Booze or lose: Cannibale Café

Cannibale Café

93, rue Jean Pierre Timbaud, 75011 Paris

Métro: Couronnes

http://www.myspace.com/lecannibalecafe

So I’m realizing that Booze or Lose might be the most short-lived of these “features.” While I find myself happy to describe in excruciating detail everything I eat, I find myself reluctant to tell you about bars I like.  This isn’t because I think I’m too cool or in the know (believe me, it’s never ever because I think I’m too cool or in the know), but mainly because there are only so many ways you can say “well, they have a zinc bar, good lighting, and I suspect that everyone who frequents this place shops only at APC and has better taste in music than I do.”  Basically every bar I like in this town would fit that description, and it’s kind of boring to see that rehashed weekly on a blog.

I will mention the Cannibale Café, however, because it seems to do aforementioned combination quite well.  Plus they have a lot of live music and what they describe as a “copious brunch on Sundays.”  I haven’t been to their copious brunch, but I like that particular adjective when paired with brunch very, very much.  One downside is that their pints of 1664 (totally hip and darling to buy in the US, more or less like PBR over here on this side of the pond) are a whopping 6.50€.  That’s like thirty-seven dollars or so.  Conversion humor!  Always a giggle.  Well, not quite as much as it used to be, as apparently the euro is tanking.  While I know that there are much larger forces at work behind this economic development, I can’t help but suspect (in my own admittedly solipsistic way) that it has something to do with the fact that I’m finally getting paid in euros.  Where was Greece when I was hemorrhaging cash in Europe circa 2008?  Anyway, however you do the math, it’s an expensive beer.  An ex-boyfriend of mine had some kind of theory about what he described as eight-dollar-beer places.  I don’t exactly remember the theory.  I think it was mainly an attempt to talk into frequenting places with sticky floors and bargain pitchers of Coors Light.  But he did nail the price point and the sheer ridiculousness of an eight-dollar beer has stuck with me.

This isn’t a very sunny review.

I do really like this place!

One particularly enjoyable evening at Cannibale recently included a performance by Hold Your Horses, a Franco-American group that is getting a fair amount of internet buzz because of their video for “70 Million.”  Have you seen it yet?

Who am I kidding?  Not only have you already seen it, half of you have probably already integrated it into your Art History 101 syllabus. You are such savvy pedagogues, you 50% of my readership. But anyway, I like this video very much. It’s one of the better things to go viral in the past month or so.

Speaking of going viral, I now bring you a Pettiness Campaign 2010 update. I’m pleased to related that Hold Your Horses has over 10 times as many views as an unnamed other person’s video, which has stalled slightly in its exponential ascent to that peculiar heaven inhabited by Glenn Beck.  B convinced me that there was no way I could possibly continue in my contempt-filled, elitist-expat lifestyle without actually watching some of Mr. Beck’s videos.  I am finding them to be like ill-reasoned, sputtering crack cocaine.  I like it when he gets so worked up that he just starts shooting off a series of random, unrelated nouns. I also kind of lose my shit every single time he turns to the chalkboard.  What an amazing prop!  Depressingly, if success can be defined in quantifiable terms (does late capitalism really teach us any other lesson?), Mr. Beck is more successful than anyone else in the universe.  He also can apparently charge $120 for the privilege of going to a stadium and watching him rant about progressivism and fuck around on his chalkboard on the Jumbotron.  I don’t have any pithy commentary on that little gem of a factoid, as all I could do when I looked up his ticket prices on Ticketmaster was soundlessly open and close my mouth in a piscine gesture of disbelief.

This entry is becoming entirely unrelated to Cannibale Café.  I’ll end it now, before some poor soul seeking a bar recommendation on Google has to slog through another six paragraphs of my bullshit.  Sorry poor soul!  I’d definitely recommend you go to Cannibale!  Just order wine, okay?

Define: Worthless English Teacher

Me:  So next week we’ll have something like a pseudo-midterm, so make sure you show up and tell your friends if they missed class today.  Be here or be [I draw a square in the air.]

[Gesture is met with a mixture of blank and confused looks.]

Me:  You know, be there or be square.

Student:  To be square is…

Me: Um, you know, like Huey Lewis and the News [I begin singing “Hip to Be Square.”]

[More puzzled looks.]

Me:  Huey Lewis and the News guys! So GOOD! A square is somebody who isn’t cool, someone who is conservative, who doesn’t stay out late or get into trouble. Huey Lewis wanted us to think that it might be hip to be square, but in general if someone is a square, it’s kind of derogatory.

Student: So I could say, “I’m making a party, be there or be square!”

Me:  Well, yes, except if you say that you are “making a party” you will be every American’s stereotype of a European.

Student:  Yes, I’m sorry. “I have a party.” [We’ve already reviewed this in class, twice.]

