cans of San Marzano crushed tomatoes (seriously already!  Life changing!)

1 jar of roasted red peppers in water, chopped and keep the water (approximately five whole roasted peppers if you are fancy and burdened by so much free time that you want to roast your own)

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1 cup chicken stock (or ½ cup chicken stock and ½ cup of white wine)

2 tablespoons of good balsamic vinegar (when buying Aceto Balsamico Tradizionale di Modena, make sure you pick a brand with the seal and the cream-colored cap, which means that it was aged for at least 12 years. If you roll like Daddy Warbucks, splurge on the gold-capped variety, which has been aged for 25 years)

1 bunch of fresh basil (about 20-25 leaves)

Salt and pepper to taste

1 container of crème fraîche (or heavy cream, or half and half, as you like)

Saute the onion and garlic in olive oil until translucent. Add cans of tomatoes, red peppers, red pepper water, chicken stock, balsamic vinegar, and oregano. Simmer over low heat for about an hour and a half, or until the tomatoes sweeten up. Remove from heat and cool slightly, and then add roughly torn fresh basil leaves. Transfer and carefully process until smooth in food processor or blender (or use your immersion blender, you fancypants). Return to stove and add crème fraîche and salt and pepper to taste.  Cook on very low for about a half hour more.

Well that’s it people.  I hope you like these. As with everything I cook, I’m always tinkering with the recipe, so if you make any amazing adjustments, let me know. And I’m always looking for new soup ideas, so if you’ve got a real gem up your sleeve, please share!

 

Clarence and the Cinquecento: La Canteen Merci

Today I met my lady love M for lunch at the Canteen at Merci (111 boulevard Beaumarchais, 75003 Paris, Métro Saint Sébastien-Froissart) a concept store in the Marais. The enormous, three-floor warehouse-style space sells clothes for men, women, and children, as well as housewares, furniture, used books, stationary, and a handful of other things that you absolutely don’t need in this or any other universe. I’ll officially lose all lefty street cred by admitting this (did I have any remaining?), but I really love this store. Or, better put, I would really love this store if everything didn’t cost as much as my rent.  I understand that the idea behind a “concept store” is that it is a tightly-curated assemblage of objects from a variety of brands, usually in a beautiful or otherwise arty space. Everything at Merci is gorgeous or interesting. Everyone who shops and eats there is gorgeous and interesting.  Going to Merci is like walking into a parallel universe where everyone is a hip Paris gallery owner or a necktie designer. Perhaps a testament to my own bobo pretensions, I actually say “concept store” now, so the prelude dialogue sounds something like this:

B: Where are you and M going to lunch today?

Me: La Canteen Merci.

B: Is it a restaurant?

Me: Um, sort of.  It’s a lunch place inside of a concept store.

B:  A concept store?  Like things are only theoretically for sale?  <smirk>

Later, after I had gotten dressed, I asked B how I looked. “Like you are having lunch in a concept store,” he responded. Honestly, I would hesitate to take him to Merci, or any of the men in my life to Merci, as it it takes “bobo affectation” to a whole new level. But, there is a handsome café near the street lined with used books for sale and inexpensive coffees, and a beautiful garden in the center of the complex, both of which the boys I hang out with would really like. But today was a ladies lunch and we did it up to the max. After browsing through the store, which amounted to little more than cooing as we stroked various handbags and wimpering as we fingered scarves, we headed to the basement where La Canteen Merci is housed. I didn’t take many pictures, because concept stores don’t like it when you take pictures, probably because they are afraid that other people will steal their concepts.

So you’ll just have to trust me when I say that La Canteen is a beautiful, whitewashed space with both small tables and long communal ones. The back wall is composed of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on a courtyard garden, a space so sublime that whatever garden or green space you call your own will surely seem wanting.  I don’t think you can actually go in the garden itself, though it is appointed with a perfectly rustic set of chairs, so I usually spend a few minutes fantasizing that the Merci courtyard is my own and I spend my long afternoons reading there. Clarence usually shakes me out of my reverie to examine the central table at Merci, where all of the salads, tartes, and desserts that have been prepared for the day sit in white ceramic bowls and terrines (all for sale at Merci, of course). There is usually a savory tart of the day, as well as seasonal soups, a meat dish, and some lovely cheeses (including a heavenly molten St. Marcellin, which you can make easily at home by putting a St. Marcellin in the oven for a few minutes before you serve it). For my money, however, the star attraction at La Canteen is the salads, the amazing, perfect, I-could-seriously-become-a-vegetarian-over-this salads. While I always contemplate ordering something else, I always end up getting the grande assiette des salades (14€, and a much better deal than the petite assiette, 9€). The big plate comes with a small serving of all of the salads of the day, which are always organic, local, and celebrate seasonal produce.

