Me: Tracy Anderson wants to take me to my tiniest, strongest point.
B: Huh? [suppressed eyeroll]
Me: Her fitness routines are designed to make one as dense and sexy as possible.
B: So by doing these videos you are attempting to reach your event horizon?
Me: Exactly.
B: Continuing this astronomical metaphor, what if you continue to reach your most magnetic, compact point at the same time as I reach my largest, gassiest point?
Me: I suppose there might be an explosion.
in Parc des Buttes Chaumont
2, allée de la Cascade 75019 Paris
Métro: Botzaris (Ligne 7 Bis)
So I’m not the first self-loathing hipster to wax poetic about Rosa Bonheur, and I certainly won’t be the last. The concept is just so stellar. It starts with one gorgeous, off the beaten path, Parisian park. Buttes Chaumont is surely my favorite public garden in Paris. It seriously makes me feel like I’m in Mirbeau’s torture garden minus all the gore (bonus points if you get that reference, and let’s be friends). This might have something to do with the fact that B erroneously told me that this was a major site for public executions in the eighteenth century (it wasn’t). While not nearly as tightly manicured as the Jardin du Luxembourg or the Jardin des Plantes (my other favorite places to go on a sunny day), Buttes Chaumont makes up for it with traditionally styled English and Chinese gardens. The space began as a limestone and gypsum quarry, leaving the space full of miniature mountains and cliffs that you can climb up to ex(e/o)rcise your inner mountaineer. The park also has a large lake that contains both a grotto with an enclosed 65-foot high waterfall and an island accessible by a 200-foot long suspension bridge (aptly nicknamed the “suicide bridge”). The island itself is a verdant, craggy peak, atop which sits the belvedere of Sybil. Wikipedia informs me that the belvedere was added to the park in 1869 and is a Corinthian-style monument, modeled after the ancient Roman temple of Sybil in Tivoli, Italy. I’ll inform you that it is one of my favorite views in Paris.
Here’s an old timey map of the park:
See that little building called “Pavilion du Chemin de Fer”? Well, since it was a railway outpost had many culinary incarnations, including this one from the nineteenth century:
The people at Rosa Bonheur renovated this amazing historic building to be a sort of bobo wonderland, complete with two bars with cheap rosé, yummy snacks, lots of outdoor seating, great music, and a view of the sunset. Here’s the outside in 2010:
And the inside:
The food is built around the wonderfully simple concept that you can eat everything accompanied by a brown paper bag of freshly sliced baguette. On a recent visit, our spread looked like this:
Clockwise from the top, that’s an aged comté, slices of spicy chorizo, black olive and fig tapenade, dry sausage, and a lovely jar of duck rillettes. At a couple of euros for each component with a big bag of bread, you can put together quite a picnic. Pair that with some cold beers or a bottle of rosé and you’ve got yourself a nice lazy afternoon.
The logistics are kind of heavy on this place. First of all, the park itself is on the bizarre line 7 bis, a one-way, miniature subway line complete with a short train and a maddeningly slow schedule. B refuses to even take it and insists on walking from Jourdain on line 11. I’d recommend instead that you suck it up, take the 7 bis, and get off at Bozartis. As you exit the métro, the park will be on your right hand side. Walk up about a block to the entrance, then veer left on the path about another block to Rosa. You can obviously enter the park anywhere, but it can sometimes be quite a hike to get to Rosa if you start at the bottom of the hill. You can think of it as earning those rillettes.
My favorite time to go to Rosa is in the afternoon, as it is bar none one of the best places to laze away with friends on a sunny day. The park gates close at 7 p.m. and Rosa becomes kind of a scene, with hoards of Chuck Taylor and tortoiseshell glasses clad hipsters waiting at the gates to be slowly let in by an unamused park security guard. So if you want to go there for the evening, just show up at six so that you can get in to the park without a wait. Try and snag one of the tables to your right as you enter the restaurant if you want a killer view of the sunset and the envy of the coolest kids in Paris.
