Chow, bella!

Checked out Lino’s Coffee this morning after a sneak peek tour of the new Dallara Automobili factory, and found this nifty little café worth the drive to Speedway.

Lino’s hails from Parma, Italy, part of a franchised family that includes around 60 international locations; Indy is the company’s first venture into the U.S. Having actually been to Parma and visited several cafes in Italy for basis of comparison, let me assure you. Lino’s is the real deal. This is about as close as you can come to an honest-to-God Italian café without buying airfare.

The café sits at the northwest corner of the bright and shiny new Dallara building on Main Street in Speedway, and is easily a stand-alone destination on its on merits. If there’s anything Italians love more than fast cars, it’s good food and coffee. Everywhere you look, this place screams “VIVA ITALIA!” from the espresso machines (imported from Italy, of course. Duh.) and the coffee menu placards in Italian to the sparsely filled panini sandwiches and the gelato. Mamma mia, I was excited about my lunch.

Traditional Italian food thinking dictates keeping it simple. Use high-quality, mostly unadorned ingredients and let the true flavors shine through. No burying stuff under pools of ketchup. Forget super-sizing and all the extraneous add-ons. In Italy, you don’t need them. When you’ve got building blocks this good to work with, why would you want to muck things up?

Customers here have their pick of paninis, pastas and salads — all kind of unbelievably priced under $10 and many items less than $6. Or, you can assemble a light continental breakfast from a small but carefully vetted selection of flaky fresh pastries from a mouthwatering display case.

The Parma panini

My two lunch companions both ordered the Parma… a long, skinny panini with paper-thin shavings of Parma ham, Parmesan cheese, stunning tomato slices (take that, Subway!) and a scattering of lettuce.

the Milano panini

My Milano sandwich held slices of the same salty ham with Fontina cheese and a little shaved artichoke on a square of chewy, toothsome rustic Ciabatta bread. The only condiments in sight are olive oil and balsamic vinegar at the counter. That’s all you need. Simple, and simply delicious.

Then there’s the coffee… ah. The coffee. I’ll need to make a return trip soon to test-drive a cappuccino or a regular Americano, along with one of those sexy baked goods perhaps. This being a hot day and all, we went for a round of iced coffees, and quickly discovered that this is not your average iced coffee.

Lino’s iced coffee

I have never had, tasted or seen an iced coffee like this before. Forget all about your fancy Frappuccinos and the usual milky mixture poured over melting ice that only serves to water it down. Now, imagine a rocks glass filled with the most insanely smooth-blended coffee concoction you’ve ever slurped into your mouth. It wasn’t a drinkable coffee at all, really, but more like a rich, sweet, creamy coffee-flavored Wendy’s Frosty. Or maybe a half-frozen chocolate/coffee pudding? But better. Waaaay better. It’s so thick, you have no choice but to eat it with the accompanying demitasse spoon.

Ok, maybe the iced coffee isn’t exactly traditional Italian. Then again, I’ve never ordered an iced coffee in Italy. So who knows, maybe it is. Who cares. It rocked. I want another one right now. Who’s with me?

For more information:
www.linoscoffee.com

Final thoughts on France

As our train slowly sways its way out of Gare du Nord before picking up speed bound for Cologne, I can’t help but reflect on the past 10 days we’ve spent in France. Several impressions stand out in recent memory:

For me, the food is the best thing about France, bar none. Ah, the food. I’ve already covered my love for the street markets in a prior entry, but this affection also extends to so many other items as well. I think I could eat croissants for breakfast every morning for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy about it. Perhaps a pain au chocolat thrown in here and there for a little variety. And crepes…

I almost enjoy watching crepes being made more than I do eating them. Well, almost. The way these vendors know how to pour the perfect amount of batter onto the steaming greased griddle and use their little sandbox toy-contraption to spread it out, then wiggle a long flat spatula under the whole thing, fold it and flip it to the other side without tearing the delicate golden brown crepe… it’s half master skill, half art form. My go-to crepe is one spread with a layer of melting drippy Nutella, but I also had a delicious savory version that was stuffed with ham, cheese, olives and mushrooms. The crepe master managed to position the cheese so that as it melted, it oozed out the sides, turning all crunchy and brown on the grill. He then folded the whole thing a couple times like origami, and handed it over. I was in raptures nibbling the crusty cheese away to get to the actual crepe-wrapped goodness inside.

A short list of the best things I’ve had to eat while in France would have to include the salads I made with my street market produce purchases; the breads, pastries and preserves at a place called Le Pain Quotient during our first Paris breakfast with hubby’s mom, thyme-scented rotisserie chicken from a Parisian butcher shop, a chocolate macaron with ganache filling, Brie-smeared baguettes, and the steak dinner I prepared in our Aix hotel room kitchenette.

Second thing worth mentioning: I do a hell of a lot of walking here, without even thinking about it. Contrary to popular belief, some French women DO get fat, but they’re few and far between. With the amount of passive exercise they get, it’s not difficult to see why this is so.

Since neither hubby nor I like being cooped up in a cramped hotel room, we make a big effort to get out and about on foot as much as possible. I always come home from our European adventures with looser-fitting pants and, in the words of my dear hubby, feeling fit as a racing snake. I’m blessed to have good genes that keep me fairly thin to begin with, but I walk my ass off when we’re abroad. Literally. I keep intending to bring a pedometer with me on these trips to see just how much ground I’m covering, but never manage to remember to buy one beforehand. No joke, we walk for MILES, and that doesn’t even include stairclimbing. Take it from someone who struggles with a perpetually flat-as-a-pancake booty — my butt has never looked better than it does right now. I may just have hubby take a photo of it for me to post, I’m so proud.

Not to mention, my European travel diet consists of often spotty meal planning. For example, we might arrive at a hotel late and not get to eat a decent dinner. Or, say, we sleep in and miss breakfast. Whatever the case, I rarely eat three full meals a day here. I know I’m definitely burning off way more calories than I’m taking in, so I don’t feel bad about allowing myself an extra croissant, real cream in my coffee, or a big honking chunk of bleu cheese. Which is cool, because the French don’t do low-fat. Why would they when food tastes this good? The closest I’ve seen to diet anything is Coca Light (Diet Coke), but no one seems to order it.

On the far end of the continuum, many of the pale waifish teenagers and early twenty-somethings in France are impossibly skinny, seeming to exist solely on cigarettes and espresso. They look nearly vampirish. It’s unnatural. I want to rip the smokes out of their mouths, hold them down in the bright sunlight and forcefeed them creme fraiche.

Which brings me to my next point: smoking. Still compulsory in these parts. It’s a minor victory that smoking has been banned inside restaurants and cafes, but anywhere al fresco, it’s still fair game. Bummer, because the best part of the whole café experience is sitting at one of the outdoor tables, sipping your coffee and simply watching the world go by. A little hard to do when you’re worrying about your toddler inhaling loads of second-hand smoke from the oblivious mademoiselle sitting two feet away. And the second you step off a train or out of a hotel lobby, you’re walking straight into the heart of darkness that is the unofficial smoking section. I grew irritated with seeing young women galore pushing baby strollers around, butts aglow and hanging out of the corners of their mouths. Alas… let’s move on.