Today, it looked like this:

Let’s start at the carrots and move clockwise, shall we?  First, the traditional French grated carrot salad, but instead of a lemon vinagrette, M figured out that they dress theirs with a sweet orange juice. So sweet and simple and familiar, but also totally unexpected.  Next, we have fresh peas cooked al dente, served with thin slices of baby radishes and cilantro. This is followed by roasted fennel, dressed with an avocado vinagrette. In season, they sometimes put pomegranate seed in this one, which is a truly inspired salad combination if there ever was one.  Next we have a mélange of green apples, red beets, pine nuts, and baby beet greens, all dyed an amazing fuschia from the beet juice. Following that (and slightly obscured by a beet green leaf) is La Canteen’s quinoa salad, out of which I discern fresh mint, parsley, and lime juice. I’ve tried to replicate it and it’s impossible. I have no earthly idea how they get their quinoa so light and fluffy, but if I could make this at home it would go a long way in putting quinoa in my diet in a more serious fashion. Lastly, we have a slightly spicy roasted broccoli. Everything is served with a fresh baguette.

Let’s be honest guys, I don’t really like vegetables.  I’m not really a person that you’ll ever hear say, “Man, I’m really craving some GREENS!”  In fact, I could probably subsist entirely on meats, cheeses, and breads without much complaint (pickles don’t count as a vegetable, right?)  The fact that I actually get excited about Merci’s salad plate is a testament to how fantastically fresh and well-handled these salads are.  Better yet, if you eat all your vegetables, you have a good excuse to order dessert:

While today they also had a tempting moelleux au chocolat and a fluffy carrot cake, M and I settled on their apple and red berry crumble, which is a house staple made with seasonal fruits. It’s always everything you’ve ever wanted a crumble to be, and ours had just been pulled out of the oven.

Lest you think that all I do is brag about yummy things I’ve eaten without the possibility of sharing them with you, let me now direct your attention to this La Toquéra video from Le Fooding.  Here, the chefs at La Canteen Merci prepare their signature crumble with rhubarb and strawberries.  The recipe is also included, so you can make it at home if the mood strikes you. We’ve been seeing some beautiful apples at the market lately that are just begging for a crumble, but alas, ovens are for only the very lucky in this town.

How are you today dear reader?  I hope you are having a lovely autumn day.

Clarence Heads Outside the Schengen Zone: Turkish Delights in Paris

Our dinner at Al Taglio last weekend was a last minute decision, as we had originally planned to eat Turkish food with our new friend ME, who is originally from Turkey and determined to show us that there is more to Turkish food than döner kebab. This lesson in mind, we reconvened on Friday night at the charmingly cluttered Le Cheval de Troie (71 rue de Charenton, 75012 Paris, Métro Ledru-Rollin). I has dumbly asked B earlier in the night why on earth a Turkish restaurant would be called the Trojan Horse. He responded that Troy had been in Turkey, obviously. Like, why haven’t I been working on my ancient geography? It must be getting embarrassing to be with someone like me. All sound and fury and incapable of situating ancient city-states in modern-day nations. I’m drowning in shame.

Anyway, Troy was in modern day Turkey, dear reader. Did you know that? I suggest you get to your Iliad review pronto if you didn’t.

This whole thing was funny to me because B’s latest project involves mapping early Christian sites onto an enormous Google map, combining two of his most obsessive passions: 1) anything Biblical and 2) anything map. Most days he spends his time crouched over his laptop in what must be an excruciatingly painful position, surveying satellite images and making little whimpering noises of joy when he manages to find ruins of the original monastery run by St. Ambrose the Pallid, now gathering moss behind a gas station in rural Egypt. Or something like that.

Anyway, back to Turkish food.

We met up with ME and his daughter E, who has begun reading this blog and would like to be known as EON, the explanation for which I lost in a flurry of 14-year-old energy. Seriously, Friday night made me feel like I was about a hundred years old.  EON was on fire, cracking jokes about everyone and sketching funny anthropomorphic cartoons of us in her notebook. As the night wore on and her energy level only increased, I was struck by one of those all-too-depressing realizations of aging:  I don’t have the energy-level of a teenager anymore. Not even close. I suppose I should have realized this in one of the many classes full of teenagers that I teach, but those aren’t usually at 11 p.m. Even after a Turkish coffee, I was still yawning by the end of the meal, a fact that astounded EON. You just wait, kiddo.  Give it a decade or two.

We were warmly greeted by the proprietor of Le Cheval de Troie, which I first assumed was because of ME’s Turkish banter, but later realized was just the in-house policy.  As per usual with ME and B, we ordered waaay too much food, but everything was delicious and it was fun to try some new things. (Do I sound like a blithe orientalist yet?  No?  It’s coming.) I was particularly psyched about the large jugs of Ayran (sour yogurt drink) that we ordered, as I’m a fiend for yogurt products of all kinds.  The Ayran at Le Cheval de Troie was a lot like buttermilk – tangy and totally refreshing. I could drink it every day.

