The Weishaupl Family Blog

From Italy to Germany

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 21:13:00 +0000

We are two countries past our last post – after a four-night stop in Lutzmansburg, Austria we’ve made our way to Bad Tölz, a spa town in the heart of Bavaria – a good 45 minutes south of Munich.

Our last stop in Italy was in Venice, or as I kept referring to it in the days leading up to our drive, Veniceland, a subsidiary of Disney. Venice, the city of canals, one of the most powerful city-countries from the middle ages through the 1700s or so, pretty much collapsed by the time of Napoleon and only recovered when it discovered it was attracting tourists who loved its preserved heritage. Nowadays, Venice makes so much money from tourism it doesn’t know what to do with it. Fancy bridges to nowhere, updates to the sea-busses (vaporettos), all get funding, except air conditioning in its public museums.

We arrived in Venice on a Sunday afternoon. We drove close to the main train station, only to be turned around by 40 euro a day parking. After finding a shady spot in municipal parking in the town of Mestre for Calude (the Pugeot 206+ we’ve ben driving since Paris) we boarded a train for one euro a piece and, 12 minutes later, faced the queues to talk with people selling tickets for the vaporetto. Four lines for all the folks coming off the train, trying to get into Venice proper. Another place some of that overflow of tourist money might go.

The temperature in Venice was well over 90 – just waiting in line singed my skin. While queued in the line closest to our vaporetto line, a sweaty, smelly German man would not keep his distance. With each step forward, this close-stander would creep up to us, rarely leaving more than 6 inches between us and his person. Tara became so frustrated that I handed her thirty euros and asked her to check out the other ticket line 200 feet away to see if that was moving any faster. Even using both of our roller bags as a buffer, this man did not take the hint; with every forward move of the bag, I could feel his legs release then butt-up against our bags again.

Fortunately, Tara returned victorious with two one-hour vaporetto passes, whereupon we boarded our water bus and waited 45 minutes for it to get to St Elena, our stop. Our hotel, on the main island but a little bit away from the tourist hotspots, was surprised to see us so early in the day, but the manager, Roberto (the son of the couple who owned the building) happily let us into our room. We crashed for about thirty minutes before locking the door and making our way to St Mark’s Square.

Sunday afternoon, high humidity and heat – these left me to question why the Venetians thought it a good idea to build a promenade without any afternoon cover. I slavishly walked under cloudless skies, the sun penetrating every pore of my essence on the way to the main square. Between our hotel and the main attractions lay four veporetto stops and the same number of canal bridges, but, after the loss of many gallons of water in the form of sweat, we finally made it to St Marks.

The number of fanny packs in Italy has been truly astounding, but no more so than here. And the lines were similarly daunting. To get into the Duomo looked easily to be two hours. Into the Doge’s palace – about the same. Didn’t even bother with those exhibits, deciding instead to wander the labyrinthine streets of the city, feast on gelato when we could, and generally take it easy.

The next morning we tried again. At 9 AM we arrived in St Marks and found the same lines and the same fanny packs at all the major sites - and realized there that we were not fated to see scenic Venice. Instead, we spent our two remaining days with somewhat more contemporary happenings. After spending Monday morning in the Academic Gallery (such jaw-dropping artwork hung on walls bathed in sunlight and attacked by heat and humidity in a completely unregulated building) Peggy Guggenheim (astounding in every way! And how did Gerhard Richter manage to insert himself into the sidelines of every artistic movement for forty years?) we grabbed a quick lunch at a bar and spend the rest of our time in Venice in the Biennale, the longest running semi-annual art show in the world.

But that deserves a post of its’ own.

After two tiring days of running around inspired artistic creations, we boarded our final vaporetto, trained back to Mestre, found Claude resting where we left him, and started the drive to Austria.

Lutzmansburg is in the state of Burgenland, the major producer of blaufrankisch in Austria. More specifically, it’s in Mittelburgenland, which is famous not only for that grape but also for Zweigeld, a light, aromatic Austrian varietal Tara and I have liked a lot in the US. Our three whole days were composed of hiking, wine tasting, and a day trip to Vienna, to meet up with one of Tara’s classmates. We also happened to see the famous Klimt paintings at the Belvedere – the Kiss, etc.

And on Sunday we made our way to Bad Tölz, where I’m writing this now in our little apartment having cooked some brats and opened a Moulin a Vent for the evening.

Serenade heard from our balcony in Sirmione

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 21:36:00 +0000

Marching Band in Sirmione at Lake Garda

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 15:28:00 +0000

Italian Internet followup

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 21:51:00 +0000

Fortunately, our hotel in Venice has internet included (most of the places we've stayed have not) so it's given me a chance to waste some time looking into why we've had such poor coverage.

So with a little research it appears Italy passed a law in 2005 requiring anyone providing internet access to collect an identity document from the user. So every hotel, every internet cafe, every place that provides access to customers must collect this information? Why? To increase security and prevent terrorism. Awesome.