I wholeheartedly admit, fashion is not my forte. Just ask the two gal-pals who came to my home and staged a wardrobe intervention earlier this year, dismissing nearly half the items in my closet as “Spongebob Squareshirts” and “grannywear.” It’s no surprise that I feel like a fish out of water in France. Paris, especially. The younger French women wear some crazy-ass stuff that I wouldn’t even attempt to get away with (or want to) back home – think bubble skirts and leggings, or jean shorts with black tights and knee boots in the dead of winter. I saw one guy wearing a pair of pants that were slung so low in the middle, even M.C. Hammer would have passed on them. Honestly. It looked like he took a dump in them and forgot to change.

However, with age comes wisdom. Many of the more mature women dress impeccably. I can’t even recall any actual outfits, but they all just seem put together in a way that appears simultaneously effortless and tres chic at the same time. A jaunty scarf (I’m telling you, these women know more creative knots than a sailor), fabulous footwear, a classic bob haircut, a swipe of red lipstick… they know how to pull it all off.

Fashion isn’t restricted to humans here, either. I’ve seen some seriously pampered pooches out and about, dressed in sweaters, raincoats and hats that probably cost more than I spend on my own clothes. The French LOVE their dogs. I just wish they would do a better job of cleaning up after them. Everywhere you look — poop. You really have to watch your step closely, lest you wind up with a soleful. To make matters worse, the piles are all but camouflaged this time of year by the brown leaves on the ground. Taking a stroll down the street is like walking through a minefield.

I somehow managed to tread in a big smear and didn’t even know it until I got back to the hotel room and started wondering where that awful shit smell was coming from. After deducing that the toddler’s diaper wasn’t to blame, I realized the bottom of my boot was caked. Even trouncing through puddles and shuffling through the grass didn’t get rid of it. I ultimately managed to scrape the merde out of all the tiny grooves with a twig. Ugh. The very next day, the toddler and I were playing in the expanse of grass across from our hotel when some woman’s yappy furry friend came bounding over to us. As he/she/it enthusiastically jumped all over me, I saw that this dog had apparently stepped in its own mess and with each bounce, was now transferring it onto the tops of my only remaining pair of clean shoes.

I certainly can’t wrap up my summation of one of the most beautiful and vibrant countries in the world talking about crap, so I’ll change the subject to a happier theme. I have this theory that cities are like people, and you can have relationships with them just like you would other human beings. To that end, I’ll attempt a little word association game to describe my impressions of the places we’ve been and seen:

Paris = Majestic. Magical. Cultural. Stylish. Feast of the senses. Out of my league.

Aix en Provence = Graceful. Friendly. Fashionable. Laid-back. Intelligent.

Marseille = Scrappy. Persevering. History. Tough talking, but with a soft side. Surprising.

And with that, I bid France adieu and au revoir, looking forward the rest of the week in Germany.

Murder on the Italian Express

Busy few days!

For our last day in Milan, hubby went back to the trade show and the toddler and I headed back downtown on the tram. Through one of the tourist magazines I found in our hotel room, I discovered it’s possible to take an elevator up to the roof of the Duomo for some interesting bird’s-eye views of the city.

Il Duomo

 

The tickets to go up cost a very reasonable 8 euros, and the experience was pretty awesome. You take the elevator up to the back corner of the roof and wind your way among the spires and gargoyles, up and down stairs around to the front. Eventually, you emerge into a flat space in front of the very tallest spire where you can simply breathe and take it all in. I can’t even describe how magnificent it is to commune with all that gorgeous architecture up close and personal. Just put it on your agenda if you’re ever in Milan.

on top of the Duomo!

The last supper in Milan Tuesday night was our farewell visit to Il Pavone. My meal was a delightfully light and pillowy gnocchi with a rich gorgonzola cream sauce and a few toasted walnuts scattered around the plate for good measure.

Il Pavone gnocchi con gorgonzola

I think hubby had a pizza diavolo, but I was too focused on my own food to care much. The three of us split what seemed to be the Italian equivalent of a crème brulee for dessert and bid the beautiful Maria a fond arrividerci.

the lovely Maria

Because I hate to fly so much, we had determined to take an overnight sleeper train to Paris Bercy, departing Milan around 11:30 p.m. Packed up and ready to go, we grabbed a taxi to Milano Centrale train station and waited for our ride. I thought it might actually be, dare I say it, a fun adventure. Silly, silly me.

I had a sinking feeling when I bought the tickets the day before that this trip may not go quite as planned. I couldn’t get my point across to the guy behind the counter, but he gave me reservations for beds for two adults, so I knew we’d have some sort of place to rest our weary heads at the very least. Or so I thought…

I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but having taken very nicely appointed trains elsewhere around Europe, I figured this journey would be fairly similar. Ho ho ho.

The train pulled in and we waited to embark among a large, milling crowd. It looked old and rather run down from the exterior, not at all like the nicer ICE trains I’d ridden before. I grew more nervous with every passing minute.

Finally it was time to board. The narrow passage proved a tight squeeze for all our baggage plus car seat plus stroller plus baby, so hubby lugged it all in piece by piece while I kept watch over the little guy outside. Every time hubby reappeared to grab another item, the looks he gave me grew more and more ominous. I quickly began to realize that this decision was going to be a mistake of colossal proportions.

The toddler and I climbed aboard. Fortunately, our beds were in the very first group of berths, so we didn’t have to go far. Unfortunately, the space was so tight, our largest bag wouldn’t fit into the “room.” We had to leave it in the hallway, and we were warned by the train staff not to leave it unattended. The hallway itself was narrow as well; people literally had to climb over the suitcase if they wanted to get by us.

Tickets are available in various classes — first class for a private section of berths, and peon classes where you may or may not find yourself sleeping with people you don’t know. Which do you think I’d managed to procure? Yep. You guessed it.

Our room, if you will, consisted of six bunks packed in like a sardine can, three on each side with well-worn, not-so-clean upholstery. When we came in, some fellow travelers were already there, two 40-something Asian ladies claiming the middle bunks. Our reservation denoted that we were to occupy the top two. Not exactly smart when there’s a two-year-old in the mix. The women were kind enough to trade us beds and immediately made themselves comfortable in the top bunks. Oh, did I mention the entire car REEKED of mothballs? I found myself mouthbreathing so I wouldn’t gag.

Everyone got settled in and we started to roll. Keep in mind, it was well after midnight by now. The toddler, who so graciously fell asleep in the taxi and stayed asleep right up until we boarded the train was now completely alert and ready to party like a rock star. The Asianettes hunkered down to sleep, yet the toddler was singing round after round of “Wheels on the Bus” and “Old MacDonald” at the top of his lungs. There was no hope of getting him to lie down without an all-out screaming tantrum; we just had to wait him out.

