Continuing as I now was, on the recommendation of a reliable third party, I found myself wandering the myriad streets somewhere near the Gare de Lyon. I was looking for L'Ebauchoir which I'd read did a comparatively creative bistro lunch menu for 13€. I consulted the website to find a series of cool animations which seemed to represent a a fairly light-hearted atmosphere in which to enjoy a serious lunch, at responsible expense.
Given that I was so far from the beaten track I'd assumed it truly French - true in the sense that it would be frequented by either locals or those 'in the know': ie, not feeling it necessary to subscribe to the architypal street-corner act of so many bistros in the city.
I was further encouraged as to its credentials when on entering I was given a fairly frosty reception from two of the members of staff. It was almost certainly due to the heat and the fact that, at 2.30, they were nearing the end of what had been a busy lunch service. But I consoled myself with the thought that they weren't at all tourist-savvy, so to speak - that it was a shock to the system. That was fine, provided of course, they didn't think to spite this stray ros' beef. As at this point, it had become clear that is exactly what I was: I attempted a semi-franglaise/semi-mime, 'table for one?' at which point the waiter pitched, in perfect English, 'Inside, outside; sun, shade?' back at me, albeit in that irritatingly smug international accent.
I settled in the sun outside and ordered from the set menu. To begin, I selected a light, summery sounding raw, pickled herring with potatoes and a balsamic viniagrette. The fish was lovely and delicate, where the potatoes were floury and substantial. Though I found the viniagrette a little too much - too dijony and heavy for the simplicity of all else. I could, however, see a genuine attempt at something a little bit different - a sure deviation from the orthodox bistro formula.
Disapointingly, high hopes quickly turned to anti-climax when my main course arrived - a cold beef salad. Perhaps naively, I was surprised to find that the cut of meat was a cheap one - the kind of which is wonderful in a slow-braised, piping hot stew. This though was a cold salad on a hot day. Parts - the meatier parts - I enjoyed. It had been dressed, rather unusually, with mint and tarragon and was served with some seasoned rice and some crisp, dressed leaves. The problem was there was simply more than a little I didn't want to eat. I may sound like a wuss, but without lean beef, it seemed a bit of a confused parody.
I genuinely didn't want to tar L'Ebauchoir with the bad restaurant brush. I suspected that the dishes were not necessarily to my taste. More, it was so cheap and I had seen, if not in the execution, a potential for a good lunch. At 13€ it was entirely possible a set menu could have shortcomings.
I have since been twice as a result and both myself and my friends have been delighted - save for a bin-end creme caramel (which seemed to comprise three portions) that Gabs coined a 'horribly mediocre blamonge' - with all that we ate: cold courgette soup with mint, chicken with jus and pomme puree, fish and rice patties with diced tomato, braised veal with roast potatoes and good deserts like chocolate fondant and plum tart all delivered.
In nearly all the dishes, which in fairness over the two visits provided a much greater sample size, the restuarant confirmed my suspicion that there was more to be had following the first visit. It represents excellent value in a characterful french place. Saying that, the proprietor's embrace is far from warm, though my regularity has at least drawn half-smiles of familiarity. With time, maybe I'll accrue the status of a local - and they'll at least pretend to be pleased to see me.
43 - 45 rue de Citeaux, 75012 Paris
http://www.lebauchoir.com/
Friday, August 21, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
My three companions
Pieces of the first week. Michael Booth's brilliant book, sweedish plus-fours and some faux-Birkenstocks
...And a final sweet something - Laduree
To complete my hat trick of sweet delights this week, I decided to visit an institutional Parisian patisserie. Acting principally on the trusted advice of a former inhabitee of Saint-Germain, my friend Annie, I Velib-ed (Paris rent-a-bikes) my way from the 13th arrondissment north to the 7th.
Again, I would not include myself among the most religious lovers of things sweet. And again, I was alarmingly made aware of what else I didn't know about my own palate. Rows of macaroons - a rainbow of colours, a plethora of flavours - occupy the majority of the counter, behind which a brigade of bi- tri- four-bags-full-lingual assistants delicately place requests in ornately patterned Georgian-jade coloured boxes for you to take away and cherish. You are forgiven for forgetting that they are indeed to be eaten - if not at once.