Some other enlightened Italian views towards the web are chronicled here: http://www.techdirt.com/articles/20090504/0148494730.shtml

"In Italy we are one hundred years back"

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 21:45:00 +0000

We have encountered four pretty consistent challenges in our time in Italy. First, the road signs are terrible. In France (with the exception of our first day driving, in Paris), when you drive far enough in a straight line, you’ll eventually find a set of signs that tell you the direction of the next town few towns and the more significant distant ones or you will find a sign that says “Toutes Directions,” which lets you know if you continue driving straight you will find such signs. “Toutes” became an indispensible ally in our quest to get places.

Italy has some concept of Toutes – as we passed through about twenty kilometers of tunnels going from the French Alps down into the Piedmont, direction Turin, we occasionally saw a sign reading, “Tutti di directionze” which, in theory, should perform the same task – get the driver to a useful signpost that can help him or her make a decision. No such luck with the latter, though. The signage in Italy is terrible. One intersection will have clear signs getting us to where we want to go; one intersection later, we’re left to just figure it out. As a sign of Italy’s true randomness, we discover afterwards we guess correctly about half the time.

While in Alba, leaving our charming B&B to head to Barolo for some wine tasting, we drove around the ring road surrounding the town twice looking for a sign pointing to Barolo but seeing nothing. Driving through roundabout after roundabout looking at the signs pointing to every destination nearby but Barolo, we realize in a pique of clarity there’s a small chance that the one roundabout without any signs to other towns might be the one we need to get to our destination. Third time around, we choose the roundabout, only to see a sign for Barolo about 500 meters beyond the roundabout. This has been altogether too common an occurrence.

In Italy, many towns have signs with white bulls eyes directing a driver to the city center. These signs are immensely helpful, when they actually work. Unfortunately, all too often the signs are only deployed at every other intersection, requiring a guess at any diverging road without a sign. Again, the 50% rule. We have tried to get into Verona twice now, and the inconsistent centro signs have foiled us both times, adding twenty or so minutes to our travel as we reverse and try again. And, occasionally, again.

Our second challenge has less to do specifically with Italy than it has to do with the inconsistencies of the European Union. When I picked up my car in Paris, the Hertz attendant was very clear to tell me the car can only take Sans Plomb 95 or 98. Nothing else. As long as we were in France, our first 1700 kilometers were fine. Once we crossed into Italy, it all changed. No Sans Plomb 95 or 98 were available. No Sans Plomb at all. Whereas France had one choice for diesel, Italy has two. They have only one unleaded, and it bears nothing in common with the French term.

Banking is similar. In France, it was easy to find banks, particularly those of my bank, HSBC. Italy, true to an Economist article I read a year or so ago, is severely underbanked. Finding ATMs has been difficult and HSBC isn’t even allowed to engage in personal banking in Italy, even though they have branches in many small towns just across the border.

Our fourth problem has been in getting information. We eventually make it to the Verona tourist office, no thanks to Frommers, which lists it on the side of the Roman arena opposite from where it is – curse you Andrew Murphy, the terrible cartographer of our book. Tara goes up to the help desk and asks, as it says in our book to do, for information about the Veneto wine regions. She pulls out a map of Veneto and circles three areas near Verona, saying we can find wines from each of those areas. Tara asks, “so we just go there and its obvious where we can taste?” She says of course. We turn to walk out and I ask for the Frommers book. I take it back to the counter, flipping it to where it discusses the wine region and tasting and say, “in my book it says you should have a list of wineries that allow tasting. Do you have such a thing?” The person behind the desk looks at me for a moment then turns to go to a cabinet of neatly stacked pamphlets, maps, and brochures, digging through them to find us two items – a map specifically of Valpolicella and a second map, by Italian Touring, of all the wineries that allow public tasting. I thank them and, as Tara and I start walking to the door, we start giggling – of course we could get the information we needed, once we showed we knew exactly what we wanted them to give us.

And finally, the internet is almost impossible to find. We located one open wifi spot in all of downtown Alba. In France, Tara would have her iPod Touch or I would have my iPhone open searching for open connections if we needed to look something up; the list of networks would sometimes be a dozen long. Even if most or all of them were locked, France was using wifi. Not so in Italy. Walking through Milan performing the same technique, it was rare to find even one locked wifi connection. Thankfully our hotel had (flaky) access. And to get that, we needed to give them a copy of our passports; in return we received the network’s WEP key and a unique username and password that expired after ten hours of use.

After leaving the Verona tourist office and making two grocery stops where we could not locate an electric hot water kettle, we finally make it to an internet point, a small café about 2 km outside of Sirmione. We go in and ask if they have WiFi. No. Can I connect my computer to their internet connection? No. He walks us to the back to two computers that were likely manufactured before the dot com bust and asks if we want to use one or two of them. Just one. He asks us for identification – preferably a passport. Tara digs through her purse and gives him both of our passports. “With one computer, I only need one passport.” As Tara was loading up Firefox, I asked the barista why every time we sign onto the internet, everyone takes it so seriously, often asking for copies of our passports.