We eventually took the toddler out into the hallway so our companions could get some rest and hubby took a seat on top of our lonely suitcase. The looks he was giving me went from ominous to murderous. The vocal stylings continued as the toddler then launched into an enthusiastic rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” followed by “Farmer in the Dell,” the Wonder Pets theme, “ABCs” and whatever else came into his little brilliant mind. At least the Asianettes didn’t mind, hubby poked his head in to get something and found them snoring like buzzsaws.

Hoping to wear the little guy down, hubby took him for a walk to find the dining car. Service was closed for the night, but at least it was empty and gave the little dude room to run around and play without disturbing anybody. I stayed behind to keep watch over the bag and tried to read. An hour later, they came back, hubby looking utterly defeated and pissed off. The toddler was still singing, and now skipping. Knowing I had some penance coming my way, I jumped up and took my lumps. The toddler and I headed back to the dining car again, weaving our way through six or seven other carriages full of quiet berths. I looked longingly at the private “suites” as we passed and mentally punished myself for not being able to convey that’s what I was after when I bought the tickets. Dammit.

After another hour or so of full-on hyperactivity, I managed to get the toddler to sit on my lap long enough to relax. Not sleep, mind you, but wind down enough to the point that when I asked him if he wanted to go lie down with daddy, I actually got a “yes.” Back we went, me trying to carry the toddler and not fall off the train in between cars, when I realized that I had no idea what number our carriage was. I figured we’d see hubby still sitting on the bag in the hall, but he was nowhere to be found. Uh oh. I’d come to the last car of the train and just stood there, holding a weary toddler and wondering what I was going to do. I didn’t even have my phone to send a text; I’d left it in my purse back on my bed, wherever that was. Just as I was contemplating lying down in the middle of the dirty hallway and praying someone would find us in the morning, the interior curtains in the compartment parted right where I was standing and hubby motioned us inside. By some stroke of sheer luck, we were standing exactly where we needed to be.

Hubby had managed to wrestle the remaining suitcase into the middle of the floor in our room and squeezed himself into one of the middle bunks. The toddler went right to him without complaint when I handed him over and settled down to sleep. I climbed into the other bunk across. Thank GOD no other passengers showed up to the claim the two remaining beds on the bottom, I can’t imagine how two more people could have possibly fit into that room.

I closed my eyes and hoped for the best, trying not to touch anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary and praying I still had a small bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse. The motion of the train was quite lulling, really. The jet-plane decibel snoring emanating from the bunk above me was not. I could not believe the noise this woman was putting out. Seriously, I was convinced at one point she was doing it on purpose. There is no way she could make that kind of a racket without waking herself up or choking to death in the process. I checked my watch. 3:45 a.m. Sigh. I closed my eyes and could literally feel the waves of resentment coming off my non-sleeping husband a few feet away. At least the toddler was depleted enough to get a solid stretch of shut-eye.

The Asian Rip Van Winkle finally woke up around 7:30 a.m., and she and her buddy started jabbering away in a language I didn’t recognize. The train conductor came by to check our tickets again. We knew we were running late, but when hubby asked him how much longer and he said another three hours, my jaw hit the floor. We were originally due in to Paris Bercy station at 8 a.m., leaving us plenty of time to take a cab to the rental apartment, drop our bags and shower before heading to the airport to collect my mother-in-law, who we’d arranged to fly in and stay with us for the weekend. As it was now, we’d be pushing to get there by the time her flight landed at 1:30 p.m. By that time, I was so exhausted, I did manage to fall into a somewhat fitful sleep for an hour or two. Really, there was nothing else to do.

At long last, we pulled into Paris around 11 a.m. I was never so glad to arrive anywhere in my entire life. Hubby told me not to speak to him unless I absolutely had to, which I respected, knowing I was totally in the wrong for this comedy of errors. I’d apologized a handful of times and didn’t know what more I could do or say to make things right, silently pledging to drug myself stupid next time and agree to get on whatever airplane might be available. I asked hubby if  he thought we’d look back on this experience someday and laugh. He said no.

Anxiously keeping an eye on the clock, we cursed some more when we saw the line for taxis extending halfway down the sidewalk outside the station. (And I wonder where the toddler recently picked up “Shit!”) Somehow by the grace of God, we eventually got a cab and made it to the rental apartment to meet the lady from the service who let us in. Hubby dashed off on his own to the airport, arriving with about 30 minutes to spare to meet my mother-in-law’s plane. Whew.

The two-bedroom Marais-situated apartment we’re renting is lovely, small but charming, up four flights of narrow winding stairs that are guaranteed to give me buns of steel after a few days. After a much-needed shower, the toddler and I ventured out for a bite of lunch at the first decent café we came across. Quiche Lorraine, salad, orange juice and a café crème fit the bill quite nicely. We managed a quick trip to the supermarket for a few essentials, then back to l’appartemente to meet up with hubby and MIL.

After a short rest, we all took a stroll around our old stomping grounds near the apartment where we stayed two years ago, stopping in for dinner at Cafe Rempart. Hubby had a traditional French croque monsieur – a devilishly rich open-faced toasted sandwich of ham and cheese with béchamel sauce. MIL enjoyed pomme frites, salad and a delicious-looking burger (which she ate in spite of the cheese. She hates cheese. This does not bode well for her enjoyment of French cuisine, I fear.) I was still somewhat full from my late-lunch quiche, so I went for a lighter dish of entrée Salade Rempart, composed of greens, carrots, tomato, fried potatoes (!), thin slices of proscuitto-ish country ham and cheese toasts. The whole thing was topped very lightly with French salad dressing, which is not at all like the unnaturally orange Kraft stuff you find back home. Here, it’s a light tangy Dijon mustard vinaigrette.

This morning, we headed to another café and partook of coffee served in clever small bowls (LOVE this, I want to find some of these to take home), and stuffed ourselves with all manner of bread and pastries.

the perfect petit dejeuner

 

Gotta love the French… A great way to fortify ourselves for a boat ride on the Seine, a visit to the Eiffel Tower and a walk through Notre Dame. A bientot!

 

Viva Milano

Here we are, back in Milan for the third time within a year. It’s funny how familiar you can become with a place after only visiting a couple of times. We stayed in the same hotel for our first two visits. We’re in a different hotel just across the street this time only because of an availability problem with our first choice. We know where the grocery stores are in the neighborhood, we know how to buy tickets and ride the trams downtown to the Duomo, and we eat at the same restaurant just down the street nearly every night. You know what they say – if it ain’t broke…

I must admit, Milan did not make a good first impression on me. I found it loud, abrasive and dirty. However, after a few days, its charms began to grow on me. Like, the way everyone (especially older women) fuss over my son. The simple beauty of the food. The gorgeous stands in the street markets and the impeccably dressed men and women everywhere you look. Seriously, I can amuse myself by checking out women’s footwear while riding on the trams. Milan may be an industrial city, but it’s definitely not without style. I find myself considering more closely what I wear here. I know I’ll never pass for a native Milano, but hopefully I’m not immediately labeling myself an American tourist.