Eager for us to try everything, ME ordered everyone a plate of Kiymali Lahmacun, a kind of flatbread spread with spiced ground beef.  Really yummy, and quickly devoured by all.

B, M, and I all ordered menus, which were reasonably priced at about 20 euros for an entrée, plate, and dessert.  My entrée was kizartma, roasted eggplant and bell peppers served with a spicy garlic and yogurt sauce:

B ordered sarma (which I know better as dolmas) heavily-spiced rice wrapped in grape leaves and served with garlic yogurt sauce:

M, brave little bird that she is, ordered arnavut cigeri, or lamb livers. Usually a big fan of organ meats of all kinds, I was out of my league with this one and had a tough time getting my bite down. But M was delighted by her entrée, which as usual made me wonder why someone as cool as her still deigns to keep company with me.

Among the many delicious main plates that we ordered, I especially liked my icli peynirli köfte, heavily spiced ground beef topped with melted Kachecaval cheese:

M’s adana kebap, a brochette of ground beef spiced with garlic and parsley, was particularly lovely (no picture).  B had an amazing leg of lamb that was wrapped in roasted eggplant and falling off the bone tender:

They only serve it on Friday and Saturday nights, but it would definitely be worth the trip for on a weekend.

For dessert, we shared orders of baklava, sesame halva, dondurmali sütlac (Turkish rice pudding), and rosewater lokum (commonly known by idiots like me as Turkish Delight). All were really terrific, but the buttery-sweet baklava was something truly special.  I could have eaten an entire tray of the stuff by myself, and only begrudgingly shared my portion with my friends. Sometimes I’m such an only child.

* * *

Let’s say, for a moment, that you are one of these regressive Westerners who think that Turkish food means nothing but döner kebab, preferably eaten late at night while hammered.  In that case, I will humbly recommend what I find to be the two best kebab places in all of Paris. I’m sure anyone who cares about these things will argue that this is not a particularly great town for kebab (you’ve got to head for Berlin for that).  However, we’ve found two places that more than get the job done.

The first, Délice Dégustation (8 rue de Faubourg Saint-Denis, 75010 Paris, Métro Strausbourg Saint-Denis), is in B’s old neighborhood, the, uh, “atmospheric” Strausbourg Saint-Denis. B spent his first year in France living on rue Blondel, one of the oldest streets for prostitution in France. There have been brothels operating on this street since the Middle Ages, including the famous Aux Belles Poules (The Beautiful Chicks), a legendary Belle Époque whorehouse that counted Henry Miller among its regular patrons. Saint-Denis is still bustling hotspot for prostitutes, johns, and men who hang out in betting parlors all day. That said, rue Faubourg Saint-Denis is also a bustling, lively market street at all hours of the day. If you find yourself in the neighborhood, make sure to grab a cheap pint at Le Sully (13 rue de Faubourg Saint-Denis, 75010 Paris, Métro Strausbourg Saint-Denis), B’s favorite bar, before heading across the street to Délice Dégustation (disregard the large pizza signs that seem to trump the kebab, they don’t). Once there, grab a tray and order a veal or chicken kebab in a pita, which here is flatter and more tortilla-like bread that what I’m used to in the States. Make sure to ask for extra harissa, which is made in-house and one of the first genuinely spicy things I’ve eaten in Paris. You’ll get a giant tray of fresh-from-the-fryer fries and a döner kebab that you could easily make two meals from. Sit outside and gaze at the Porte Saint-Denis and watch the riff-raff go by. You might just see B, soaking up “the real Paris” before he scuttles back to his new digs in the Marais.

Or, should you find yourself in Belleville after a late-night concert at La Maroquinerie, La Bellevilloise, or Café de la Danse, may I recommend a stop at the inimitable Döner Burger (52 rue Ménilmontant, 75020 Paris, Métro Ménilmontant).  This place takes fast food to a whole new level. Served sandwich-style in a fluffy bun, their signature döner burger is my bar-none favorite drunk food in Paris.  Or, you can get a spicy, totally satisfying köfte burger.  Either way, make sure and also order an ice-cold two-euro Efes beer, one of the best deals in town. The guys who run the place are really great and seem to be rather obsessed with watching episodes of Dawson’s Creek that have been dubbed into Turkish. I don’t need to tell you that this alone would seal the deal for someone like me.

