…in practice I often like a nice place to sit and read. I am also a slut for sugar.
The highlight of my day was going to Starbucks and trying an iced Caffè Mocha for the first time. Mine was decaf [with soya milk and no cream on top], but it still gave me one hell of a buzz. I will be going back there tomorrow. Oh yes.
One year ago today, I left Paris and returned to London. It was such a happy day for me. It’s difficult to believe it’s been a whole year. There have been many ups and downs over the past twelve months (there always are where I’m concerned), but as I look back, only two things matter:
1) When I left Paris I had a set of goals I wanted to achieve when I returned to London. I’m happy to report that I have achieved every single one of them.
2) While there are things I want to change about my life, I feel as if I am now heading in the right direction. That’s something.
Over the past year I’ve really wanted to try the Hummingbird Bakery, which is renowned for its American-style cupcakes. Yesterday I finally made it! I just happened to be in South Kensington and there it was. After all, you can’t have an anniversary without cake:
[That cupcake on the right is a "nutella cupcake" with three hazelnuts on top. Yum-o.]
I would go on with more anniversary-related bliss and reminiscing, but I am working on a particularly difficult chapter of my novel today. It’s quite emotionally wrenching to write. Perhaps this is not the best way to celebrate an important anniversary, but then I must meet my next goal: finishing this damn book!
I think it’s nearly impossible to go a single day in this city without eating a mini mince pie. In the past few weeks the amount of mincemeat I’ve personally eaten could fill Wembley Stadium. I’ve not purchased any mini mince pies myself, but rather they are crammed down my throat by others. Right about now I’m invited to lots of little end-of-the-year festivities and the invitation always states “wine and mince pies” or “cider and mince pies.” And if you don’t eat one, people stare at you as if you’re a communist. It’s not that I don’t like mincemeat (before I came here I thought mincemeat had actual meat in it) but as of today, December 12th, I have had my fill for the holiday season. For me, mincemeat is like egg nog — a little bit is enough.
Yet no matter what, mincemeat is impossible to escape.
Some macarons I bought in Paris at Ladurée. I only had to wait in the queue for over half an hour (no joke). I prefer the pink rose-flavored ones. The black ones, called réglisse (a very mild licorice flavor) are also quite good. Hell, they’re all good. This was not my only Ladurée stop. I also went to the tearoom in the Madeleine shop and had a rose-flavored réligieuse with some orange-blossom tea. That, my friends, is the life.
The pleasures of my new home [part one]…
Toast.
I’ve not had toast in ages. I can’t order proper toast in restaurants because I need dairy-free “butter,” so I must make it at home. And I haven’t been able to do that in the various one-room quarters I’ve called home for the past nine months or so. But now I can make toast. What a marvel! What a wonder! Toast is divine. Those of you regular toast-eaters just take it for granted. Shame on you.
I’ve used my favorite bread — Paul’s French Style Sourdough Bread purchased from Planet Organics. The first item in the list of ingredients? “Unbleached Wheat Flour From Nigel Moon’s Windmill.”
Sometimes I like toast that is almost burned, that is black. That’s the best kind of toast. I come from a long line of people who like burnt toast. And for me, it’s even better with honey, especially that thick, creamy honey you can buy in English grocery stores.
That’s really been the highlight of my week: Toast. I’ve been working like a madwoman, so I haven’t had time to enjoy my new home. I’ve not been here much, but I’ve had a few moments of staring out the window at the trees in the soft light while eating my toast with honey. A small pleasure, but I’ll take it.
Tonight I received some devastating news. Sainsbury’s is no longer making or selling their reduced-fat guacamole. I looked all over for it and when I couldn’t find it, I asked the guy stocking the shelves. He said, with an evil glimmer in his eye, “Discontinued!”
Wah!
I can’t eat the full-fat variety because it has cream in it, whereas the low-fat is dairy-free. How on earth will I survive without this staple of my diet? Right now, thanks to my kitchenless existence and manic teaching schedule, my dietary staples are: Water, bagels, guacamole, pretzels, pre-packaged sandwiches, Kettle Chips, bananas, over-priced fruit salad from Marks & Spencers, Cadbury’s chocolate eclair candy and vegetarian hot and sour soup from the take-away place (btw, what is in hot and sour soup? Some sort of narcotic? I crave it and must have it everyday. I think they should rename it hot and sour extra spicy Chinese crack).