These are the product of a commitment to perfection, as well as a very real duty to answer a demand - I have heard that in the Champs Elysee branch alone 12,000 of these little bad boys are shifted daily. At 10€ for 8, you do the maths!
Among my packet of pleasure, there was sticky, buttery caramel, nutty pistachio and jammy raspberry. Choosing your combination is fun enough; eating them a whole other thing.
Sheer intrigue left my box half empty before I'd even manage to take a photograph of the shop front. And with that - my picture, a sugar rush and a feeling of satisfaction - I felt composed to go on and continue my day in search of the next Parisian surprise.
Again, I would not include myself among the most religious lovers of things sweet. And again, I was alarmingly made aware of what else I didn't know about my own palate. Rows of macaroons - a rainbow of colours, a plethora of flavours - occupy the majority of the counter, behind which a brigade of bi- tri- four-bags-full-lingual assistants delicately place requests in ornately patterned Georgian-jade coloured boxes for you to take away and cherish. You are forgiven for forgetting that they are indeed to be eaten - if not at once.
These are the product of a commitment to perfection, as well as a very real duty to answer a demand - I have heard that in the Champs Elysee branch alone 12,000 of these little bad boys are shifted daily. At 10€ for 8, you do the maths!
Among my packet of pleasure, there was sticky, buttery caramel, nutty pistachio and jammy raspberry. Choosing your combination is fun enough; eating them a whole other thing.
Sheer intrigue left my box half empty before I'd even manage to take a photograph of the shop front. And with that - my picture, a sugar rush and a feeling of satisfaction - I felt composed to go on and continue my day in search of the next Parisian surprise.
...Another something sweet - Amorino
Earlier in the week, Isabelle had introduced me to an ice cream shop in between Jardin de Luxembourg and Pantheon. An Italian parlour, with native staff who form horticultural-esque creations with artistic precision, Amorino is, I am told, unrivalled in Paris.
I would not regard myself as an ice cream lover, though my combination, on trip one, of mango and raspberry (with the addition of strawberry on trip two a couple of days later) kept me smiling and involuntarily uttering sounds of great pleasure for some time afterwards. Exceptional gelati!
I would not regard myself as an ice cream lover, though my combination, on trip one, of mango and raspberry (with the addition of strawberry on trip two a couple of days later) kept me smiling and involuntarily uttering sounds of great pleasure for some time afterwards. Exceptional gelati!
Sweet Thing - Flat peaches...
"Another stall had...curious-looking flat, white peaches which I'd never encountered before coming to Paris but [which] became my favourite fruit". (Michael Booth)
Naturally, I had to try one. Sure enough, on my next visit to the fruit stand, I came across the pesche blanche and willingly threw three into my basket. I had assumed that they were unripe and would need a couple of days. Curiosity and craving would soon overwhelm any patience or logic I had previously intentioned: I reasoned after a most unscientific of prods that they were fine and began tucking in.
Alas, Booth was right. They're amazing! I urge anybody, whenever they can, to enjoy this wonderful fruit. I found it to be everything I always want from a peach but which am frequently and frustratingly hard-pressed to find. (In England, that is). It is more subtle, less acidic than a regular peach; a candy-like, almost exotic flesh. Needless to say, I greedily ate all three and after what was initial ecstasy, they have become a welcome and staple resident in the fruit bowl.
Naturally, I had to try one. Sure enough, on my next visit to the fruit stand, I came across the pesche blanche and willingly threw three into my basket. I had assumed that they were unripe and would need a couple of days. Curiosity and craving would soon overwhelm any patience or logic I had previously intentioned: I reasoned after a most unscientific of prods that they were fine and began tucking in.
Alas, Booth was right. They're amazing! I urge anybody, whenever they can, to enjoy this wonderful fruit. I found it to be everything I always want from a peach but which am frequently and frustratingly hard-pressed to find. (In England, that is). It is more subtle, less acidic than a regular peach; a candy-like, almost exotic flesh. Needless to say, I greedily ate all three and after what was initial ecstasy, they have become a welcome and staple resident in the fruit bowl.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Italiene - Les Cailloux
I had eyed this place on my first night. It looked so inviting - people still enjoying wine and digestifs at around midnight.
It sits at the junction in what might be regarded as the centre of La Butte aux Cailles - the surreally-perfect picturesque village-within-Paris in the 13 arrondissment.