* * *

We saw the newest Woody Allen flick You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger this weekend. I really enjoyed it, but that of course is kind of a no-brainer for someone like me. B has recently noted that I have kind of a limited taste for genre and tend to gravitate only towards films about neurotic upper-class urbanites. In an effort to counteract this, he has been making me watch Battlestar Galactica, which I wanted to hate but am now entirely obsessed with. This is a big step for me, as I’ve always detested sci-fi or fantasy of any kind. I’ll admit that I still get pretty anxious about how quickly the narrative can spin out of control when you set your television series in “a possible universe,” rather than limiting the scope of the action to the island of Manhattan. But regardless, I’m hooked. B woke up in the middle of the night a few days ago to me yelling “Oh my god!  The fence isn’t real!  The fence isn’t real!  The Cylons are coming!” When he woke me up and asked what I was dreaming about, I apparently eyed him suspiciously and declared that I was confused, but it was still possible that he was a Cylon. I have no recollection of this interchange, but still find it pretty funny. Before long I should be playing Dungeons and Dragons and reading the Wheel of Time. Or not. Maybe I’ll just stick with New Yorker-endorsed sci-fi series for now. Gotta take the long dark path into real-dorkdom nice and slow.

Clarence Gets Down and Dirty with the Kimchi: Hang-A-Li

Let’s talk about Korean food in Paris, shall we?

Many moons ago I recommended one Han Lim as a possible venue for getting some “spare but functional” Korean food in Paris. It was kind of a throwaway entry – stock photo of some kimchi, a few offhand remarks about how sick of French food I was, and some rather lukewarm praise of the place. Would you believe that this is one of my highest ranked entries? I literally can’t tell you how many people arrive at this site from googling “Korean food in Paris” or “kimchi.” If Han Lim has seen any kind of spike in their Anglophone business in the past six months, it’s entirely my doing. I can be thanked in soju.

Worse yet, I believe the picture of kimchi that accompanies that totally lackluster few paragraphs is now one of the top Google images that comes back from searching “kimchi.” I stole it from some poor (now-anonymous) bloke’s Flickr or something and never even thought of giving credit where credit is due. I’m a jerk, you unnamed-yet-brilliant photographer of spicy fermented cabbage! Contact me and I’ll send you a special Keeping the Bear Garden in the Background thank you gift!

As an aside, I keep telling readers to contact me for their special Keeping the Bear Garden in the Background prizes and they never do. And it’s a shame, because all of these amazing champagne stoppers and lenticular postcards are just gathering dust, when they could be keeping your leftover Prosecco bubbly and your children amused.

All of this is to say that I’ve since found much better Korean food in Paris since I started frequenting the Asian district of the first arrondissement. I’m still nuts for Higuma, but have started branching out to other restaurants off of rue Sainte Anne since their kimchi ramen left me a little bit cold (I’m still a rabid loyalist to their yakatori, however). Anyway, a recent stroll led B and I to discover the nearby Hang-A-Li (7 rue Louvois, 75002 Paris, Métro Quatre-Septembre), a warm and friendly Korean restaurant that is doing some serious and scrumptious cooking.

First of all, their banchan is much closer to what I’m used to from eating Korean food in Southern California. While it’s varied from night to night, you can expect to see baechu kimchi, dongchimi (cabbage in a white brine), oijangajji muchim (pickled cucumbers), sigeumchi namul (blanched spinach dressed with soysauce, sesame oil, and garlic), kongnamul (bean sprouts with sesame oil), and musaengchae (julienned white radishes in a sweet vinegar sauce).  A rather thick, but lovely pajeon (savory pancakes with spring onions) can be ordered as an entrée.

Our first visit, we launched headfirst in the barbeque and weren’t disappointed.  We shared the bulgogi, which was everything that you want it to be and satisfyingly so, and a spicy, peanutty pork dish that uses samgyeopsal (unsalted strips of pork belly).  I’d never eaten anything like it in the States, and oh man, was it delicious.  It was all of my favorite things in one dish:  salty, spicy, nutty, and fatty. For about 14€ a dish, with soup, banchan, and a lovely little dish of lychee-heavy fruit salad included in this price, Hang-A-Li is a good bargain, especially compared to Han Lim (which is much more expensive and not nearly as tasty).

Last night we returned to Hang-A-Li with M.  It was a chilly night and we were all still dressed for late summer. By the time we were arrived, nothing sounded better than a cold Hite beer and a kimchi jjigae (kimchi-based hot pot with pork and tofu). This is one of my comfort foods par excellence, and Hang-A-Li’s version lived up to my high expectations. M, who also ordered one, kept quietly murmuring “I love this soup. I love this soup.” She has much less bombastic, and far better taste than I do, so I’ll leave you with that as the best review imaginable.  B ordered his spicy pork samgyeopsal and spent the rest of the evening with what I’ll call the “blissed-out pork belly face.”  We’ll definitely we spending a lot of time at Hang-A-Li as the weather gets colder, and so should you.

Details: Disregard everything I’ve said about Korean food in Paris until now and scoot over to Hang-A-Li for dinner.