But as for the guacamole, I really don’t need this kind of stress right now. Why God? Please don’t take guacamole away from me. What’s next, being pushed in front of a fast-moving train? I must admit that compared to the guacamole you can get in America it tastes like sh*t, but it was my last remaining tie to the Mexican culinary world. Sainsbury’s, how could you do this to me? Rot in hell! All of you!
Tonight I went to my local Sainsbury’s (inside the train station). They had British strawberries for half price. The half price bit gave me pause — I’m not really a big fan of marked-down produce. But I assumed this was a sales gimmick so I took the plunge. Oh. My. Goddess. I can’t remember the last time I tasted such yummy strawberries. They are so sweet they taste like they have sugar on them. Simply divine.
These were part of my dinner, which also included cornflakes, bananas and soy[a] milk. After that I had a few McVitie’s Ginger Nut biscuits with peppermint herbal tea. I may even start saying “herbal” with a hard h. I am becoming so British it’s sickening.
I’ve been back in London for more than six weeks and the bad news is that I fear many of my internal organs are shutting down. For the past couple weeks I’ve felt consistently unwell and I’ve been quite lethargic. I blame the food.
I feared something like this might happen. My body was used to French food. By French food I don’t mean steak and béarnaise sauce with a side order of cigarettes. I mean fresh whole foods and foods lacking chemicals and preservatives, which are commonplace in France. It’s possible to get food like this in the US and Britain, but it’ll cost you a lot of money. And I’m too poor to eat that way here. So illness it is!
I’m at a real disadvantage because I have a picky tummy. Very picky. And not having my own kitchen really sucks for someone like me. There is a fridge on each floor of the building and a microwave, but the last time I left food in the fridge (mango chunks) someone stole it. Lovely. So I don’t leave much in there and it’s not possible to really cook anyway without a stove, oven, pots, pans, utensils.
People make fun of British food, but I’m finding it to be quite a nice treat so far. Yes, I’m serious! The place where I’m living has a dining hall (and I have no kitchen). So far the food has been pretty good. Here is what I have eaten today:
Breakfast
Poached eggs and hashbrowns. They tried to give me baked beans, but I successfully avoided that.
Lunch
I was out and ate a bagel sandwich (bagels! yay!) that I ordered with chicken, guacamole and sun-dried tomatoes. Yum!
Snack
Krispy Kreme donut. It was so good. It was chocolate-glazed and had sprinkles on it. Sprinkles! I never saw a sprinkle in France.
Dinner
The dining hall served a roast chicken that was honestly better than any roast chicken I had in Paris. Way better. And I had a salad of cucumbers and tomatoes with salad cream. (I can’t eat lettuce.) Last night they served duck curry. I couldn’t face that, so I went out for Korean food.
Dessert
I skipped the chocolate cake they had for dessert in the cafeteria. I’m not sure why. But I just ate a Cadbury Creme Egg. They don’t have those in France either.
All in all, yours truly has had quite a piggish day.
Gratuitous cuddly bunnies for Easter. Awwww…
Last year what I really wanted for Easter was a Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg. My sister, being the evil sort, sent me a photo of herself eating one of these delightful confections. This year, I’m pleased to report, she schlepped over a few packages for dear ol’ sis (they were only mildly squished). After sharing them with too many people, this is the only one I have left:
Drats.
[Ooh, you know what I inherited when sis and her friend left? Wheat Thins!!! And stuff from Trader Joe's!!! Screw French pastries...]
But you know, even though I have my beloved Reese’s Eggs this Easter, I am still being subjected to sisterly torment. When sis was here visiting, I said one thing I really craved (and have *no* chance of getting) is Taco Bell. Oh, don’t roll your eyes you stuck-up Americans! You love Taco Bell and you know it!
Well, rather predictably, I just received this photo of a meal she ate upon her return to Hell-Ay:
And you wonder why I’m glad to be 6,000 miles away from her…
There is a Ladurée in Harrods! If you live in London, drop everything and head over there right now for a mini macaron (and if you’re feeling reckless, a religieuse or St. Honoré too). I’ve eaten a lot of pastries since I’ve been in Paris and Ladurée’s are the best, hands down. And there’s one in London! Go! Vite!