Because I am such a terrible traveler when it comes to flying, I never take the risk to eat aboard a plane. Just in case. The last thing I want to do, in addition to desperately trying to divert a panic attack, is to end up making a fool of myself by accidentally blowing chunks all over the person seated next to me. This means that once the wheels of an overnight flight to Europe finally touch down, I am famished. Today was no exception. We landed in Milan around 9 a.m., and I realized the last solid food I’d had was a bowl of cereal prior to our original departure from Indy nearly 18 hours earlier.

After we’d grabbed a cab to our hotel and ditched our bags, we were off in search of sustenance. I’m not sure what the basic Italian breakfast is; we’ve only ever partaken of the luxurious hotel buffet for our morning meals. This standard European-model continental spread consists of all manner of pastries, yogurt, fruit, cold cereals, breads, and a selection of cold cuts and cheeses. This morning, we weren’t checked in in time to enjoy, so breakfast ended up being coffee and croissants at a café around the corner. The croissant could have been better, but it must be said:  When it comes to coffee, Italians know their shit. The cappuccinos, lattes and espressos here blow away anything you’ll find at Starbucks or anywhere else in America.

After that, we hit up the grocery to restash our toddler snacks. I love wandering the aisles of the Italian grocery stores checking out the endless varieties of pasta, olive oils and what have you. Still hungry, I ended up eating a few of Michael’s rice cakes and cheese back in the hotel room. My usual lunch when we’ve been here consists of a mozzarella and tomato sandwich. Again, when you’ve found something you like so much, why not stick with it?

Along those lines, we are loyal devotees of Il Pavone, a small and very pink pizzeria/pasta joint about two blocks away on Viale Certosa. Hubby got hooked on this place during his first trip to Milan a couple of years ago, and the toddler and I have come to adopt it as well. The hostess, a very attractive woman named Maria of an indeterminate age, recognizes us now, and she loooooooves  Michael.

The menu is pretty vast, and full of Italian cuisine’s greatest hits like tortellini pomodoro, grilled steaks, seafood, bruschetta, and a whole array of thin-crusted, wood-fired pizzas. I’ve tried a number of items on the menu during our visits, and my favorite meal remains a big plate of the lightly dressed fusilli della casa with a sumptuous tomato/pesto/cream sauce alongside an insalata mista (mixed salad) or perhaps a plate of steamed spinach. The salad is a bowl of fresh greens, tomato slices, shredded carrot and red cabbage. You’re left to your own devices to dude it up with the olive oil, balsamic, salt and pepper on every table. Same goes for the spinach, although I like to give it a liberal dusting of Parmesan cheese as well. With a quarter liter of the fizzy, citrusy house white wine for a ridiculously affordable two euros, it’s darn near the perfect dinner in my book.

We’re set to be here for three days before heading north on the train for France. The weather looks like it’s going to pour down rain the entire time we’re in Italy, but I’m determined not to let this curtail good eating. Buon appetito!

One hot Mama

I was recently asked for the 18th time, “ Have you been to the new Mama Carolla’s breakfast place yet?” And up until this morning, the answer had always been no. By a happy accident, I have now been initiated.

My friend Katie and I had planned to meet at Zest at 9:30 this morning to partake of the signature crème brulee French toast and copious amounts of coffee, but when I pulled into the suspiciously empty parking lot, I knew something had gone awry. The sign on the door said it didn’t open until 10 a.m. Huh? A breakfast/lunch/brunch café? Seems to me they’re missing out on some primetime morning traffic, but whatever.

With two small daughters in tow, I knew Katie wouldn’t be able to wait out another half an hour before getting food, so a change of plan steered us in the direction of Taste instead. Until I remembered Good Morning Mama’s as I passed it on 54th St. going west.

An offshoot of the ever-popular Mama Carolla’s Italian restaurant just half a block away, Good Morning Mama’s opened last November and has been enjoying a steady word-of-mouth buzz ever since.

To say this place is shiny and happy is an understatement. It’s sort of a cross between a kitschy 1950s-style diner (complete with jukebox) and Oz, painted in cheery yellow with blue trim. It’s almost too cheery. Like, if you were hungover, headachy and nauseated, it might be a little more than you could handle. Bluebirds appear to be the Good Morning Mama’s mascot; they’re painted on the exterior and flying across banners hanging from the ceiling. I half-expected Snow White to float out of the kitchen to take our order. (No disrespect to our server Barb, who was very friendly and efficient.)

This is not to say the owners don’t have a sense of humor – there is a poster of Michelangelo’s David sculpture on one wall, advertising “sausage sandwiches” by way of a very strategically placed ribbon. Another tongue-in-cheek poster promotes meatballs with two very ample specimens on a platter directly in front of a woman’s bosom.

I ordered a cup of coffee while I waited for Katie to arrive, which proved to be a minor disappointment. To be fair, Mama isn’t a café or coffee shop per se, but I really expected a better cup of Joe from an Italian-themed establishment. Can’t knock them for serving mimosas, but a latte or cappuccino would have been a nice option. And, here’s one of my biggest breakfast joint pet peeves — I HATE it when restaurants expect you to serve yourself creamer from those horrid little half and half packets on the table instead of bringing a little tiny pitcher of something cold and fresh. God knows how long those things sit out every day, and I’m always suspicious of “dairy” products that don’t require refrigeration.

Katie soon rolled in with her adorable entourage of her two-year-old Olivia and infant Audrey, looking the very picture of competent motherhood. After some chair/booster seat arranging, we were settled in and ready to get down to the business of ordering.

Mama’s menu is fairly straightforward – eggs, toast, sausage, pancakes and other traditional breakfast fare, but with an Italian flair. Several items intrigued me, particularly the “eggs in purgatory” simmered in pomodoro sauce with fresh basil, and the “pasta mama” – whole-wheat pasta with scrambled eggs, Parmesan Reggiano and pancetta. Hm. I had a hard time deciding.

I make a ton of omelets and scrambled eggs at home, so I try to order something different when I go out for breakfast or brunch. The java French toast caught my eye; Kahlua-spiked batter and toasted pecans sounded particularly yummy. Realizing I hadn’t eaten biscuits and gravy in God knows how long, that’s what I opted for in the end, with a side of breakfast potatoes and an orange juice. Katie got the plain ol’ French toast (not slagging – that’s what it’s actually called on the menu!), and talked me into sharing an order of the Italian fried biscuits, although to be fair, she didn’t have to do much convincing.

The four golf ball-sized biscuits arrived first, comfortingly warm. If you’ve ever been to one of the speedway suites during the Indy 500 and enjoyed the fried biscuits that Jugg’s Catering serves there, these were very nearly the same thing except rolled in cinnamon sugar. There’s even apple butter in one of the plastic jam/jelly jars on each table for dipping. In short, they were a hit, especially with Olivia, who kept requesting more after every bite.

Our meals followed soon after. My choice was a hearty serving of two fluffy buttermilk biscuits split and drenched with the heavily sausage-studded creamy gravy. It was tasty, but so filling, I couldn’t finish it all. The potatoes were sliced thin and fried crisp with, dare I say it, a hint of onion. Katie and Olivia both seemed to enjoy the French toast.