I am lucky enough to live only a stones throw from La Butte aux Cailles, a minutes walk up the hill of rue Alphand. On learning that I was a temporary resident of the area, Edouard, my friend and invaluable informant of all things good and gourmet in Paris, reacted with a degree of surprise and a hint of envy - remarking that it is one of the most beautiful and unknown areas of the city. Jackpot, I thought to myself!
Prestigiously straddling rue Alphand and rue des Cinq-Diamants, Les Cailloux sits separate from a stretch of less affluent looking cafe bars who run the commonplace bistro-style menus. Steak, fritte etc.
I had enjoyed a morning in one such venue; drinking coffee and observing the ever-moving technicoloured demography of these fascinating small streets. You are as likely to see a paint-covered workman as you are a suave, blue-suited vespa-rider from the inner city; while buggy pushing bo-bo mums compete for pavement space with weathered looking old ladies and their trolleys full of fruit. All kinds of characters come and go.
Over the way, lunch at Les Cailloux seemed attractive. It was upward of 40€ for dinner and as I looked on at 1.30 trade looked in no way ready to cease. Here, I thought, busy = good. Ignorantly I hadn't realised it was Italian and to learn that even at lunch one is looking to hand over no less than 15€ for a bowl of pasta, I briefly admonished myself for relinquishing that important childhood mantra 'to never judge a book by its cover'!
Whats more, for the past year, great pasta had been at my beck and call, free of charge (as staff food) and previous to that I had enjoyed a love affair with Giorgio Locatelli and that Magnus Opus, 'Made in Italy'. I'd had my fill and I was now in Paris - for a reason.
That said, it didn't prevent me from enjoying a perfectly al dente linguine with langoustine: lots of fresh parsley and some deliciously sweet cherry tomatoes, which together with some butter formed a glossy liquor that both coated the pasta and provided a good puddle for a chunk of bread to be dipped in at the end.
I certainly did enjoy it, though I felt that I had gone for the wrong reasons and had been rewarded thus. I went because it looked cool and I have learnt, that in Paris, the real gems lay where you least expect them. And so, an early lesson has been learnt: for now, at least, as a wide-eyed would-be gourmand, be guided; and probably follow the workman on foot, not the suit on his vespa.
It sits at the junction in what might be regarded as the centre of La Butte aux Cailles - the surreally-perfect picturesque village-within-Paris in the 13 arrondissment.
I am lucky enough to live only a stones throw from La Butte aux Cailles, a minutes walk up the hill of rue Alphand. On learning that I was a temporary resident of the area, Edouard, my friend and invaluable informant of all things good and gourmet in Paris, reacted with a degree of surprise and a hint of envy - remarking that it is one of the most beautiful and unknown areas of the city. Jackpot, I thought to myself!
Prestigiously straddling rue Alphand and rue des Cinq-Diamants, Les Cailloux sits separate from a stretch of less affluent looking cafe bars who run the commonplace bistro-style menus. Steak, fritte etc.
I had enjoyed a morning in one such venue; drinking coffee and observing the ever-moving technicoloured demography of these fascinating small streets. You are as likely to see a paint-covered workman as you are a suave, blue-suited vespa-rider from the inner city; while buggy pushing bo-bo mums compete for pavement space with weathered looking old ladies and their trolleys full of fruit. All kinds of characters come and go.
Over the way, lunch at Les Cailloux seemed attractive. It was upward of 40€ for dinner and as I looked on at 1.30 trade looked in no way ready to cease. Here, I thought, busy = good. Ignorantly I hadn't realised it was Italian and to learn that even at lunch one is looking to hand over no less than 15€ for a bowl of pasta, I briefly admonished myself for relinquishing that important childhood mantra 'to never judge a book by its cover'!
Whats more, for the past year, great pasta had been at my beck and call, free of charge (as staff food) and previous to that I had enjoyed a love affair with Giorgio Locatelli and that Magnus Opus, 'Made in Italy'. I'd had my fill and I was now in Paris - for a reason.
That said, it didn't prevent me from enjoying a perfectly al dente linguine with langoustine: lots of fresh parsley and some deliciously sweet cherry tomatoes, which together with some butter formed a glossy liquor that both coated the pasta and provided a good puddle for a chunk of bread to be dipped in at the end.