Details: I think I’ve covered it, though Rosa also has a very comprehensive website, from which I lifted both the map and the old photo of the pavilion. Sometimes their hours get funky with the change of the seasons or private events, so it’s worth visiting their website or Facebook page if you are planning a visit. On another note, it’s a very friendly place for kids and dogs, both of which run around in joyous abundance.
32 bis rue Saint Anne, 75001 Paris
Métro: Pyramides
Oh, that’s right, I have a blog.
Don’t think for a second I forgot about you, dearest reader. In fact, I would describe the past two weeks as being consumed with “gnawing guilt” that I’ve neglected you so throughly. Well, gnawing guilt and finals time at the university where I teach and a steady stream of visitors from all over the place. It also got hot, suddenly, and I’m worthless when I’m sweaty. Any kind of weather extreme and I lose all desire to do anything other than sit around and complain about how uncomfortable I am. I’m a real charmer.
One thing that has kept me rolling the past month or so has been the discovery of Higuma, the Japanese ramen place that I fantasized might exist in previous entries. The Little Tokyo area of Paris is rather oddly located in the heart of the first arrondissement, so if you find yourself barfed onto the street with the rest of the hoards after the claustrophobia-inducing exercise that is touring the Louvre, I would highly recommend that you skip all the overpriced “French” tourist traps in the area and instead head to rue Sainte Anne for some noodle-based fortification. You won’t regret it.
My friend S (now temporarily bereft of H) had highly recommended Higuma as he often frequents it when he stays in a gorgeous apartment owned by family friends on the same block (color me virescent with drooling envy). Sainte Anne is packed with terrific-looking sushi and noodle shops, many of which attract lines that would suggest that good cooking is afoot. The line is always longest at Higuma, however:
But it moves fast! Really fast, actually, as this is one of the few places in Paris where puttering around over your empty plates is highly frowned upon by both the staff and the line of famished patrons who watch you slurp every last noodle.
As you can see, the front dining room is dominated by the open kitchen, where you watch skillful chefs with seemingly fireproof hands and faces prepare your food. As far as I’m concerned, watching my meal come to life is the most entertaining show imaginable. Some internet naysayers complain that you leave Higuma smelling of meaty smoke and pungent spices. Yes, you do. I can’t think of a more delightful thing to smell of. I can just imagine this high maintenance chick who is worried about her blowout smelling like ramen. Trust me, sweetie, that hot guy at the bar would rather you smell like pork than tropical flower cotton candy any day of the week.
The first time we ate at Higuma was at around 6 p.m., a weird time for Parisians to eat so found the place nearly empty (good advice for people like my mother who are congenitally incapable of waiting in line for long periods of time). B and I decided to try some ramen before we went to the Deerhunter show at La Maroquinerie. While I can’t say much for the study-abroad crowd attracting, vaguely monotonous stylings of Deerhunter, I can say that another delightful discovery of the evening (besides Higuma) was the opening act, a lovely woman who—with a set of laptops—goes by Bachelorette and makes dreamy fun electronic pop. My favorite cyborg moment so far of the year was when she announced in her little voice “We are Bachelorette, me and the laptops. (Pause). Nous sommes Bachelorette!” Love love this lady, check her out. “Donkey” has totally been my jam for the past few weeks.
Back to the food. Sorry.
So there’s of course the ramen (spelled ‘lamen’) and it’s all things you want ramen to be: vaguely fatty, salty, hearty, and rich. Pictured is the miso lamen (6.50€), which has a nice mellow character to it:
I’d also recomment the shio lamen (6.50€), which is a great basic vehicle if you are like me and tend to douse your noodles with every condiment available on the table (in this case, a delightfully piquant chile oil and the requisite orangey MSG powder). I wouldn’t recommend the syoyu ramen (6.50€), as its soy-sauce based broth is a bit too salty for my taste (and my palate can handle a veritable sodium bonanza on occasion).