The place never got crowded while we were there, but there was a steady trickle of customers the entire time. I can imagine it fills up pretty fast on the weekends. The girls were good as gold, and Katie and I were able to enjoy a fairly relaxed and leisurely hour chatting about the joys and perils of mommyhood.

My total bill was a very reasonable $10.90, good value for the amount and quality of food I received. I’ll definitely be back to give it another whirl, and to try that java French toast.

A good morning for mamas, indeed.

Walk this way

When I was online researching what to do during our time in Germany, I came across the American Women’s Club of Cologne, a group of English-speaking ladies that organizes regular meetings, coffees, playdates and such. I emailed for more information and got the goods on this week’s coffee, as well as a couple of mommy and me gatherings. After finding the address for the coffee, hubby offered to help me suss out the location ahead of time so I’d know where I’m going come Thursday’s event. The destination? An upscale coffee shop/bakery called Bastian’s Cafe, within an easy walk of our hotel.

Quick digression: everything is within a quick walk of our hotel. We have not used a car once since getting to Germany. From the airport in Frankfurt, we took the train up to Cologne, then a taxi to our hotel. That’s the only time we’ve been in a car this whole trip. Cologne, like the vast majority of European cities and towns, is extremely walkable, which I love. Everything you need is just a quick stroll away – groceries, restaurants, shops, whatnot. And if it’s not accessible by foot for whatever reason, all you have to do is hop on the tram and get to wherever you need to go that much more quickly.

From our hotel, we can walk to the Dom in the center of town in about 15-20 minutes. There’s so much to see along the way, the journey itself flies by. The streets are built as much for pedestrian traffic as they are for cars. Since the roads here are not laid out in grids as they are in many American cities, finding your way around can be confusing at first. Streets and alleys shoot off of other streets in crazy directions like a maze and it’s easy to get quickly disoriented. I find the best way to go is to simply memorize a few major landmarks. Fortunately, there are city maps posted on kiosks every few blocks or so just in case you hopelessly lose your bearings.

Bikes are also serious business here. You see all sorts of people riding them, from crunchy granola types to well-dressed women in the latest fashions. There is a bike lane alongside the streets and you’d better stay out of it if you know what’s good for you. We were almost run over a couple of times for not paying attention.

In short, the public transport (especially the train system) and the general walkability of European cities is awesome. If only America could get with the program and realize this, I daresay our obesity problem would quickly diminish. Germans eat some heavy food and drink a LOT of beer, but not many are overweight because exercise is so ingrained in the lifestyle here. I could go on, but that would be a whole other blog entry entirely…

Let’s get back to Bastian’s. This is one of those trendy-bordering-on-snooty coffee shops – a big, light, wide-open space full of heavy wood tables, chrome trim, a spotlessly clean glass counter full of cakes and pastries, and jazzy music playing in the background. The wait staff is all young, attractive and dressed in black. For Indy residents, it was kinda like Taste before the remodel, only much bigger.

We found a seat (table-service only) and checked out the menu of breakfast and lunch fare. Hubby ordered a croissant that came with jam, cheese and butter. I recounted and realized I’d eaten pretty much nothing but bread and sweets the day before, so I ordered the omelet of the day to get some protein and fiber – three eggs with diced zucchini, peppers and feta. It came with a small side salad; hubby and I shared a big basket of fresh-baked bread and rolls. They make their own coffee, too – no machine java here, thank God!

After a horrendous night’s sleep marred by a three-hour stretch of crying, the baby didn’t want to cooperate very much and much to our dismay, started tuning up just as the waiter set our plates down in front of us. Efforts to distract him didn’t help, and we knew our time was limited. Hubby always eats faster than I do, so he ended up wheeling our son out in his stroller, leaving me to finish my omelet and pay the bill.

As soon as hubby exited, I realized I didn’t have any change for a tip (we feel the need to tip generously anytime the baby is involved), so I texted him to come back. Tipping isn’t as big a deal here as it is in America because servers’ wages are so much better, but it is still customary to round up or leave a euro or two. Hubby returned, tossed me a few coins to pass over when the time came and left again.

I finished my food, asked for the bill, (in German no less! Right on!), and started to hand the waiter my credit card to pay when he informed me the place is cash-only. Great. I only had ten euro on me in cash and the bill was 20. Out came the phone and I texted hubby again. A few minutes later, here he came, wheeling back in like a broken record. I’ll bet those people thought they were never going to be rid of us.

Hubby dug through his pockets, found the extra cash we needed and we were finally good to go. Or so I thought… no sooner did we get out the door and down the block when I realized we’d left my son’s “Wonder Pets” book sitting on the table. Hubby flat out refused to go back again, so I returned to pick it up. We thus dubbed Bastian’s the Bermuda Triangle of cafes; once you get in, you just can’t ever get away.

The late breakfast tided us over until dinner. In the mood for more traditional German fare, we were disappointed when we discovered the pub/restaurant hubby keeps trying to take us to is closed on Mondays. A few other false starts later, hubby remembered a place called Bier-Esel that seemed worth a try. Lo and behold, it was open and could accommodate us with the stroller in tow.

Our server was a lovely older woman who paid us just enough attention and played along with our botched attempts to speak German. Most servers and store clerks immediately switch over to English the second they realize you’re American. I was pleased that she didn’t.

The restaurant itself is pretty old-school. Nothing fancy, just a bunch of tables, a few German tchotckes lining timbered shelves and mantels, and a bunch of locals drinking beer. Mussels seemed to be a featured item, as many diners were sharing huge bowls of the critters.

My first choice for dinner was going to be gulaschesuppe, but I worried a serving of soup wouldn’t be enough to fill me up and considered the full dinner choices as well. Hubby ordered a chopped steak with gravy, french fries and a small salad. I opted for the sauerbraten, another traditional German dish I’ve been meaning to try. This seemed as good a place as I’d be likely to find.

Hubby’s food looked ok, but mine was fabulous. The sauerbraten is a plate of extremely tender roast beef slices drenched in a rich brown raisin sauce. I know what you’re thinking right now. Raisins!?!? Ew! Ok, before you start judging, let me ask you this. Ever had A-1 sauce on your steak? Enjoyed it? Guess what one of the ingredients of A-1 is. Raisin paste. So there ya go.

My sauce wasn’t anything like A-1, though. It was thicker than a jus, but not as thick as a gravy, with a sweet and sour vinegary tang. It was DELICIOUS. The meat melted in my mouth; I didn’t even have to use a knife. If you like pot roast, you would like this dish. Hubby’s fork kept wandering over to my plate again and again. The dinner also came with a bowl of homemade chunky applesauce and two large potato dumplings, which confused me a little bit at first. I saw them and expected them to be creamy mashed potatoes, but when I tasted them and realized they were doughy, I couldn’t get my brain around it. When I realized they were actually dumplings, hubby pointed out that they served as a perfect vessel for all that yummy sauce. He was right.

Sauerbraten with potato dumplings and applesauce

We tried a different tactic with the baby for this meal and brought his dinner along with us instead of feeding him first before going out, which seemed to work well. He was happy enough to nibble away and let us actually enjoy our meal at a leisurely pace for once.

