Category: france

Clarence and the Perfect Sandwich: Banh Mi

Now that I’ve etched the list in stone, so to speak, I’m thinking of all sorts of things that should be on there but aren’t. One thing that perhaps should have been on the list was “find a great banh mi sandwich in Paris.” I’ve had banh mi on the brain ever since arriving on these fair shores, probably because all the important of the equation were here. Vietnamese people? Check! Amazing, fresh, crusty baguettes? Check! A cultural appreciation for spreadable meats? Check! It seemed that banh mi would be a no-brainer in Paris.

And there are, let’s say, many Vietnamese sandwiches in town. Following bread crumbs left by West Coast commentors on Mark Bittman’s New York Times blog entry that asked where a New Yorker might find a good banh mi, I headed to the 13th arrondissement and to Belleville (mumbling under my breath to no one in particular that Los Angelenos know a hell of a lot more about banh mi than New Yorkers ever will).  Some sandwiches were quite passable, like the ones that you can get outside of the Tang Frères Asian supermarket, if somewhat mild for my taste. But I hadn’t found anything to get religious about, nothing to change your day over. Moreover, if I’m going to schlep all the way down to the 13th on a cold winter day, I’m going to eat pho or something amazing at Rouammit.

And yet, like any diligent 21st century foodie, I kept googling. And what showed up more and more were reviews of a little place called, quite portentously, Banh Mi (7 rue Volta, Paris 75003, Métro Temple). Yesterday, which was rainy and filled with errands, seemed like the perfect day to drop in for lunch. The first piece of excellent news is that it is an easy walk from our apartment to 7 rue Volta, probably taking only about 10 minutes if you are really hungry and it’s raining really hard.

The shop itself is tiny, with nowhere but tiny folding stools to sit. The vast majority of the space given over to the proprietor’s (Angela’s) kitchen. This is a banh mi shop, and so you have only one easy choice to make when you walk through the door:  chicken, pork, or beef? There was a tempting pork pâté on the menu, but Angela informed us that she hadn’t made it today. And it quickly became clear that everything was made fresh and by hand daily, and that this was a woman who took the quality of her vegetables, bread, and meat very seriously. We ordered two pork sandwiches, which she disapproved of because she wanted us to try the different preparations of the meats. So I asked what she would recommend I order, and she said the chicken. One chicken and one pork, coming right up.

I could watch this lady make sandwiches all day. First she starts with beautiful baguettes, which she warms to crusty-perfection over a conventional toaster. Then she adds the meat, which has been slow-cooked in a special sauce.  The chicken is rotisserie tender and cooked with chilies and lemongrass, the pork is cooked in a caramelized tamarind sauce, and the beef is apparently sucré/salé, meaning sweet/salty (next time). Next she adds various chiles based on your desired level of heat. We requested très piquant, and we rewarded for that comparative adjective. Angela piled on perfectly crunchy slices of red bird tongue chiles, followed by crisp long spears of cucumber, piles of pickled carrots and daikon, and heaps of fresh cilantro. A few more special sauces followed (the only one I recognized was mayo on the chicken) and the hot sandwiches were handed over the counter. We noticed an intriguing Tsingtao stout (huh?) and decided to split one. We squatted on stools and got to work.

Oh my lord these sandwiches are good. I mean, really, really great. They are everything you want a banh mi to be – spicy, sweet, crunchy, fatty, and umami. We shared the two, and I couldn’t tell you which I liked better. Paired with the surprisingly dimensional dark beer, it was a perfect lunch. Throughout our meal, Angela provided pleasant company, explaining that her tiny shop was only a year or so old and that business was steadily growing by word of mouth, especially from American ex-pats. We asked what time she usually closed and she said that she would close when she ran out of food, which was usually around 6 or 7 p.m. But she takes phoned-in orders, so you can call ahead and she will have your sandwiches ready for take out when you arrive. I suspect we now have a go-to solution for harried weekday evenings after teaching.

There is some chatter from the Chowhound folks (corroborated by a few comments made by the proprietor herself) that at 5 euro this is an expensive Vietnamese sandwich. Huh? Given that three blocks away from this is the aristocratic wonderland of rue de Bretagne, where you can easily spend 10 euros on a small beer or 4 euros on a shot of espresso, Banh Mi’s fresh, handmade, 5 euro sandwich seems like a bargain. And, as Angela emphasized repeatedly, quality is very important to her. She is buying the freshest vegetables and the best quality meats, which is often not the case at the bigger banh mi stands in Paris. Anyway, we’ll be back as soon as we can, and I hope you go to if you are in the neighborhood. This American wants to make sure that Banh Mi stays in business for as long as possible.

Details:  Open Monday through Saturday from 11:30 until she runs out of food. No seating, but an excellent place for a takeaway lunch or dinner.

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?