I certainly did enjoy it, though I felt that I had gone for the wrong reasons and had been rewarded thus. I went because it looked cool and I have learnt, that in Paris, the real gems lay where you least expect them. And so, an early lesson has been learnt: for now, at least, as a wide-eyed would-be gourmand, be guided; and probably follow the workman on foot, not the suit on his vespa.
Du beurre, du beurre, et encore du beurre
This is a quote from Auguste Escoffier, author of Ma Cuisine and deemed 'king of chefs and chef of kings', on the essence of French cookery. I have taken it myself from Michael Booth's book Sacre Cordon Bleu: what the French know about cooking.
I have included this post as a gesture of thanks and a nod of recognition to the best chef (and francophile) I was lucky enough to work with for over a year and whose skills will hopefully now, at long long last, be put to good use.
Yesterday was, I believe, his final shift and after over two and a half years of fine service to an unappreciative enterprise, I'd like to say that tonight, Mike, I will be toasting a glass of red wine to you. Sante! Bon chance and huge thanks for the book, I love it.
I have included this post as a gesture of thanks and a nod of recognition to the best chef (and francophile) I was lucky enough to work with for over a year and whose skills will hopefully now, at long long last, be put to good use.
Yesterday was, I believe, his final shift and after over two and a half years of fine service to an unappreciative enterprise, I'd like to say that tonight, Mike, I will be toasting a glass of red wine to you. Sante! Bon chance and huge thanks for the book, I love it.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Chez Gladines
I was told that this place was fantastic. The guardian 'Top 10 new bistros in Paris' had listed it last summer and Isabelle, my flatmate, confirmed it as an absolute must for dinner.
It was suggested that we wait until 10ish before going...I love the fact everything occurs a few hours later here, and each time am happily reminded of being fed by my Dad, on the rare occasion that he would "cook" in the absence of my Mum, at 4.30pm immediately after getting in from school. 'Good day at school, shall we get tea out of the way, kids?'.
As much as I love tinned salmon, peas and onion-specked mashed potato, the idea of entering a Parisian neighbourhood dining room on a balmy August night filled me with excitement. Plus, I was actually hungry!
On arrival we would find a great gathering outside on the street - all smoking, chatting, and waiting to be fed. That, I think, is the best way to describe Chez Gladines: they see it as their obligation to feed you, feed you as much as you can eat for as little as they can afford to charge. Noble, huh?
To call it a soup kitchen for middle-class students would do it something of an injustice and while there was a table of 11 obnoxious, loud, ostensibly wealthy 18-21 year olds, the two dining rooms were full of people who wanted to eat well and who didn't mind sharing a table or sharing a story with their unknown fellow diners.
On our table for instance, was Stefan: a thick-set, hirsute Cantona-cum-Chabal figure of great presence who kindly offered advice on what to select from the menu.
His suggestion turned out to be one that would set a precedent for Size of Plate:Volume of Food ratios henceforth. Escalopes de Veau were flying out of the kitchen faster than one could say, 'Have you got frogs legs?' (The sole waiter was moving faster than I thought humanly possible; indeed faster than any green amphibian could move either). Xenophobic exclamation averted. Each time said waiter slalomed and muscled his way through the restaurant bellowing, 'CHAUD, CHAUD, CHAUD' the plates would receive inquisitory glances as if to say, 'what is that...that's what I want'. Going with the masses was again a triumph. This was lip-lickingly delicious, heart-stoppingly calorie-laden food at its best. A celebration of sorts to all things savoury.
Veal, ham, cheese and countless stacks of thinly-sliced, crispy potatoes formed a centre piece around which ran a moat of montagnaud sauce: rich with brandy and cream and dotted with sauteed mushrooms. Plus loads of baguette (as is standard) to mop up.
There is simply no point in coming to Gladines unless you are very hungry. I managed all but a few potatoes (at a push) and Isabelle (whose salad literally filled a stainless steel mixing bowl) unsurprisingly was unable to finish.
Neither would you wish to visit Gladines every night, not least because repeated indulgence of this kind would serve only to distort what is required of any orthodox eatery. Equally, though, it is for its very eccentricities, unrestrained energy and uniqueness, that anybody wishing to eat - eat that is, in its purest sense, must go.
It was suggested that we wait until 10ish before going...I love the fact everything occurs a few hours later here, and each time am happily reminded of being fed by my Dad, on the rare occasion that he would "cook" in the absence of my Mum, at 4.30pm immediately after getting in from school. 'Good day at school, shall we get tea out of the way, kids?'.