We strolled back to the hotel, full of fantastic German food and beer. Still keeping my eyes open for that gulaschesuppe, though…

Tiptoe, through the Tulip…

For several weeks now, my friend Alison has been raving about and recommending I try this new cafe called Tulip Noir on 86th Street. When another friend said she’d been there this week and it was great, I decided I’d waited long enough. Hubby and I finally made it up for lunch the other day and I’m pleased to report it IS all that.

The cafe is located in an old My Favorite Muffin joint, but it bears no resemblance to anything so pedestrian or cookie-cutter now. The place has been gutted and is now dressed in shades of calming blues and greens. It’s so clean, it almost feels sterile. Not that this is a bad thing when you’re in a dining establishment. It’s more clean and pristine in a Japanese Zen kind of way – not exactly cozy, but still very soothing and comfortable at the same time.

Tulip Noir is only open for breakfast and lunch. There’s not a ton of seating, so I figured it might be hard to get a table after a rave review published in the current issue of Indianapolis Monthly, but we got there around 1 p.m. and were led to a table immediately, no waiting. They were also very gracious about accommodating us with a high chair, as we had baby in tow.

The first thing my husband noticed was that he was the only man in the place. There definitely is a feminine vibe here; it’s a perfect place for ladies who lunch, especially rich, Carmelite ladies judging from the looks of the clientele. (I predict this place will be packed to the gills on Mother’s Day…)

The owner of Tulip Noir, a former interior designer, has obviously put a lot of thought and creativity into her cafe, and the menu choices reflect her careful attention to detail as much as the decor does. The menu changes seasonally, and all items are organic with a health-conscious spin. This is not to say there is any skimpage on flavor. Au contraire, mon frere. Think Omega-3 egg omelets with spinach, tomato, salsa and cumin; rosemary pepper bacon strips; mini whole-wheat “pan-cakeys” with almonds, bananas, powdered sugar and honey; and a breakfast salad with greens, strawberries and pecans in a citrus vinaigrette. And that’s just the breakfast menu. For lunch, you can choose from soups and salads (every last bite made in-house right down to the fresh dressings); grilled paninis, salads and a whole-wheat veggie quesadilla with avocado sauce.

I was tempted to try to the asparagus mushroom crepe with goat cheese, and the broccoli cauliflower fritters with gorgonzola creme fraiche also caught my eye, but I couldn’t resist ordering the grilled peanut butter sandwich on whole wheat with apple slices and crystallized ginger. It arrived all melty and gooey, as any good grilled sandwich should, with peanut butter oozing out the sides at every bite. It was good, but it could have used a little heavier hand with the apple and ginger. Most bites, all I could taste was P.B. I also got a little bit of mixed green salad alongside my sandwich. I thought fruit might have gone better with the peanut butter, but I wasn’t unhappy with the greens – they were very fresh and the slightly sweet acidic vinaigrette actually cut through the heaviness of the peanut butter quite nicely.

Hubby ordered the lemon garlic chicken ciabatta sandwich with dill, provolone cheese, tomato and avocado sauce; and a side of the same salad that I got. He pronounced it all very tasty.

To drink, we ordered off the fairly extensive tea menu, which breaks down options by caffeine content. There’s also a small selection of coffees, along with spritzers, smoothies and lemonade. I chose a Relaxation Blend tisane, a caffeine-free mix of chamomile and mint leaves that’s steeped just like a tea. In a terribly anti-Irish move, hubby ordered the Old Black Magic coffee, but I promise not to tell his family back home.

Again, no detail is forgotten here. We each received a small taste of the tea of the day – the tropical fruity “I Dream of Maui” – in tiny ceramic cups. When the tea and coffee were delivered to the table, each still brewing in its own small pot and French press respectively, the server also dropped off a ticking electronic egg timer so we’d know exactly when our quaffs had reached the optimal degree of flavor before pouring. Nice. Very nice.

There’s also a really cool tea bar (not a coffee bar, a TEA bar) that looks like something out of Star Trek – a funky modern halfmoon of seats where diners can be fussed over as they watch the mystical concoctions being prepared before their very eyes.

Throughout the meal, our server struck just the right chord – friendly and welcoming without being oversolicitous or insincere.

I wished we’d saved room for dessert. Next time. And there definitely will be a next time.

Tulip Noir, http://www.tulipnoircafe.com

Viva la fromage!

When hubby and I lived in Sonoma, the heart of California wine country, for a spell several years ago, we made a weekly habit of a cheese board dinner. Meaning, once every weekend (or more frequently some weeks), we would purchase a bottle of previously untested wine and round out our evening meal with some fabulous local cheese, fruit, sausage, olives, nuts, bread and other apropos local produce and nibbles. With all the insanely good markets going on here in Paris, we knew we couldn’t let this visit drift away without doing the same thing here at least once. Yesterday being the weekly Bastille street market, what better time would there be for us to get a true taste of France?

We took a slow stroll through the market knowing we wanted to buy wine, cheese and bread, leaving the other goodies up to chance. The market was crowded as hell and we had a little trouble navigating the stroller through the narrow aisles, dodging other shoppers with their glowing cigarette ashes and the ubiquitous Parisian dog poop that seems to be EVERYWHERE. Do these people just never clean up after their pooches or what?? The amount of street candy you see here is truly offputting; it’s like tiptoeing through a minefield every time you walk down the street..

First up, the cheese… hubby asked the first fromager we found for recommendations, and he hooked us up with a wedge of Brie and a block of bleu d’auvergne. Done. Next up, a booth selling wines from the Burgundy region. The vendor recommended an “unusual” white to go with our cheeses, and we took his suggestion. A baguette, some gorgeous little black and giant green olives that shone like jewels and reeked of garlic and herbs, a small handful of strawberries, some grapes, an apple and we were all set.

When our tummies started growling around suppertime, I set out the spread and we spent the next half hour happily nibbling away at our treasures. Sadly, some of our selections proved better choices than others. The wine was unusual, indeed. I like my white wines either crisp and sweet like a Riesling or rich and oaky like a chardonnay, but this was neither. I can’t quite say what the flavor was – maybe spicy? It was light, but it wasn’t sweet and it wasn’t buttery. In other words, it was just ok for me.

We went one for two on the cheeses as well. The bleu was fantastic, and between us we put away the entire block, hubby enjoying his with the bread; me spreading little chunks onto slices of apple and strawberry. The brie was another story, however. Maybe I’m just more accustomed to the milder Americanized versions, or maybe it was just better suited for a palate much more sophisticated than mine. In any case, neither hubby or I could manage more than one bite.