Me:  Correct. Also, “square” isn’t really something people say very much anymore. It’s kind of a 1950s thing, I think.

Student:  Then why have we spent all this time on it?

Me:  You’ve got me.  Just come to class next week for the exam, okay?

Student:  We don’t have school next Monday.

Me: Why on earth not?  We’ve already had more vacation days than days of class this semester!

Student:  It’s Easter.

Me:  Easter is on Sunday.

Student:  It’s Easter Monday! It’s a national holiday in France.

Me:  Are you kidding?  Easter is on Sunday.

Student:  But if the only day we got off for Easter was Sunday, then it wouldn’t really be a holiday, it would just be a weekend.

Me:  Your reasoning is impeccable.

Student:  Thanks!

Me:  Man, you frogs are excellent at coming up with reasons to not come to work or school.

Student:  We’re not square!

Me:  Nope, you are not a country full of squares.

Student:  Neato!

Me:  About that…

* * *

Photo courtesy of M. Starik, known to her friends as alternately as chickadee, kitten, and Miss Thang (well, not the last one, but we could definitely start.)

Clarence in Paris: Rouammit and Huong Lan

So, I’ll admit, being contacted by luckygal90 with a cease-and-desist of sorts was a minor thrill. I’d liken it to the first time that I prank called someone and they *69ed me. I doubt that this will actually turn into anything, as I’m sure she has long since forgotten about my six readers and me. She’s probably way too amped about the fact that her video has indeed gone viral, garnering some thirty thousand hits since I originally wrote about it yesterday. I’m pretty jealous. What are you saying internets? That my posts about falafel, John Mayer, and my sex dreams about dead modernists aren’t worth 32,000 hits? Interestingly enough, yesterday was a record-topping day for me in terms of web traffic.  Unfortunately, most of those hits came from people googling “luckygal90,” which is kinda like the universe punching me in the teeth for being too smug.

Anyway, now that I’ve dipped one toe in the sludgebucket that is political blogging I’m going to quickly remove it and begin writing about food again.  I started out trying to express my genuine optimism that we will pull through this partisan nightmare and ended up bullying a 13-year-old girl.  I don’t have the stomach for it.  While I’ll hang on to a conflict like a dog worrying a dead animal, I’m not really one for actual confrontation.  I’m much more into complacently talking about people behind their backs.

Also, there’s this:

That’s right people.  It’s spring in Paris.  While other cities may indeed try to make a case for their singular awesomeness during other seasons (I remember New York in the fall to be quite lovely, and Denver winters are dreamy bar none), Paris in the springtime is pretty unfuckwithable.  I hear people have even written songs about it.  Suddenly everyone in this city is beautiful and smiling and sitting in a sunny park.  Lovers are canoodling by the Seine, children are playing, women are wearing beautiful beige trenchcoats and flowery scarves, and there are tulips and green plums in the market.  I’m not going to keep antagonizing a child living somewhere in rural America because, well, there’s such nicer things to do right now.  Shoulda come at me in January, kiddo.

* * *

Rouammit and Huong Lan

103 avenue d’Ivry, 75013 Paris

Métro:  Tolbiac

So I’ve been meaning to write about this for a while:

Yes, that’s duck.  Perfect, tender, lacquered duck in a spicy broth with braised bok choy, red chiles, and crispy deep-fried mint leaves.  I’ve been fantasizing about it since I didn’t order it two weeks ago when the genetically over-endowed S & H introduced us to Rouammit and Huong Lan—a yummy pair of Laotian restaurants in the 13th.  My buddy from California, BC (sorry, dude, B is taken), was staying with me for a few days and we puzzled over the idea of Laotian food for quite a while.  After a Wikipedia search, we settled on the idea that it was probably like Thai.  And it is, if you associate Thai with flavors like chile, peanuts, lemongrass, fish sauce, coconut milk, and green garlic.  But where many of the Thai restaurants in Paris tend to be kinda swish, the Laotian food here is hearty, cheap, and unfussy.  Rouammit and Huong Lan are just that perfect combination.

On my first visit, I ordered the first thing on the menu – Khao Pun Nam Pa, a soup of rice noodles in a fish and coconut milk broth.  It’s served with a plate of vegetables that you dunk in the spicy, salty, creamy soup, and their crunchiness nicely offsets the tender succulent fish chunks.  It’s really good, and would be amazing if you were sick.  But unfortunately I was sitting across from S, the veteran who wisely ordered the Pet Yang Lad Prik (pictured above).  I spent most of the meal being overcome with envy.  I hate it when I don’t order the best thing. You see, if I was forced to list the top ten things that I love about France, this country’s rabid consumption of duck and rabbit might find its way to the top of the list.  Duck, which you rarely see outside of lousy Chinese restaurants and high-end menus in the United States, is ubiquitous here, and usually much better.  The duck at Rouammit and Huong Lan is exceptionally delicious and works perfectly in tandem with their spicy sauces. BC sampled their duck with coconut red curry, called Kheng Phed Pet and it was really lovely.  But it was S’s lacquered duck with bok choy that I really burned for.