As much as I love tinned salmon, peas and onion-specked mashed potato, the idea of entering a Parisian neighbourhood dining room on a balmy August night filled me with excitement. Plus, I was actually hungry!
On arrival we would find a great gathering outside on the street - all smoking, chatting, and waiting to be fed. That, I think, is the best way to describe Chez Gladines: they see it as their obligation to feed you, feed you as much as you can eat for as little as they can afford to charge. Noble, huh?
To call it a soup kitchen for middle-class students would do it something of an injustice and while there was a table of 11 obnoxious, loud, ostensibly wealthy 18-21 year olds, the two dining rooms were full of people who wanted to eat well and who didn't mind sharing a table or sharing a story with their unknown fellow diners.
On our table for instance, was Stefan: a thick-set, hirsute Cantona-cum-Chabal figure of great presence who kindly offered advice on what to select from the menu.
His suggestion turned out to be one that would set a precedent for Size of Plate:Volume of Food ratios henceforth. Escalopes de Veau were flying out of the kitchen faster than one could say, 'Have you got frogs legs?' (The sole waiter was moving faster than I thought humanly possible; indeed faster than any green amphibian could move either). Xenophobic exclamation averted. Each time said waiter slalomed and muscled his way through the restaurant bellowing, 'CHAUD, CHAUD, CHAUD' the plates would receive inquisitory glances as if to say, 'what is that...that's what I want'. Going with the masses was again a triumph. This was lip-lickingly delicious, heart-stoppingly calorie-laden food at its best. A celebration of sorts to all things savoury.
Veal, ham, cheese and countless stacks of thinly-sliced, crispy potatoes formed a centre piece around which ran a moat of montagnaud sauce: rich with brandy and cream and dotted with sauteed mushrooms. Plus loads of baguette (as is standard) to mop up.
There is simply no point in coming to Gladines unless you are very hungry. I managed all but a few potatoes (at a push) and Isabelle (whose salad literally filled a stainless steel mixing bowl) unsurprisingly was unable to finish.
Neither would you wish to visit Gladines every night, not least because repeated indulgence of this kind would serve only to distort what is required of any orthodox eatery. Equally, though, it is for its very eccentricities, unrestrained energy and uniqueness, that anybody wishing to eat - eat that is, in its purest sense, must go.
Chez Gladines 5 rue des Cinq Diamants, Paris 13
Pho Boeuf Special
So: overwhelmed and still coming to terms with the fact that I am actually living here, I choose not French but Vietnamese food for my dining out premiere. Strange? Well, maybe. Why? Perhaps with the busy brasseries on every street corner, there was the very real possibility that I would make a bad choice and leave disappointed - tainting my journee with immediate anti-climax. An, 'If it was shit, then it wasn't Paris's fault' kind of attitude thus dictated my first move.
It was on the recommendation of Jack (an English chef honing his skills in the city) that I should visit Pho Banh Cuon 14 at 129 Avenue de Choisy for what he would say 'may be the best 8€ you can spend in Paris'. And if that wasn't enough of an endorsement, then lastly, I thought, eating Eastern food may bring some zen-like calm after a frenetic first 48 hours in Paris.
And so I go.
Now for whatever reason I went, I am very glad I did. The gathering on the pavement outside is evidence enough of the popularity of the place. At 9.30 I was queuing for about 20 minutes. A queue would remain for the duration of my dinner and it is testament to the value of the food and the speed with you recieve it that service looked in no way ready to let up even when I left at 10.30.
Jack told me to have the Pho Boeuf Special. I looked around the room and it too was what everybody else seemed to have. It seemed sensible to oblige. And what a great broth it was: loads of glace noodles, thin slices of rare steak/chunks of more well-done beef, meat balls made from erm...animal? But really tasty. Even more so when I threw in the beansprouts, birds-eye chilli (which momentarily and embarrassingly became Adam's eye chilli...what a school boy!), onion and citrussy aromatic herb leaves which they bring separately en masse. It was a melange of spicy, beefy, umami-ness. After a refreshing glass of unsweetened iced-tea and change from 10€, it would be difficult to level criticism at Pho Banh Cuon 14 even if I had the burning desire or justification to do so. Gladly, I didn't and can only celebrate a terrific, if not wholly authentic, beginning to my time in Paris.