I knew we were going to have trouble when I unwrapped the package. As my hubby so succinctly put it, it smelled like a sweaty gym sock. I figured, ok, this is a French cheese, perhaps it’s one of those cases where stinky equals good. Not so, I’m afraid. One bite and our fears were confirmed. I’m still puzzling over exactly what it tasted like. It didn’t taste like cheese, that’s for sure. It tasted sort of like a cow pasture. Not that I’ve ever sampled a swatch of cow pasture, but if I had, this is how I imagine it would taste. Gamey and grassy and overly ripe, not in a good way. Ugh. Very disappointing, as I am usually a big fan of rich and creamy Brie and will eat it spread over anything that will stand still. Anyway, we filled up on the bleu and a small chunk of Emmentaler we had leftover from earlier in the week, and it was all fine in the end.

our beautiful Parisian cheese board

I feel I’ve probably eaten my weight in cheese during this two-week trip. It’s impossible to escape, between the croque monsieurs, the omelets, the quiches, the crepes and the desserts, the Francais LOVE their fromage. And why shouldn’t they, with so many delicious options to choose from? Still, I fear for the state of my cholesterol. Hopefully all the exercise I’ve gotten has been enough to offset my high calorie intake. Amazingly, my pants are actually fitting more loosely than they were before we arrived, and my butt’s never been in better shape. I guess that’s what walking two or three hours a day and staying in a third-floor walkup apartment with steep, narrow stairs will get you. Whatever the reason, I’m not complaining!

Today is our last day in Paris; tomorrow we’ll be up and catching a taxi to the airport at a rather ungodly hour. We had originally intended to enjoy our last evening meal tonight at the scene of our first Parisian dinner together – Cafe Rempart, but seeing as how we’ve already been there this morning for coffees and Nutella crepes, it seemed a bit much to hit it twice in one day. Instead, we tried a place we’d not been to yet, a bistro called Restaurant Sully, right across the corner from the lovely produce stand I’ve been frequenting all week.

My dinner was better than hubby’s – I enjoyed the best roast chicken in recent memory, even better than the really good one I enjoyed last week, along with a mixed green salad and a few slices of baguette. I got a quarter chicken portion, dark meat, the thigh and leg encased in the most perfectly crispy thin skin ever, all topped with a rich sauce that was the very essence of the chicken itself. I kept trying to figure out what was in it; the best I could come up with was that it tasted just like a super-intensely reduced chicken stock thickened with a little bit of butter. In any case, it was incredible. Hubby ordered one of the evening specials, an entrecote steak with peppery gravy, fries and a salad. All good, but not nearly as good as my chicken. My only complaint I had was that the portion was fairly small and I was still hungry after I had gnawed every shred of meat off the bones. Not a bad thing, really, in retrospect, as it left me plenty of room to fully enjoy a dessert.

I’ve been wanting to order a tarte tatin since we got here, but it’s not been on as many menus as I expected it would be. Thank goodness I was in luck tonight. Tarte tatin is a traditional French dessert, like a French cake-y version of apple pie ala mode. It’s not unlike a pineapple upside cake, but made with apples. I really need to learn how to make this stuff once we get back home. The wedge I received tonight was very generous in size, heated to steaming and served with a small side ramekin of creme fraiche to spoon over the top (creme fraiche is tasty concoction the consistency of light whipped cream cheese, but with a subtle tarty tang like sour cream). I spooned the entire lot over the cake, watched it melt into the apples and took a big mouthful. Mmmmmm. Hubby said he would have preferred something chocolate, but only after he’d eaten three or four large bites. I finished off every bit of the rest. The perfect way to cap off a lovely meal on our last night in the City of Lights.

Little nibbles

There’s a high-end gourmet shop called Lenotre right around the corner from where we’re staying in Paris. The goodies in the window of this place are so beautiful, I’ve actually been too intimidated to go in there. However, the other day, I was on my way to a playdate at the home of a fellow American mommy and wanted to take something nice along as a hostess gift. I decided this was my excuse to finally venture inside.

Every little tart, cake and cookie inside Lenotre looks like it could be the cover shot for any gourmet magazine on the market today. In addition, they sell beautiful sandwiches, salads, terrines, wine, chocolates and other spectacular fare – every item a culinary work of art. The men and women behind the counter wear smart white button-down shirts, black pants and little black bow-ties. To say this place is classy is an understatement – this place is top-shelf. I believe the company even runs its own pastry classes and culinary school.

I stammered my way through some horribly bad French while browsing the glorious counter, my eyes as wide as a little girl’s on Christmas Day. Hubby had suggested I take macaroons, and I finally settled on a gorgeously packaged box for 25 euros. Ouch. That’s a euro per macaroon – 25 total, 5 each of chocolate, vanilla, berry, pistachio and cappuccino flavors. Still, I mentally argued with myself that hubby and I have been fairly reasonable with our spending throughout this trip, so I felt a splurge was not uncalled for in these circumstances.

The charming hostess immediately recognized the significance of my purchase and I was pleased that she treated the box of macaroons with due reverence. We passed the macaroons around several times at the playdate, and bless her, she sent the remaining uneaten half-box home with me, saying she had plenty of sweets in her home already. I was secretly thrilled. Hubby and I made short shift of the leftovers within the next day and a half, trying our best to savor the delicious cookies with respect as opposed to just wolfing them down as you mindlessly do a bag of chips while you’re watching American Idol.

Now that I’m in the loop, I notice little wrapped packages of multicolored macaroons in the shop windows of almost every patisserie/boulangerie I pass by. Perhaps macaroons are to the French what chocolate chip cookies are to Americans? As I haven’t tasted any others besides those from Lenotre, I can’t speak to the overall quality, but the ones I sampled from Lenotre were amazing. Little melt-in-your-mouth disks about the size of a half-dollar coin, each flavor of macaroon sandwiched with a coordinating filling. The macaroons themselves were light and lovely, almost meringue-like, and shattered teasingly with each bite so that you wondered if you’d actually eaten it or just imagined that it was that good. The richness of the fillings was a perfect foil for the heavenly cookies. All together, every nibble was an ideal blend.

a typical patisserie shop window

But enough on the sweet treats… for the past two nights, hubby and I have gone out to dinner with the baby and been treated to small complementary plates of a salty snack at the same time we were presented with our menus for consideration — potato chips! All I can think is that this must be some kind of latest-and-greatest amuse-bouche with lots of eateries jumping on the bandwagon, not to be left behind.

For example, last night, we walked just down the block to a chain franchise called Hippopotamus. Their catchphrase is “specialiste sur la terrain de la viande,” which I think translates roughly to they know their shit in regard to cooking meat. The menu is a testament to this fact, heavy on steaks and such. When we were seated, we noticed ready-and-waiting plates of potato chips at every table. The chips were a little on the greasy side, but we eagerly devoured them nonetheless as we considered our dinner choices.

Hubby and I haven’t really been in sync food-wise the past few days. He tends to snack in the afternoon and then isn’t hungry for dinner until later in the evening. I, on the other hand, usually avoid mid-meal snacks and prefer to stick to three full meals a day at regular intervals. By the time we got to Hippopotamus at around 6:30 p.m., I was starving, but hubby just wanted an appetizer. He opted for a tomato/mozzarella salad and also requested a small plate of pork kabobs.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a good burger, and the offerings on the Hippopotamus menu looked darn enticing. I chose a Hippo Burger Savoyard, a perfectly-sized burger cooked “bien cuit” (well done, having learned my lesson with the entrecote last week) topped with grilled onions and raclette, a mild melty Swiss cheese. A side of fries, a glass of nice Chateauneuf de Pape, and I was happy as a pig in poop. The burger was super juicy, surprisingly so for well done, and I was content to polish off every bite.