[Autobiographical aside: I was once told by an ex-boyfriend (after much introspection) that the animal I most resembled in character was a duck. I was totally crushed, as I was hoping for a bit more glamorous spirit animal. In retrospect, this game was pretty skewed towards his own egotistical gratification. When I asked what his spirit animal was, he responded that he was “a wolf or maybe a shark.” The “lone wolf” reference certainly wasn’t lost on me, but I wasn’t sure about how the shark might fit in to the veiled conversation we were obviously having about his fear of commitment. Then I remembered that if sharks if stop swimming for even an instant, they die. Man, can I pick ‘em or what? Anyway, apparently I’m fond of eating my spirit animal. I don’t really remember that part of Totem and Taboo.]

So last night, under the auspices of “blog research,” I drug poor M back to Rouammit and Huong Lan.  I pretended to let her look at the menu, but she never had a chance.  I was bound and determined to have that duck and to also sample the rave-worthy Phad Thai.  I think she knew that she was merely a cog in the vast machine of my scheme.  She’s an excellent sport (and perhaps this blog’s biggest fan), so she let me have what I wanted.  It was delicious.  Perhaps best of all, the bill was yet again incredibly reasonable.  Virtually none of the plates are more than 10 euro, making some experimentation practically a necessity.  I saw a heavenly-looking salad pass our table, which I think suspect is the Lap Neua, a spicy concoction of cold veggies, tripe, and beef.  I also lusted after passing plates of  Khao Nom Kroc, artfully arranged shrimp dumplings, and chili-oil spiked mango slices (didn’t write down the name of those).  Let’s just say I’ll be going back.

Details: It’s cheap, delicious, and the staff is unflaggingly friendly.  It’s also crazy-popular.  Get there any later than 7 p.m. for dinner and expect a serious wait time in the street.  Probably not best for bigger parties, though we managed to get a table for six by arriving early. Open 12-3 p.m. for lunch and 7-11 p.m. for dinner Tuesday through Friday, 12-4 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday.  Closed Mondays.

In isolation, he would examine himself in the Crowd-mood

I like it very much when the comments on my posts end up being much more detailed and much better wrought than my own writing.  It makes this whole thing seem slightly less malignant in its narcissism.  Lately, I’m totally unworthy of my commenters.  I would really encourage you to read both BJG and B’s comments on my last post, and would especially encourage you to watch the video that BJG links to on Youtube. I’m completely riveted by this child, and totally guilty of helping this little Neocon nightmare go viral.  We have a new poster child for the movement, ladies and gentlemen!  I suppose that this pettiness isn’t actually in keeping with B’s wise declaration that we not “continue to label them misfits in order to feel better about our own brand of elitism”  by going “back to a more human and humanizing form of discussion.”  But B, this one is just too damn good!  I especially love the sign at 0:17:  “Thank you Fox-News for keeping us infromed!”  Everyone, let’s help luckygal90 achieve her dreams, which she ever-so-articulately describes thusly:  “Every 1 I Really want Glenn Beck to see this so plz help me 2 get this video viral so he see’s it and i can mabie be on his AWESOME show !”

No mabies about it, kiddo, you’re gonna be huge!  Infrom your friends!

* * *

I wish I had an awesome restaurant to tell you about, but unfortunately I’ve been mostly housebound by a nasty head cold the past few days.  The past forty-eight hours have largely consisted of me lying in bed watching the second season of Twin Peaks and dealing with the torrents of snot.  How exactly I managed to miss Twin Peaks until now bewilders me, but now that I’m watching it I’m a veritable junkie.  I’ll spare you any half-baked analysis of the show as it would be a decade late and a dollar short, suffice it to say that I’m finding Lynch to be good entertainment when viewed through a serious Nyquil haze.

When I’m hopped up on Dayquil, I’ve been reading biographies of D. H. Lawrence and Wyndham Lewis.  Call it dissertation reading lite. I’ve never been a biography reader before this, though I can now see the appeal of the genre.  It is very satisfyingly intrusive to have this much intimate information about someone. Jeffrey Meyers, who wrote the Lawrence biography that I’m reading, seems positively infatuated by Lawrence’s sex life, specifically various ladies’ accounts of his virility and performance in the sack.  After one such exhaustive account of Lawrence’s ability to “come back to a woman time after time,” I felt compelled to draw a heart in the margin containing J.M. + D.H.L. 4EVR! This might be the result of repeated viewings of luckygal90’s groundbreaking video.  Or maybe just all the cold medication.  Don’t get me wrong, David Herbert (at least in Meyer’s account) sounds like just the type of vaguely sociopathic fellow that I myself could lose a lot of sleep over:

“Lawrence was an immensely attractive man, but lacked the traditional English aloofness and reserve.  Spontaneous and volatile, he put a great strain on his personal relationships.  He had an uncanny ability to pierce his friends’ social façade, penetrate the essence of their character and reveal their inner core.  He wanted to transform their lives, often a disturbing and unwelcome process, and the ability to withstand this onslaught was a prerequisite for retaining his friendship.  Lawrence spoke and wrote to his friends with unusual—and even cruel—candor in order to destroy their defenses and revitalize their existence.”