A lovely option (and a real “feeder” as my pops would say), are Higuma’s menus (10€), which include a main dish as well as an entrée. Worth their weight in pan-fried gold are these delicious little pork and veggie gyoza:
If you live back in the States and have a Trader Joe’s nearby, you surely know the joy that is having a freezer full of gyoza for your snacking pleasure. God I miss Trader Joe’s. Good gyoza are rather rare here in Paris and should be savored. Twice now at Higuma B’s gyoza have become communal property, and while he is too nice of a guy to admit that he doesn’t want to share, I can see a deep sadness in his eyes when everybody digs in to his dumplings. Sorry kid.
There are also some really toothsome rice dishes, including this katsudon (8€) of pork, onions, and egg over fried rice, pictured with a mediocre miso and a most interesting pickled radish thing:
I’d also really recommend the chahan (8€, also available in a menu as half portion with your choice of ramen for 10€). I don’t have a picture, as I forgot my camera that particular time. This pork, shrimp, and veggie fried rice dish doesn’t look like much when it arrives, but it is the apex of buttery, fatty, fried rice goodness. I ate nearly all of B’s portion when he ordered the chahan menu. Poor guy, he can’t even keep his food on his plate when Clarence is hungry.
I know you are already chomping at the bit to go to Higuma, but I haven’t even told you about the best part yet. And by “best” I mean consciousness-altering, game-changing, oh-my-god-where-have-you-been-the-past-rainy-six-months-of-my-life delish:
This is some serious yakisoba (7.50€) people. Tender pork, even tenderer calamari, oyster mushrooms, sautéed vegetables, grated ginger, and fried noodles in a spicy, salty, oh-so-heavenly sauce. This dish is umami personified. Variety be damned, I don’t plan on ordering anything else, ever.
Details: There will be a line, but do you really have anything better to do? Meals are cheap, cheap, cheap, especially for that area of town. Beer is less cheap, but split a giant Sapporo with your date and spend the rest of your boozing money on extra gyoza. Open late and every day of the week. Done and done.
* * *
Addendum: My friend T–a first-order Japanophile, Paris denizen, and generally swell guy–had quite a mouthful to say about this post. As he posted it on Facebook instead of the blog, I’m pasting it below. If there is anybody who has done his homework on Japanese food in Paris, it’s certainly him.
Higuma is pretty good, especially given the price, but you should definitely try Kunitoraya, the restaurant with the wooden facade just across the street and South a few metres.
I find the quality of the food to be much better (the katsudon is quite good), and, while I generally prefer ramen to udon, the udon at Kunitoraya is fantastic. Everything is super authentic (down to the staff, who barely speak French or English). It costs slightly more, but it’s definitely worth it. Their oden (which I suspect won’t be available in the summer) is also wonderful.
The butter corn ramen at Higuma (as strange as it sounds) is pretty good. It’s fairly popular in Hokkaido, and it only makes sense to make it with delicious French butter (though Ben will surely be disappointed by the corn).
(FYI: the orange spice blend is 七味唐辛子 (shichimi togarashi), and is MSG-free — in case anyone has an aversion to MSG.)
Whew. Consider me schooled.
So my mom hates the new template, but I rather like it. It’s called Bueno, which is why I investigated it in the first place. Is there are more perfectly delightful word to say in any language than “bueno”? Doubtful. Also, the second best* candy bar in the world is surely a Kinder Bueno bar. I remember having an argument with someone in college about whether or not it would be called a Bueno bar in France or Germany. On the off chance that my college friend reads this blog, I’ll settle the score now: Yes, they are called Bueno bars, no matter where you buy them. And they are always delicious.
But I guess there is a real formatting problem happening with my mom’s browser (Firefox on a PC, no wonder). I worry that this is because she doesn’t understand how to zoom out in the view box, not because there is anything actually wrong with the site (which looks terrific, if loud, on my Safari-running Mac). But what say ye, other readers? Is the blarg horrifyingly ugly to look at now? I’m not much for democracy, but if you will be much less likely to come here with this new template, speak now! I can change it back! But I felt like a change and this one seems oh so Bueno!