“What year is it, 2009? In Italy we are one hundred years back … before Christ. Do you know what I mean by this?”

All this pretty much sums up our Italy experience so far.

A chicken on the way to Burgundy

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 20:08:00 +0000

After leaving our “gypsy caravan” in Versailles behind, we made our way onto the highway, heading west towards Fontainebleau then south towards Lyon. Though our day-trip to Chartres and back technically saw our little Peugeot challenge the highway, it was really when we merged onto the A6 that this really began to feel like a European road trip.

I’m shifting gears and weaving through highway traffic while Tara is browsing our Burgundy and Rhone Valley travel book, trying to get a sense of what we can do on the drive. The book mentions a town called Sens, describing it as a picturesque medieval town with a nice Gothic cathedral. Tara knows I have a weakness for cathedrals, so we figure out what exit we have to take and head to downtown Sens.

We arrive near the town center and park next to the tourism office. It’s Sunday, about 11:30, so that’s closed and we know there’s a chance the cathedral is in mass. However, Tara tells me there’s a Les Halles in the town and it’s near the cathedral, so we chance it and start walking up to the town square.

The almost-deserted town square.

The 20 feet high wooden doors to the cathedral are shut tightly. A few restaurant owners are setting up outdoor seating in the square in front of the cathedral, with maybe 5 older men sitting by themselves wearing fisherman hats sipping espressos or beers, seemingly waiting for their families to emerge from the mass. Tara has an anxious determination to get out of the square before we figure out what to do next, but I’m just looking up in wide-eyed wonder. No building in my line of sight can be less than 200 years old; most of them look like pieces are nearly medieval. Even the pharmacy, the neon green cross, is in a building made of stone and wood that might easily be found in a medieval recreation.

We make our way through the square, past some buildings, where we find the Les Halles, the indoor food market, which too is shut. It’s only open Tuesday through Saturday. Making our way back to the square, we sit inside one of the restaurants – inside, because after hitting a high of 85 degrees during our first week in Paris, it has steadily dropped to the low 60s of that day and all Tara packed was a light sweater.

Tara and I order espressos – Lavazza, an Italian brand I hadn’t seen advertised yet. As we sit, sipping our coffee, the church bells begin to chime – it’s now noon. The doors to the church swing open and throngs – actual throngs – of people emerge. We settle our bill and head over to the door where maybe three hundred people come out of the cathedral to the sound of the triumphant organ – the miracles of mass are complete.

After most of the attendants leave, we entered through the large doorframe, the organist still vigorously playing her tune. Slowly walking down one side of the arcade, it occurred to me I might not have encountered a real mass since college. The air was somehow more charged than I remember. The bishop – I recognized the white frock with red accents – said his good-byes to many attendees he clearly knew, or at least recognized. We saw several families come in to the cathedral with babies and children dressed in elaborate white dresses – the bishop might be christening this afternoon too.

Before I could ask Tara if we could watch, she leads me back to the square. On our earlier walk, before the coffee, we had passed a butcher with an especially inviting selection of rotisserie chickens. Before we entered the church, we had already decided to return to the butcher to buy a chicken and eat it at the next rest stop. We returned to the butcher to now find a line eight deep, many just emerged from the service. Two of the rotisserie racks were missing – they were behind the counter, next to the awards and certifications the butcher had been awarded. The line is slow – the elderly woman at the front is ordering small cuts of many kinds of meats. But one by one, each person places his or her order, the butcher patiently fulfills it before acknowledging the next customer.

One woman requests a small game hen – all the whole poultry we’ve seen so far looks as if it had just been plucked – so he takes the hen, lights a Bunsen burner behind him on a counter, and sears the last of the feather ends off the bird. Another person orders a rotisserie chicken “with juice”. He takes a jar, walks over to the rotisserie, and ladles the juice and fat at the bottom of the machine into the jar.

The chickens on the rack are AOC chickens - Appellation d'origine contrôlée – which is to say they’re a particular chicken with a regional certification (think Champagne) such that only chickens raised in a particular way and from a particular place can truly be called Bresse.

We finally get to order a chicken – 15.70 euros for the whole thing – that he packs into a double-thick wax paper rotisserie chicken bag. We quickly make our way back to the car, hop onto the highway, and stop at the first exit we can find. We sit at a picnic table with a knife, half a baguette, and an open wax paper bag devouring the parts while the wind whips around us, trying to blow everything away. Amazing!