– D. H. Lawrence:  A Biography (1990)

Meyers seems especially adept at describing the particular strain of masochism that us mere mortals endure when confronted with Artistic Genius, that is, the battle cry of girls-who-date-musicians everywhere.  He’s mean to me because he wants to transform me!  He’s not a jerk, he’s an Artist!  If I withstand his bullshit, I’ll be the better for it!

Anyway, I suspect that all biographers—and perhaps dissertation-writers—run the risk of falling in love with their subjects.  I fell asleep mooning over a picture of old Wyndham when he was a dashing young solider and proceeded to have this overblown romance novel of a dream in which Wyndham and I were lovers torn apart by the war.  I awoke overwhelmed by the weight of my own lurid dorkiness.

* * *

I have taken my last dose of my smuggled-in American Nyquil (!), so I’ll let Wyndham have the last word.  I think he certainly had us Coastal Elites in mind when he wrote the following:

“You need the anger of the shopkeeper as much as the opinion, or the imagination, of the commissionaire.  It is because you are fundamentally like, as like as two peas to, your less informed, less polished brother, that you have a need of him.  You need to be seen by him, to keep close to or far from him.  You are always a pea disguising itself from a million other peas.  The other peas all know you are a pea, and love to think of a pea like themselves being a soft, subtle, clever, insolent pea!  But your identity is precarious.  Yes, you must be lavish; otherwise—you will receive that deadly look that one pea gives another when pretence is laid aside.  You must furthermore be careful never to touch, mingle with, or attack anything before first convincing yourself that it be, in fact, a pea.  Do not be so fatuous as to interfere with a melon!  it might not result in harm, but it is no fun!  The whole game is constructed, all its rules made, for bodies roughly speaking, identical in volume and potentialities.”

– Blasting and Bombardiering (1937)

UPDATE:  Luckygal90 apparently does not appreciate my publicizing her Youtube video to my six readers.  Too bad, we were only trying to do our small part in helping her achieve her dreams of going viral.  Nevertheless, I’ve removed the link at her request.

I kiss you because I don’t believe too much in individuals.

Yesterday I wrote, posted, and unposted a vitriol-filled screed about the current Republican response to the health care bill.  (To be fair, in the screed I called it a TEMPER-TANTRUM.  I used a lot of capital letters à la Kanye in my screed. If you are really curious I’m sure you can read it as Google caches everything, making unposting an unflattering entry a decidedly illusory fantasy.)  I was really angry yesterday about a lot of things, not the least of which was my own egotistical desire to not have my American-ness wrested away from me by people who wish to define a “real American” within rather narrow terms.  While I’m sure that many people would regard my way of living and my politics as not-American-enough, living in France has consistently made me feel all-too-American, as though I am tagged indelibly with my nationality.  The idea that there is something like a national character, and it does shape how people approach others, feels more real to me now than it ever has in the past.  I feel like I’ve been coming to inhabit my American-ness more comfortably than I ever have before and it makes me more sensitive to what I perceive as assaults to my sense of national identity and pride.

At the same time, I don’t feel good about what I wrote.  I titled it something awful, like “Stupidity is not a pre-existing condition” and complained a lot about the current culture of mudslinging, hate speech at full volume, and rampant anti-intellectualism.  When I stepped back from my anger, however, I realized that behind these insane protests must be an extreme level of fear.  I suspect that anyone this defensive of a horrible status quo must be accustomed to the status quo only becoming worse when anyone decides to change it.  I really hope that some of these legislative changes, and the ones that come about in their wake, will help make the lives of “everyday Americans” better in terms that they can feel tangibly in their wallets, in their sense of physical well-being, and in their ability to take care of those people that they love.  I write a lot in my academic work about how people become attached to their state of subjection and to the vision of themselves as victims.  Unfortunately, many of the people who are most vocally opposed to health care reform do not just envision themselves as victims of a broken system, they are victims of a broken system.  A powerful minority has instrumentalized their voices, but that minority offers no plan of action, only mindless antagonism.  I hope that this legislation can lessen the everyday victimization that people feel when they get sick and seek out assistance from the collective. That will be a much more effective response than screaming back.