P.S. I’ve spent much of the afternoon talking with Londoners on the telephone. It’s so nice to be understood.
Warning: This post is long. And there are tons of photos of food. After putting this together, I think I may need another month off…
I have eaten soooo much over the past week, as you are about to see. My sister and her friend were visiting. They love French desserts and so do I. There were a few pâtisseries I wanted to try before moving, but I waited for them to experience my I’m-leaving-Paris-soon pastry blow-out 2007. Most people like yummy desserts and treats, but this sort of experience needs to be shared with real enthusiasts, those who can bite into a religieuse from Ladurée and react as if they’ve just been injected with some sort of illegal street drug.
We didn’t just eat pastries, though these formed the basis of our diet. Green vegetables? Not so much. Fruit? Not unless it was under a dollop of whipped cream, thank you very much. Actual nutrition wasn’t important. We wanted to get high, baby. Sugar high.
I already wrote about our breakfast at Ladurée. Here’s a sampling of what else we ate…
L’Ombre de Notre Dame [The Shadow of Notre Dame]
The apartment they rented was literally right next door to the place that makes the best crêpes I’ve ever tasted. Last autumn I walked by here on my way home from the Sorbonne and would frequently stop for a crêpe with Nutella. As the name implies, it’s right across the street from Notre Dame on rue du Cloître Notre-Dame. This was the first time I had tried their other food and it was wonderful. Most French cafés and brasseries have the same exact menu (steak and fries, chicken and fries, omelette and fries, sandwiches). And the quality of these dishes varies greatly from café to café, so once you find a good one you stick with it. We ate lunch there on their first day (and returned for dinner a few days later). I had a tuna sandwich, but my sister had what the French call a hot dog (more like a real sausage):
And J. had French oignon soup:
They were a bit horrified by my choice of drink, an Evian Menthe. A French friend got me hooked on these — mint syrup and ice in a glass:
Which you then mix with bottled water:
Yum. My sister thought it tasted like cough syrup.
This morning I enjoyed a breakfast that I will dream about for weeks, months…years. Yes, it was that good.
I became a fan of Ladurée last fall when I tasted their macarons. My sister and her friend are in Paris right now and my sister’s friend is a big Ladurée lover too. Before their arrival, I discovered that Ladurée offers breakfast that isn’t just the standard pastry, baguette and yogurt. No, Ladurée offers…French toast! With maple syrup! I have no idea if French toast is actually French in origin — perhaps like French fries, it’s a Belgian creation. They call it “le pain perdu” here — lost bread.
Since my visitors have been in town, we’ve been eating non-stop. (More photos to come!) But today is the day we’ve been waiting for, French toast day. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had French toast? Sigh. And this is no ordinary French toast. I’m no culinary expert, but it appears to be made with brioche. We each ordered our own serving and none of us could completely finish it. It was divine — but very rich and sweet, so much so that we each got a rather nasty headache-inducing sugar buzz towards the end. But who cares.
By Anglofille.
I’m going to share with you an old favorite. Without this gem of a dish, there are many days when yours truly might have gone hungry over the past few months. While this dish may be enjoyed by anyone, it is perfect for students, the culinary-challenged, lazy people and poor people. [If you're like me, you may in fact be a combination of all these things.]
Go to your local French supermarket, preferably FranPrix, and purchase a packet of Nouilles Orientales Saveur Poulet (Savory Chicken Oriental Noodles — also comes in beef and curry flavors).
Once at home in your kitchen, forget measuring cups, ingredients, aprons, etc. There’s no need. Drop the block of noodles into a pot of boiling water. Add the packet of dehydrated chicken-flavored powder. Boil for three minutes, stirring occasionally.
Eat.
These noodles can be enjoyed for breakfast, lunch or dinner [or possibly at all three meals during times of extreme poverty and/or laziness]. I can’t possibly convey to you how delicious they are. They taste better than meals I’ve eaten in French cafés (seriously) and at .34 centimes per packet, they are much cheaper.
I think I need to finish up my posts on Italy. I know it’s old news by now and no one probably cares, but it’s the middle of bleakest January and I for one would like to reminisce.