The Best Pizza Truck in Briancon

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 19:18:00 +0000

After a picture perfect day in in the Alps - hiking, thermal baths, a wildflower walk - we were starving. Fancy French food (i.e. - the only cuisine available at our hotel) would not satisfy, I wanted pizza. Yes, I was hit hard with a craving for pizza. Despite the fact that we will be in ITALY tomorrow morning, I needed pizza for dinner. We drove off in the direction of the largest town around keeping our eyes peeled not just for a pizza place but for a pizza place that was actually open in the sleepy pre-summer season valley. As we descended into Briancon, there it was like a beacon - the Pizza Truck. After a moment's hesitation we turned into the parking lot and went up to the truck's window to place an order. We selected the grande chorizo pie and sat to wait while the pizza maker tossed the fresh dough and slid our pizza into his tiny oven built into the front window of the truck. Ten minutes later a steaming, delicious pizza pie emerged. Ahhh.

Puppets in Lyon

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 19:03:00 +0000

The highlight of our stop in Lyon was a 2.5 hour walking tour of the old city. Towards the end of the tour we encountered puppets partying in the streets - apparently the town's puppet museum had just reopened after TEN YEARS of renovations. It was awesome to see everyone dancing and cheering with the puppets.

La Monastille

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 08:00:00 +0000

The road twisted and turned in the green rolling hills as we zoomed deeper into the Burgundian countryside. After a few wrong turns we finally pulled up to Francoise Moine’s bed & breakfast in an18th century house in a small village (well, not exactly a village – its more like a clump of houses at a crossroads). Francoise opened the door with a smile; good smells of cooking food and an active fireplace wafted out behind her. After being shown to our cute yellow bedroom in the old stone house, we settled in for three nights. The highlights of our stay with Francoise were the dinners at her long wooden dining table. The first night we were the only guests who were a) Not French b) Under the age of 65. Thus, we attracted a lot of curious attention as our fellow diners tried to understand why two young people from bustling Manhattan wanted to vacation in the middle of nowhere in the French countryside, where the only noise in the still air was a mooing cow. Two of the six spoke English well enough to relay the rapid fire questions from the rest of the group and translate our answers– we covered everything from if we voted for Obama to if we ate ducks in the US to what wine we intended to purchase in Burgundy. As Francoise served the cheese course she asked us how many cheeses we have in the US and shared a bon mot from Charles de Gaulle about the abundance of French cheese varieties: “How can anyone govern a nation that has two hundred and forty-six different kinds of cheese?” Staying with Francoise was so special because it was a taste of what life is like in Burgundy and a more personal glimpse of a French home. It was sad to leave…and we can’t wait to return.

Chartres

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 07:53:00 +0000

The labyrinth painted on the floor of the cathedral in Chartres was, for me, the most memorable part of our visit to this gothic masterpiece. The spiritual meaning has been lost over the centuries; in fact, the labyrinths that were once common in Gothic cathedrals have mostly been destroyed. It was striking to see all of the people walking the maze in intense concentration. I watched for awhile trying to discern their motivation – tourists quickly pacing through the legendary 11 circuits, two young women walking meditatively in bare feet while pausing at each bend, the man standing still in a shaft of light, his eyes closed and his palms raised up. Everyone was experiencing something different yet powerful by following the painted lines. Leaving the cathedral to finish our drive to Versailles, I was warmed and touched by this simple display of people finding meaning in the Chartres labyrinth.

The French internet was down

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 07:52:00 +0000

So since we left Paris, traveling to Varsailles and through Burgundy and Beaujolais down to Lyon in the Rhone, none of the places we’ve stayed have had internet. Since both Tara and I have grown accustomed to just-in-time information, this has been a difficult thing to adjust to. We have been walking around towns, waving my iphone in wifi mode around trying to find an open network that didn’t require a password or account to use. This has led us to standing outside hotels, tourist offices and, in one case, a kindergarten – receiving puzzled looks from parents as they dropped off or picked up their children.

But fortunately, we still have our stories - which will now get posted, a bit out of order.

"no poulet pour vous"

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 22:30:00 +0000

While Paris has allowed us to experience some incredible restaurants, among our favorite ways to eat lunch and early dinner here has been to visit bakeries, food stores, and butchers to acquire what we need to assemble food ourselves. Our local bakery Av la Motte Picquet has seven different prepared sandwiches on that-morning baked baguettes ready for us to take on any of our daily adventures. On Rue Cler a shop specializes in servicing the lunch crowd with poulet, sausage, or boudin noir sandwiches and a side of frites, if you are so inclined. The too-many-to-catalog little gourmet stores have pate and prepared salads (fennel and goat cheese, roasted eggplant) available in little containers, just enough for two to share. Many of the butchers have rotisseries in their shop – rotisseries where the drippings from the rotating chickens fall on small fingerling potatoes at the bottom of the machine.

So it has been that when we have not gone out for incredible well-prepared dinners we have eaten at home or picnic style at one of the many gardens and lawns throughout Paris. Our second day in the city we walked past a butcher on Boulevard Saint-Germain shortly after noon, a butcher that had a rotisserie where the chicken meat looked like it was completely independent of the bones, it was so tender. We rushed in and bought a chicken – 15 euros – and ran it home, devouring it before taking a nap.

