Gastro-venturous!

Yeah – so I made up another word, but it fits!

Or maybe I should call this a tale of gastronomic proportion? Or if I was in a scholarly mood I might say en vitae stomachus. In any case you get the picture – I am a dork who is loving my delicious adventures out here in Phat Paris (get it?)

Moving on…

I am writing this post in response to a few of the requests that I have gotten from some of my hungrier friends (suffering from stomachus envious) who are just as curious about what I am putting in my mouth as the randomness that I tend to let fall out of it. So much of my days here revolve around my foody curiosities and although sometimes the first thing I do is wrinkle my nose and think, you are out your damn mind…I tend to stop and tell myself that it is all about the experience, the adventure, and at the very least I will have something to make fun of (cringe) about later.

“What’s the best meal I have eaten?”

I must admit I have yet to have a bad meal in Paris. I have occasionally had on my plate something I didn’t love after the first few bites and perhaps it wasn’t quite as difficult to restrain myself from falling face first into my plate and licking it clean which is more often than not the case. I have gotten really good at restraining myself. I will admit to having stayed away from Escargo (snails), which sounds exciting—in fact if exciting is judged by the level of immediate and instinctual repulsion when something is put in front of you, then snails are very exciting. I would have tried one (followed by a handful of bread and a supergulp of wine) but it’s my severe allergy to shellfish that makes me think twice about food that comes in its own container. I ain’t no punk, just don’t feel like dying.

One of the best meals I have had is at Robert et Louise, an awesome little tucked away joint that a friend found in her travel book. The venue was what I can best describe as Parisian rustic – wooden tables, paneled walls, soft lighting, and just plain cozy. It was a small restaurant by American standards, though it does have an upstairs and downstairs. You walk in the door and almost into the bar. There’s small two-some tables for romantic evenings - the kind where if both you and your companion were to put your elbows on the table, the proximity would put your faces in a position where smooching would be effortless (so very French). You would probably burn your chins on the little candle in the middle of the table but maybe that gets rid of the ugly little "I wanna be a beat-nic" whiskers your date has decided to start growing, so win win, right? There are picnic style tables for bigger gatherings which is where I sat with my friends. We were upstairs and had a view of the gentlemen preparing salads and other things that evidently required lots of flourish with every chop. At one point we watched giant legs and butts be brought up and past our tables, ready to be chopped and prepped for the next customer. I asked the waiter about the carnard du confit – it was a simple question like, “do you like this” or maybe I said “how is this.” He responds with a heavy and French-ly accented sneer, “you know, eh, zis es lik a freench kiz”. Huh? A French kiss? There’s tongue in my duck? I know there’s a lot of fat in it, that part I don’t mind (don’t judge.) He is obviously delighted that I have no idea what he is talking about as it gives him an opportunity to place his grubby paws on the table and lean over to say “Ferse you haf one and zen you wan a-no-zer”. HYUCK HYUCK, my waiter’s a perv. I don’t think I want him touching my duck or anything else, but since I enjoy an innuendo as much as the next gal, I ordered the duck. It was cooked in a brick fireplace that was right in the wall and happened to be only a few feet from our table. This distance allowed me to see the 200 year old piece of metal that was charred and bent with heat and age that evidently every piece of meat Bobby and Lou had ever prepared had at one point sizzled there. It must have been perfectly seasoned and probably part of the reason people continued to walk in the door. The duck was perfect! Maybe at one point it had put up a fight but when it was placed in front of me, it surrendered the most delicious smell. It was a simple presentation, nothing fancy, maybe some lettuce I disdainfully flicked to the side before giving my full attention to the two fat little un-pretentious looking legs. And then they just melted under my fork. I honestly had to close my eyes when I chewed…partly because it was just that damn good and partly so that I could focus on my food and ignore the tiny perverted waiter who was waggling his eyebrows (or should I say eyebrow) at me and saying, “eh, eh, I don tell ze lie, no”? No - he was an honest troll of a man, I did want another as was evident by the desire to pick up the bone and gnaw on it, to use my fingers to sop up the fatty duck juices remaining on my plate (again, don't judge) and then noisily lick them without care or concern for the less than amused snobby women next to me enjoying their cheese plate. They might have been in a better mood if they had gotten the French Kissing Duck (or the French kissing waiter). We had wine and dessert of course, but the duck was the star of that evening’s Gastro-performance, by far. My little cirque du stomach if you will.