So today, it’s all about food (with lots of photos!). After living in Paris and visiting Italy, I’ve come to the conclusion that food in the English-speaking world tastes like garbage. I’m not even sure why we bother to eat. I’m serious. When world cuisines were handed out centuries ago, we got the shaft. And I blame the English for this culinary disaster, since America didn’t even exist.
While I think French bread and pastry is unparalleled, I much prefer the cuisine in Italy overall. It’s friendlier to my high-maintenance digestive system and isn’t so rich and heavy (plus, it’s a lot healthier). Authentic Italian food is not smothered in globs of melted cheese, unlike what often passes for Italian food outside of Italy. And there are plenty more vegetarian options. Proscuitto is a menace though – good grief, they add it to everything!
So here’s a trip down culinary lane. I desperately miss the food in Italy. Ever since I got back to France, I can’t stop eating sun-dried tomatoes. I crave them constantly.
I found a restaurant in Florence called Lo Scudo that was my favorite. It’s right behind the Duomo. I had the best spaghetti on earth there. If I had the recipe for this, I’d be the most popular gal around:
I can’t even describe how this dish delighted every taste bud in my mouth. So much of the food I ate in Italy did that. While eating you just have to pause and savor it. Eating the food there and taking the time to enjoy it is just as important as visiting a museum or a church. When I traveled in Hong Kong and Thailand, I remember also feeling this way about the eating experience.
Here is bruschetta from Lo Scudo:
No cheese in sight! The toppings included a minced tuna steak that tasted exactly like ground beef. This is something I must try to find the recipe for.
My last few posts have been quite grim, so I thought I’d publish a couple photos of what I’ve been eating to chase away the January blahs: miniature pastries and giant croissants.
I had a sandwich with peanut butter, honey and slices of banana. Bliss.
My French friends, croissants, brioche and coq au vin are all fine and dandy, but America has mighty fine cuisine too. Le Cordon Bleu, take note.
To be fair in my reporting, I think many Americans reading this have never eaten such a sandwich and cringe at the thought. I think this particular delicacy is Southern in origin. I’m not a Southerner, but I was raised by one. This particular sandwich tastes even better grilled. Sadly, my frying pan is in storage at the nightclub singer’s place.
Now, if the French could just reduce the outrageous price of peanut butter, that’d be great. I mean, it’s just crushed peanuts and oil. It’s not some exotic delicacy. Get real. Today I saw snails in the frozen food section of Monoprix! And they were much cheaper than peanut butter. That’s f’ed up.
This is probably a common problem for people who move to Paris, the culinary capital of the Western world. But the thing is, my clothes are too big. I’m shrinking. Today when I was packing up for the move, I found my bathroom scale conveniently hidden away in a dark corner. I stepped on it and gasped when I saw that I have lost weight since I last weighed myself a few months ago. I noticed that my clothes were getting a bit too big for me, but I assumed it was some sort of delusion brought on by the trace amounts of crack that I’m sure are in Nutella.
Y’all, I have been on an eating binge since arriving in Paris last September, so I do not know how this has happened. I am not supposed to be eating dairy products, but I didn’t let that stop me from eating croissants, pastries, tarts, you name it. Every day I indulge in a treat like this. There is a crepe stand at the end of my street! AT THE END OF MY STREET! On every block in this city there are patisseries filled with the kinds of desserts you could only find in high-end bakeries in the US and the UK. A few days a week I meet a classmate for lunch at the most yummiest sandwich shop ever, across the street from our class. We order ciabatta sandwiches and pear tart or an eclair. The food in this place is so good it could kill you. The other day another classmate joined us. She ordered a panini sandwich and once she started eating it, she drifted off into some weird zone where she just kept chanting this is so good. We couldn’t even talk to her until she was done. A middle-aged British couple were sitting at a table nearby. They had ordered about 5 desserts and were taking bites of each of them one-by-one. They had a glazed look in their eyes, a look I know too well. I soooo wanted to take a photo of them. I could have set off the flash right in front of their eyes and they probably wouldn’t have even noticed. It was hysterical. And did I mention this place isn’t even a proper café, just a little viennoiserie with a few scattered tables? By Paris standards, there’s nothing remarkable about it at all.
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