We have talked about this chicken almost daily since. Tonight, after exploring the old, windy streets and red light district on Monmarte for nearly six hours, we decided a chicken – a full rotisserie poulet – would pair nicely with a Provencal rose we had been saving and should be enjoyed this evening in front of the Eiffel Tower, on a lawn where hundreds of French students seem to gather every night to enjoy one another’s company over food and drink, watching the glitter of the Eiffel Tower as it performs a light show every hour from 10 PM onward.

But after six hours of walking Tara is tired and hot, so e decide to head home. We arrive shortly before 6 PM and, as Tara gets comfortable at home, I get ready to head over to this little boucherie, J Fournier at 256 Boulevard Saint-Germain. Walking down, all I can think about is the succulent, seasoned chicken and an éclair we had eaten somewhere nearby on the way to the Rodin museum about a week before. We didn’t know it at the time, but that coffee flavored éclair might have been the best we have had so far in Paris.

I arrived at J Fournier around 6:30, about an hour before they close. There is one more chicken in the rotisserie. Pay dirt! I get on line – 5 deep – and wait expectantly to ask for “un poulet.” But it is not meant to be. At 50ish year old woman, baguette in hand, points to the rotisserie and says the words that end my quest, “un poulette, s'il vous plait.” I don’t even wait – I turn around and leave the store.

It occurred to me on the way home that such an incident is unlikely to occur in the US. Most stores would stock enough chickens to be sure everyone who wanted one could buy one, even if that meant having leftover at the end of the day. It ensures no one is unhappy, because saying “we’re out of that right now” is something most shopkeepers hate to tell their customers. The Parisians, at least the ones we’ve encountered to date, are less … bothered in delivering that news. At restaurants, clothing stores, and even butchers, they’re all too ready to create situations where they will have to say, “sorry we’re out of that.” In short, in the US they’d say, “here’s your chicken.” In Paris, I am more likely to hear, “no poulet pour vous.”

It would be easy to say, “why don’t they just make more chickens?” But, based on the taste of the one we were lucky enough to purchase, that would not be sustainable. The butchers prepare a certain number of chickens to meet the needs of the people who can’t cook without it dominating their main business of cutting up meat to sell. The rotisserie is a small corner convenience sitting in an odd corner that would likely be otherwise unused. There are enough chickens in the rotisserie for the butcher – that I couldn’t get one is just a factor of getting there too late.

With nothing to show for my walk, I start retracing my steps from there to the Rodin museum, certain I can find the boulangerie that sold us that transcendent éclair not just a week ago. After walking up one street, down another, and up again a third, I find it. And they still have eclairs. And baguettes that look terrifically crispy even from 8 feet. I happily use the 5 words of French I know, relying on gestures and the LED of the cash register to assist with the barrage of words I don’t understand. Handing over 3 euro 50, I walk out with an a single piece of wax paper folded into a bag around my éclair and holding another piece of wax paper wrapped around the middle of a baguette.

More pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Sun, 31 May 2009 21:58:00 +0000

My pictures continue to get added on Flickr (thank you, FFXporter iPhoto plugin!) if you're interested. After Paris the additions might be more sporadic, as we likely will not have as regular access, but they will eventually make it there.

Europe 2009

One more thing

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Sun, 31 May 2009 21:37:00 +0000

Tara just reminded me I left out the one of the good parts to that dinner...

When we were seated at Ribouldingue, a finely dressed older Frenchwoman occupied the table next to ours. She had just received her amuse bouche and bottle of white wine as we received our menus. As we were browsing the foreign words, using the culinary dictionary to actually understand what was on offer, she leaned over to Tara and, lifting her white wine from its tableside cooler, haltingly offered in English to give us a taste if we were interested. Either bewildered by the goings-on of the menu and the restaurant or uncertain of the commitment that would entail, both of us politely shook our heads and waved our hands to indicate we were alright.

After our appetizer plates were taken away, she leaned in again and asked, “are you for the first time in Paris?” From there, she no longer sat alone. Though her English was limited and our French was nonexistent, she told us about though she lives about 35 minutes north of Paris she likes to treat herself to a nice meal at a good restaurant at least once a month. Generally one of her friends from work joins her, but not that evening. She is 70, with two grown daughters – one of them, with her grandchild, live in San Diego. She showed me a picture of the granddaughter when Tara was in the bathroom.

She complimented me on my ordering – she seemed to approve of the brain and kidney – after all, she had the latter, though not as rare as I did. Our wine, she also approved of, though haltingly. “A white would have been better with the kidney, but that rose … it is ok with everything.” However, she gently chided Tara for her order. The cod seemed to upset her especially – she insisted that when going to a restaurant famous for the “insides” it is not appropriate to order the cod. And our desserts – Tara’s sorbet and my ice cream – these are things we could get anywhere.

Before settling her check, she asked the waitress for the menu and pointed out several items we must order when we return to the restaurant, her favorites from over her many visits.