The List

There seems to be a rash of “life lists” and “bucket lists” circulating on the ol’ blogosphere lately. And while I don’t have too many “life goals” at this point, I do have an ominous event looming at the end of next summer:  I’ll be leaving Paris. I don’t have a firm departure date just yet, but like all good things, this one will be coming to an end sometime in early August 2011. The mere thought of it makes me sad, and a few days ago I sat in the park in front of the Musée Picasso (closed interminably for restoration) and wept at the thought of having to leave this city. I’ve never been happier in my life than I have been living here. And while I’m excited for the next chapter, it’s still going to be a tough transition come next summer.

It’s easier than you think to become complacent when you live in a place like this for a long time. While I’ve certainly done plenty of amazing cultural activities since my arrival, I’ve also managed to avoid some really important one (like, uh, stepping foot in the Louvre). So I have compiled (along with B) a “to-do list” of sorts so I don’t forget all the things I want to do before I leave. I’ll share it with you, dear reader, and periodically update you on my progress. Some of these things are pretty cliché, so I’ll ask you to promise me that you won’t make fun. Telling you about things has been a great incentive to do things over the past ten months.  Better yet, if you are in Paris (or are planning on being in Paris) and want to join me in any of these activities, let me know!

The List

Muesums and other cultural attractions

  • 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).
  • See the Jean-Michel Basquiat show at the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris before January 30th
  • See the Arman show at the Centre Pompidou before January 10th
  • Visit the Musée National Gustave Moreau museum
  • Visit the Musée de l’Orangerie
  • Visit the Musée Carnavalet
  • Tour the Catacombes
  • Take B and M to the Cimitière Montparnasse
  • Visit the Crypte Archéologique in front of Notre Dame
  • Visit the Muséum national d’Histoire naturelle
  • Visit Fondation Dubuffet
  • Visit Fondation Cartier pour l’art contemporain
  • Visit the Musée du Vin
  • Take B to the Musée du stylo et de l’écriture
  • Visit the Maison Rouge
  • Visit the Musée des arts forains
  • Visit the Musée de la vie romantique
  • Visit the Musée Jacquemart-André
  • Go to the top of the Tour Eiffel 
  • Go to the top of the Tour Montparnasse
  • Go to Versailles
  • Go to Chartres with B
  • Go to Giverny with my mom
  • Suck it up and go with B to Parc Astérix

Green Things

  • Ride bikes to the Bois de Boulogne and have a picnic
  • See the tulips in the Bagatelles in the spring
  • Take my mother to Parc Butte-Chaumont and buy her a drink at Rosa Bonheur
  • Take my dad for a bike ride along the Promenade Plantée to the Bois de Vincenne and rent a boat
  • Return to Fontainebleau with B in the spring and find some morels

Movies and Concerts

  • See Nouvelle Vague at the Casino de Paris on November 30th with M, AC, and B
  • See somebody at the l’Olympia, preferably somebody French and venerable
  • See The Gospel According to Matthew, Oedipus Rex, and Accattone! at Accattone, thus completing the project of seeing all of Pasolini’s films on the big screen
  • See 8 1/2 and La strada, thus completing the project of seeing all of Fellini’s films on the big screen
  • See Les Quatre Cents Coups, À bout de souffle, Pierrot le fou, Les Carabiniers, Masculin, féminin, Week End, Vivre sa vie, and Cléo de 5 à 7 on the big screen

Clarence, King of All Things Good and Plentiful

  • Eat as much charcuterie, foie gras, rillettes, truffles, rabbit, duck, rotisserie chickens, and oysters as possible
  • Try as many French cheeses as possible and keep a record of ones I love
  • Try as many French wines as possible and keep a record of ones I love
  • Learn to shuck oysters and do so for my friends on New Year’s Eve
  • Eat at Spring (B snagged reservations on January 6th , probably didn’t need that kidney anyway)
  • Eat at Yam’Tcha
  • Eat at Frenchie
  • Eat at La Gazetta
  • Eat at Rino
  • Have brunch at Rose Bakery with M
  • Go to Marché des Enfants Rouges as many weekends as possible and take my mom there when she visits
  • Eat a Pierre Hermé white truffle macaron and a foie gras and chocolate macaron (if possible)
  • Throw a proper ex-pat Thanksgiving feast
  • Throw a party for Fête de la Musique and make a thousand paper cranes to dump on the crowds for Raidd Bar’s annual block party

Save Me From What I Want

  • Buy an oyster-shucking knife and an oyster-shucking glove from E. Dehillerin
  • Convince B that the only thing we can afford from E. Dehillerin is an oyster-shucking knife and glove, or, price shipping costs for copper cookware and cast iron pots from E. Dehillerin
  • Buy the rest of Lacan’s seminars in French (four to go!), figure out how to ship books internationally on the cheap
  • Find an amazing set of vintage Laiguole cheese knives, preferably with wood or horn handles
  • Buy the perfect beret
  • Find vintage lithographs of our favorite landmarks in Paris (including the Hôtel de Ville, preferably on fire, Tour St. Jacques, Porte St. Denis, Notre Dame, Église de Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and Sacré-Coeur) at le Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen
  • Find a vintage map of the Marais (Saint-Ouen, you’re on notice!)
  • Visit Deyrolle, the famous taxidermy shop.  Resist buying a stuffed bunny.

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.

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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.