In other news, I’m in love with my students in this rapturous way that I never expected to be totally wild about teenagers. They never fail to say things that absolutely kill me, I mean, stop me dead in my tracks, I JUST DIED, KILL ME.
I’ve got this little anarcho-punk in my Public Speaking class who gleefully talked about how she hopes civil unrest in Greece will result in the people burning down the banks and seizing control of the government. She quoted Fanon in my classroom the other day, and not because I’ve forced her to read it (I only make my American students do that). Her idealism spouts, of course, from the warm, comfortable nest of the white, Western, and upwardly-mobile upper middle class (which, let’s face it, is waaay more terrifyingly sometimes than the complacently upper class). But she was so earnest, so absolutely, unbelievably convinced that the revolution is coming, that it actually broke my heart that one day she will surely be a compromise-formation liberal like myself who watches John Stewart and shudderingly votes for whomever the equivalent of Barak Obama will be in France. Someday she’ll be talking about “building social programs” and “sustained reform,” and her revolution will seem but a naïve oversimiplification. But today, in all her youthful vigor, I was completely in love with her. I defended her against her already-jaded classmates. I even helped her find difficult phrases in her English pocketbook, phrases like “high capitalism” and “prison-industrial complex.”
In fact, lately I’ve sustained a seriously intense fantasy about becoming a high school English teacher, basically so I can just hang out with teenagers and tell them about books and hear what they think about things ALL DAY LONG, EVERY DAY. This isn’t to say that it would be ridiculous for me to be a high school English teacher, despite the fact that I’ve now accrued quite a few (cough) more years of graduate school than such an endeavor would really require. But man, oh man, do I dream about it! In my fantasy, I’m the cool teacher with the chunky jewelry and the cluttered classroom of taxidermied animals and framed posters of lesser-known modernists, the one who makes them read the best books and changes their mind about everything important and encourages a few of them to go on and pursue egregious graduate degrees that involve reading until your eyes bleed. I had a few of those kinds of teachers, and man oh man, were they great. I suspect more than a few of them were terminally ABD as well. Just saying.
Seems like I’m doing a lot of “just saying” lately.
Finally, have you been watching the La Toquéra videos on the Le Fooding website? It’s how I’ve been spending most of my time. Translating as “camera hat,” the videos showcase awesome French chefs from Le Fooding-endorsed restaurants as they put together a delicious snack. The Sonia Ezgulian video finally pushed me over the fence with the French convention of eating raw radishes with salted butter. Now I don’t know what I’ve been doing all these years. She mixes her butter with seaweed flakes and sesame, but I’ve been doing the same procedure with a touch of mustard and fresh chives. Bueno. Caveat emptor: if you are having trouble justifying a pure-butter aperitif snack, don’t bother trying this with some hydrogenated soybean oil butter substitute. I’m not judging you –it’s only in France that I use real butter this liberally (read: flagrantly). My fridge in the States is usually filled with Earth Balance Light. But this is kind of a go-big-or-go-home** kind of recipe. A raw radish with a smear of Earth Balance just sounds gross.
* Snickers are the best candy bar in the world. Obviously.
** I taught the kiddies “go big or go home” the other day. I also taught them “make it rain.” You’re totally welcome, France.
I almost forgot to mention this:
After two days and anywhere between ten and fifteen miles of dogged searching, B emerged from the forests of Fontainebleau a sunburnt and a triumphant hunter. He is also a very good cook:
That’s a morel and white asparagus quiche, people. He wants to make sure I tell you that he made the crust from scratch. I never do that, even though I often lie and say I do.
In addition to being delicious, I’m happy that this means that I don’t have to slog around in the woods, peering under every rotten tree stump. For a while at least.
The Bear-Garden 