Last night's dinner

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Sat, 30 May 2009 12:09:00 +0000

Kristina lent us an amazing little book, Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris, which we've now taken to as kind of a bible to discovering great restaurants in Paris. Friday afternoon, while exploring the streets of the Latin Quarter and following our Lonely Planet's walking tour of literary haunts, we decided to stop by one of the bistros I had marked as a possible stop and make a reservation for the evening. Unfortunately, we arrived after lunch (12-2 PM) and well before dinner (7-11 PM). After some discussion of whether we should chance just showing up a few hours later or call, Tara finally convinced me to plug in their number and give them a call.

"Bonjor!"

"Bonjour."

"Parlay vou Anglai?"

"A lee-tle..."

A reservation in hand for 8:30 that night, we followed our map, finding the oldest mosque in Paris, Hemingway's apartment, James Joyce, and a flophouse where George Orwell stayed for some time before writing Down and Out in Paris and London. After a brief stop at a tourist cafe where we each had a glass of beer while watching people pass by and a group of amateur capouiera practitioners entertained an undulating crowd, we browsed the used books available at Shakespeare & Company, then made it to the restaurant.

Clotilde described Ribouldingue as a palace to offal – tripe, sweetbreads, snout, tongue, udder – just about any part of the animal not generally found on an American menu. On arrival, two very kind waitresses at the restaurant greeted us and, realizing we had very little French to assist us, tried as best they could to get us comfortable.

The menu, filled with ris, agneau, cochon, vache, cerveau, required another handy book Kristina lent us, the Lonely Planet World Food: France; more specifically the French culinary dictionary in the back of the book. Quickly sorting tongue from kidney from marrow from brain, Tara and I were ready to order. Tara ordered a fresh marinated raw salmon with dill for an appetizer and tried to order veal tongue as her main. Apparently the latter was a popular choice that night and they were out; she ordered cod with fennel instead. I chose as my starter agneau cerveau. The waitress immediately replied something to the effect of, “you know that is lamb brain, yes?” “Yes.” For my main, I ordered Rognon de veau. Again, “you know this is kidney, no?” “Yes – exactly.”

They promptly brought us a pork skin terrine, the aspic glistening despite the low light of the restaurant. Tara ordered us a lovely rose to compliment our dinners. After some time, Tara’s salmon and my sautéed veal brain with fingerling potatoes, raw garlic cloves, and fat capers arrived and we feasted. Finishing that course, our mains – Tara’s cod and my rare veal kidney with scalloped potatoes – arrived.

All the food we had there filled me with such joy. The brains –billowy, with a creaminess reminiscent of sweetbreads only more so; each forkful just melted on my tongue. The garlic cloves, soaked in lemon juice, were like intermittent little firecrackers of flavor. The kidney had a delicate flavor, a slight gaminess I’m used to in liver, but stronger and with a chew like a good steak.

For newness, for delicacy, this might be one of the finest meals I have ever had.

Dessert – a passion fruit sorbet for Tara and chartreuse-flavored ice cream for me – was less adventurous than the prior courses, but acted as a fine palette cleanser for our finishing espressos and treats to close the experience. Delicate chocolate candies, salted caramels, and anise and cardamom flavored marshmallows arrived at the table; in due course we paid the check and walked home.

Underground music

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Fri, 29 May 2009 13:44:00 +0000

Alex and I saw this band playing Thursday morning in the Concorde Metro station.

The past four days

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Fri, 29 May 2009 08:27:00 +0000

We purchased a four day museum pass on Monday and have been aggressively exploring the Parisian museums this week. If you're interested in that sort of thing, you can see Tara's pictures on Facebook or mine here:

Some first week observations are forthcoming.

There is no sincerer love than the love of food ~ George Bernard Shaw

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Fri, 29 May 2009 07:50:00 +0000

After stocking up on gourmet groceries at Le Grand Epicerie and Rue Cler, most of our meals have been assembled at home or eaten on the run during the whirlwind museum tour that occupied most of the week. Restaurants have been few and far between, but we did have two more good meals that rounded out our first week.

Tiny Le Florimond is around the corner from the apartment Alex and I are staying in. The first night we were here in Paris, I could smell the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen as I stood on the sidewalk outside. Our dinner did not disappoint. We selected from the set menu (36 euros for an appetizer, entree and dessert) and added some daily specials. My appetizer is the best dish I have eaten thus far in France: risotto dyed black with squid ink, topped with juicy langoustines and delicate baby asparagus. Alex had a pate of boudin noir. Our main courses were also delicious - I had veal with potatoes and carrots; Alex had beef cooked two ways. We knew we ordered well when we generated jealous looks from the table next to us, and saw them change their appetizer order to the risotto!