It was on the recommendation of Jack (an English chef honing his skills in the city) that I should visit Pho Banh Cuon 14 at 129 Avenue de Choisy for what he would say 'may be the best 8€ you can spend in Paris'. And if that wasn't enough of an endorsement, then lastly, I thought, eating Eastern food may bring some zen-like calm after a frenetic first 48 hours in Paris.
And so I go.
Now for whatever reason I went, I am very glad I did. The gathering on the pavement outside is evidence enough of the popularity of the place. At 9.30 I was queuing for about 20 minutes. A queue would remain for the duration of my dinner and it is testament to the value of the food and the speed with you recieve it that service looked in no way ready to let up even when I left at 10.30.
Jack told me to have the Pho Boeuf Special. I looked around the room and it too was what everybody else seemed to have. It seemed sensible to oblige. And what a great broth it was: loads of glace noodles, thin slices of rare steak/chunks of more well-done beef, meat balls made from erm...animal? But really tasty. Even more so when I threw in the beansprouts, birds-eye chilli (which momentarily and embarrassingly became Adam's eye chilli...what a school boy!), onion and citrussy aromatic herb leaves which they bring separately en masse. It was a melange of spicy, beefy, umami-ness. After a refreshing glass of unsweetened iced-tea and change from 10€, it would be difficult to level criticism at Pho Banh Cuon 14 even if I had the burning desire or justification to do so. Gladly, I didn't and can only celebrate a terrific, if not wholly authentic, beginning to my time in Paris.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Je suis Adam
It is a problem everybody is faced with in any city, particularly in Paris. That is: the decision of where to eat? I would go as far as suggesting that this extends to those whose sole purpose for visiting a city is not to eat! And so for those who channel-hop, nation-skip and continent-jump for a meal, that problem becomes more acute.
I, somewhat fortuitously and after having worked on the other side of the coin for over a year, fall into the second category. I have come to Paris to eat. It is true that I have come because I love the city, but what I love is the city's devotion to food and the way in which cuisine is so unashamedly prevalent in everything that exists.
Over the past few years there have been murmurs, sounds of discontent. 'Paris is outdated, old-fashioned'. London, New York and Tokyo have all been touted as the new centres of world gastronomy. I, though, am young and I feel it would be precocious not to start in the traditional capital of haute cuisine. I will side with the purists and begin my education here in the home of le restaurant.
I do not aim to be a guide; rather a journal chronicling my experiences for other people to read and enjoy - take from it what you will; I am learning myself. It is entirely personal and therefore intrinsically subjective. More, blogs are by their nature fairly self-indulgent, but I will do my best to avoid sounding simply gluttonous and try to celebrate the food itself as much as my ability to enjoy it. It too shall hopefully record meetings with the people to whom food is their raison d'etre.
Finally, a word on the name of this blog. Over the next couple of months I will be in Paris and thereafter I cannot be sure. Maybe London. However, it is more a play on the title of the wonderful Orwell novel, Down and Out in Paris and London and I thought it sounded good.
Bonjour et Bon Appetit!
I, somewhat fortuitously and after having worked on the other side of the coin for over a year, fall into the second category. I have come to Paris to eat. It is true that I have come because I love the city, but what I love is the city's devotion to food and the way in which cuisine is so unashamedly prevalent in everything that exists.
Over the past few years there have been murmurs, sounds of discontent. 'Paris is outdated, old-fashioned'. London, New York and Tokyo have all been touted as the new centres of world gastronomy. I, though, am young and I feel it would be precocious not to start in the traditional capital of haute cuisine. I will side with the purists and begin my education here in the home of le restaurant.
I do not aim to be a guide; rather a journal chronicling my experiences for other people to read and enjoy - take from it what you will; I am learning myself. It is entirely personal and therefore intrinsically subjective. More, blogs are by their nature fairly self-indulgent, but I will do my best to avoid sounding simply gluttonous and try to celebrate the food itself as much as my ability to enjoy it. It too shall hopefully record meetings with the people to whom food is their raison d'etre.
Finally, a word on the name of this blog. Over the next couple of months I will be in Paris and thereafter I cannot be sure. Maybe London. However, it is more a play on the title of the wonderful Orwell novel, Down and Out in Paris and London and I thought it sounded good.
Bonjour et Bon Appetit!
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