Tonight, we strolled around for quite awhile looking for a previously untested cafe to try for dinner, but somewhere that was still casual and comfortable. After perusing posted menus all along Boulevard Henri V and then back over up Rue St. Antoine, we finally settled at a place called Dome that we’d walked by many times before but never stopped into.

Dome proved very spacious and we made ourselves comfortable with high hopes for a nice meal. However, after ordering a glass of wine for me and a beer for hubby and checking out “la carte,” we decided it was the trendy kind of place you have a drink, but don’t necessarily stay to eat. Although Dome was plenty crowded, no one seemed to have food at their tables, just beverages. Not a promising sign. However, we did get a complementary plate of potato chips, which we again made short work of.

Alas, the menu choices at Dome proved a little disappointing and overpriced, so we decided to go back to the devil we know for our dinner – Cafe Rempart.

The people at Cafe Rempart get friendlier every time we go in, and I have no doubt this place would quickly become our regular go-to establishment if we lived here in the Bastille area. Tonight, these nice chaps recognized us, greeted us warmly and went out of their way to accommodate us with the baby. Apparently, this is a very rare occurrence indeed in French cafe culture, but I’m definitely not complaining.

While hubby and I were enjoying our second round of drinks for the evening, a foursome came in with, lo and behold, another stroller! And turns out, they even spoke English, nonetheless! We spent an interesting 15 minutes or so chatting with the other new mommy (her adorable daughter Ella in tow at 4 months old) and comparing notes on living in Paris as an ex-pat.

Tonight’s dinner was another Croque Italien for hubby and a ham and cheese omelet for me, both with green salads. We also shared a plate of frites along the way, and by the time baby started piping up, we were finished, content and happy to wander back to the apartment to relax the rest of the evening away.

Lenotre: http://www.lenotre.fr

Hippopotamus: http://www.hippopotamus.fr

The chicken and the egg

We have certainly enjoyed some frickin’ fantastic food in the past few days – and homecooked, none the less!

Hubby and I have been trying to cut back on our spending and eat chez dollhouse apartment more often this week. This involves a daily shopping excursion.  The French culture does not dictate stocking up on groceries a week at a time at the nearest Walmart Supercenter or Costco. In fact, les Francais would probably be horrified at such an idea. Here, it’s all about buying what’s freshest and most beautiful from a series of local vendors on any given day. Case in point, this afternoon while shopping for tonight’s dinner, I stopped into no less than four different stores. Each a small specialty vendor and conveniently all on the same stretch of street, it actually makes for a pleasant little shopping experience. Plus, this sneaky way of building more physical activity into the day is one of the reasons I’ve been able to enjoy pastries and cafe cremes every morning of this trip and still feel my pants loosening around the waist. 

First up on my list of stops — the supermarche, as much as it can be called one here, it’s really more like a glorified quick-stop mart. There, I bought toothpaste, baby food and a bottle of wine. The wine shopping here is really kinda ridiculous, in the best possible way. There are the specialty wine vendors up and down the streets who I’m sure sell nice wines, better than supermarket quality in any case. If we lived here, I would seek one out and build a relationship with him, asking his personal advice on what to buy for any given occasion or meal. However, I have had absolutely no problem with the supermarket wines I’ve had here whatsoever. We’re talking about wines on par with anything you’d get back home for more than a tenner and up. Only here, they cost about $3 or $4 a bottle. NICE. 

Next stop was the butcher for one of those aromatic temptress rotisserie chickens we’ve been admiring since we got here. At 10 euros a pop, this bird was a little pricier than the rotisserie chickens you’d get back home, but whatever. We couldn’t spend two weeks here and not try one. Then came a jaunt into the fresh produce corner stand for some super-skinny haricot verts (petite green beans), which set me back about $2. A final run into the boulangerie for the evening’s baguette (about a dollar) and a big slice of mouthwatering pear charlotte cake for hubby and I to split for our dessert. Et voila. The evening meal. It may get old shopping this way every single day, but for now, it’s really quite interesting, educational and fun.

When I got home and unpacked the groceries, hubby and I decided to walk out with the baby for a pre-dinner beverage at Cafe Rempart on the corner. Hubby’s been here a couple times lately and is becoming something of a regular. The guys who work there recognize him now and are jovial and friendly to us, a comforting bonus in a city legendary for its rudeness. I’m always sort of surprised when the locals aren’t complete jerks to us, but then again, we are making an effort to speak the language. From what I can tell, it’s all about your attitude. Paris is a perfect place to fake it ’til you make it. Even if you’re not in the inner circle, if you can act like you belong there just as much as anyone else, chances are you’ll do just fine. 

After two glasses of wine for me (my first white of the trip – a fragrant light Sancerre) and a couple beers for hubby, we returned to the apartment where I heated up the chicken, boiled the green beans for a few minutes until tender and topped them with a small spoonful of butter and a light sprinkling of salt, sliced some baguette and cheese and threw it all onto the tiny table. Delicious. The chicken was every bit as juicy and tasty as we’d imagined it would be, and the green beans succulent, cooked just to al dente.

 

me cooking in the dollhouse kitchen!

 

Again, the French culture seems to dictate that less is more in these instances. When you start out with quality ingredients right from the get-go, they are already so delicious that they really don’t need much, if any, adornment to maximize their full potential.

 

who'd eat KFC when you could have this??

 

Last night’s dinner was another example. Hubby did the shopping and came home with some farm fresh eggs and ham for an omelet. (With the requisite baguette, of course. Natch). With only two small temperamental electric burners on the cooktop, one big-ass pan and no spatula to work with, I must admit I was a little nervous about how it would all work out. I had some mushroom and zucchini left over from our pasta dinner the night before, so I sauteed it all up with some ham and shredded some lovely Emmentaler cheese for the omelet. The eggs themselves were huge with gorgeous bright sunshiny yellow yolks. I cracked four into a bowl with just the lightest splash of milk and whipped it all together. 

Having discovered that the best way to work the cooktop is to crank both burners up to high and hope for the best, I got the pan as close as I could to steaming, then dumped in the eggs. They cooked slowly, but seemed to set up just fine and by the time I scattered on the fillings and folded the whole concoction in two steps, the omelet looked great! I was thrilled. The end result – YUM. 

I don’t know if it’s the French methods of cultivation or what, but simple food items are so much more flavorful than the same versions back home. The eggs and the chicken are perfect examples. They both are so flavorful, I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like they are a much more authentic version of themselves. I’m sure mass production and FDA requirements take something away from the end product in America, as well as our penchant for drowning foods in salt, butter, ketchup, gravy and whatever else we can get our hands on. All I know is that the eggs here in France are the most delicious I’ve ever had. Hubby and I have agreed to try the omelet again this weekend with a little cheese as the only accompaniment. Again, I have no doubt that simple is the way to go to ensure a stellar result.