Later in the week, we met some of my friends from Wharton for lunch at Aux Vin des Pyrenees in the Marais for a quick-ish lunch before hitting the Picasso Museum. The set lunch menu is a value at 14.5 euros for 2 courses: appetizer + entree or entree + dessert. My appetizer, a salad with roasted chicken gizzard, was great but the main course of lemon chicken with penne pasta was just ok. My friend selected a cote-du-rhone to accompany the meal which was lighter and fruitier than I expected. Alex ventured off of the set menu and got the beef tartare, which he loved. We'll definitely be back to try more things on the wine list.

Luckily, the rich food has not taken a tool on our health yet - we've been walking a ton and today we joined Velib to rent bikes. Looking forward to using our biked to reach restaurants further afield next week!

Food is an important part of a balanced diet. ~Fran Lebowitz

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Mon, 25 May 2009 20:38:00 +0000

Ahhh, eating in Paris. You could eat all day and all night in this city and still not touch the tip of the iceberg in terms of the variety and quantity of food options. Alex and I fit in quite well here, where eating is practically the national sport.

You can eat anywhere and everywhere in Paris. Upon seeing this sign in the metro, I joked to Alex that he should press the red button if he was hungry and "le chef de station" would quickly assist in this grave matter: "Quel désastre! No one should ever be hungry in Paris!"

We've branched out from French food over the last few days and have tried the other cuisines on offer.

Last night, we met some of my friends from Wharton who were ravenous for Asian food. They wanted to try Au Coin des Gourmets, a Lao/Vietnamese/Cambodian restaurant in the Latin Quarter. We each selected a different set menu featuring dishes from the 3 countries, and Alex rounded out the selection with our favorite Cambodian dish, amok (a mild fish curry wrapped in a banana leaf). The food was solid - I enjoyed my beef and noodle salad dressed with mint and lime as well as my de-boned chicken wings stuffed with minced pork, ginger and vegetables. Alex's amok was quite tasty as was my friend's crab salad. I would recommend this restaurant if you are craving Asian food in Paris but I wouldn't go out of my way for it - its good but not a must try, especially on a short trip.

After wandering around the Louvre for hours upon hours today, I was craving comfort food along with an air-conditioned place to rest my feet. Luckily, we were not too from La Marais and its myriad falafel joints! We beat a path to L'As du Fallafel, which came with high recommendations from friends. Israeli food and cute waiters - yum! Alex and I shared a falafel pita and a schnitzel pita - the falafel was average (even a bit soggy) but the schnitzel was a bundle of crisp & savory deliciousness! Although the falafel was not all that I had hoped it would be, we'll definitely be back. The schnitzel was excellent, so many people recommended the falafel that it deserves a second chance, plus as Alex was paying our bill the two ladies next to us got their order of chicken liver pate. The pate made my mouth water with a fragrant pile of fried onions on top, so now it is on my list of things I must eat in Paris. :-)

Au Coins de Gourmets

5, Rue Dante
75005 Paris, France

+33 1 43 26 12 92

L'as du Fallafel

34, Rue Rosiers

75004 Paris, France
+33 1 48 87 63 60

Two walks, a cathedral, and a chicken

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Sun, 24 May 2009 22:04:00 +0000

Tara and I both stirred before 8 AM to the sound of rustling curtains and singing birds. The sky was a clear azure blue – not a cloud, not a wisp to seen above. While I dawdled, Tara ran downstairs to find breakfast –two croissants – we eagerly combined with butter purchased the day before. Slowly we readied ourselves and left the apartment just before 10 to find out what was out there.

Our first stop: Rue Cler, a short street with three bistros, two butchers, a wine shop and a greengrocer. While ogling in many directions to discover the source of the direction of fresh aroma after aroma, we found ourselves on the Seine, looking across at the right bank. We strolled down to the Musee de Orsay, where gaggles of tourists waited to pay entry. Passing them, we ventured away from the river. On Boulevard St Germain, we found a little boucher with an unavoidable rotisserie in the window. The chicken looked so well prepared and . . . happy . . . its meat was almost falling off the bone. Tara and I walked in and immediately purchased one, running it home to feast on with the rest of our bottle of viognier. A nap ensued.

After that nap, we ventured to Invalides, which has three small museums and is the resting place of Napoleon’s ashes. Like all medieval arms and armor exhibits, the first room is amazing and delightful – imagining being at court, seeing a joust, all of that – but after several hundred swords, muskets, flintlock pistols, plate armor, shields, and other weapons of local destruction, they all started blending together. No area made that more clear than a corridor between 16th and 17th century weapons that was filled with an armory of armor parts, as well as 65 fully posed knights armor.

We skipped the World War I and II museum and went instead to the top floor of one of the buildings, where they had meticulous scale models of late medieval fortified towns, as well as instructions on how those towns were eventually stormed and sacked by various armies. In that same building, in the basement, we watched a 20-minute hagiographic retelling of Charles du Gaulle’s life. Well, I saw a 20-minute hagiography – Tara fell asleep by the second scene.
Napoleon’s tomb is a strange experience – the space itself has remnants of baroque influence, as well as a pomposity that can only be described as gaudy. From the grand size of the tomb and sarcophagus to the sad (maybe bored?) statues to victory and liberty looking at the coffin, the experience in the tomb feels almost silly rather than solemn.

We made our way to the Latin Quarter, which was swamped with young people looking for food and laughing with their friends. I had an absolutely amazing crepe with Grand Marnier flambee. We walked over to Notre Dame cathedral, all lit up for the nighttime visitors. In the square, we heard French, Spanish, Portuguese, German, and English. Three college-age girls were talking loudly, one compelling another to take more pictures of the cathedral. She replied, “I’ve got enough pictures of Notre Dame; stop being so Notre Lame!”

We spent some time in the square, listening to Spanish guitar, watching a fire juggler, and discussing what it must have been like for a medieval peasant to come to Paris and see this cathedral for the first time. After dawdling there until 11 or so, we slowly walked back to the 7th and our apartment, walking in just a minute before midnight.

Wander down an alley in Paris and you'll make new friends

noreply@blogger.com (Tara Beth) — Sun, 24 May 2009 09:32:00 +0000

Parisians are not rude. At least, not to me and Alex so far. Every encounter we've had with the locals has been pleasant - from the wine shop proprietor who wanted to know if we were drinking the champagne soon so she could give us a cold bottle, to the happy cafe owner who prepared delicious Nutella crepes for us on his break, to the smiling old ladies who asked us for directions in French and laughed pleasantly when they realized we only spoke English.

By far, the friendliness we have encounter is best exemplified by the chance encounter yesterday afternoon. While wandering the streets of the 6th arrondissement, I noticed a sign that said simply "Tomat's Epicurie fine" with an arrow pointing down an alley. I pulled Alex down the narrow sunny lane to investigate. We stumbled upon a small specialty food shop where the owner was hosting two friends for a late afternoon glass of champagne. The store was like a jewel-box of flavors - local jams, foie gras, mustards, and honeys all decorated the walls in tiny glistening glass jars.

Alex selected two treats to take home and brought them to the register, where we were immediately offered cheese pastries and quizzed about who we were and where we came from. We chatted with the owner, Belina, and her friend named Chris, an American who lives in Paris and owns the photography gallery next door. Belina produced two more glasses from under the counter and poured us the last few sips of her champagne, urging us to come back in a few days for the foie gras tasting she is hosting.

We left feeling warm from the simple gestures of sharing a bit of food and drink with good conversation. Parisians have so far proven themselves to be different from the rumors that circulate about their attitude. Or maybe, as New Yorkers used to putting up with rudeness, everyone else seems lovely in comparison. This I know for sure - we definitely will accept the invitation to the tasting in a few days to see our new friends again and will stock up on treats from Tomat's before we leave the city of lights.

And, should you ever find yourself in Paris looking for the perfect foodie gift shop please visit our new friend Belina at:

Tomat's Epicurie fine: 12, rue Jacob 75006 (dans la cour) 01 44 07 36 58

The first day

noreply@blogger.com (Alex) — Sat, 23 May 2009 07:49:00 +0000

Though frustrated by Air France's check-in process - one line to get our boarding pass, another to check in our luggage, another to hand over our luggage, a fourth to go through security, and yes a fifth to board the plane - we had an uneventful flight to CDG aboard a huge Boeing 767.

Arriving at the airport, we quickly retrieved our bags, bought absurdly expensive espressos and americanos just outside customs, and tried to head into Paris with the train. That a major metropolitan airport would be connected to its metropolis by mass transit seems absurd to this New Yorker. This is where we encountered our first true problem. Twenty vending machines supported several hundred people buying tickets to use the various trains. And seven of those machines didn't work. And when we finally got to one that did work, it only took European credit cards (with the little smart chips in them). It also took Euros, but only coins. And there was no change machine to break our paper Euros.

We took a cab instead.

We arrived at our amazing little apartment on the seventh floor of an adorable 19th century building by 2 in the afternoon and, after unpacking some stuff, promptly took a nap. Two hours of sleep on the plane had left me, at least, feeling sleep-sickness.

We left the apartment around 5 PM and headed to a gourmet market recommended by everyone we know who loves food - La Grande Epicerie. On walking in and completing a quick lap around, we stumble into their wine department, where a salesperson hands us two glasses of champagne to sample. Already I love this country.

We also sample a Vioginer from Côtes du Rhône - Co Ho La - and talk to the saleswoman pouring it. Within three minutes, we find out she's heading to New York in late August. We buy pates, a baugette, butter, yogurt, micro-strawberries, and coffee and head home to prepare dinner.

After dinner we take a leisurly walk through the streets of the neighborhood, gradually meandering towards the Eiffel Tower. The lines to get to the top! It's about 8:30 PM, the sky is still bright with the sun, but we're getting tired. We make our way back to the apartment, climb into bed, and are asleep almost immediately.