Paris: Having a great meal based on sparse word knowledge

Somewhere hiding out in one of the ten or twelve boxes of books I have packed away awaiting my forever delayed move back home in Los Angeles is a tiny book called Marling Menu-Master in French.

This tiny pocket guide on my two previous trips, it turns out, had been both a God-send and culinary crutch.

At dinner two, on June 4, 2009, I went to I lovely little place nearby my chambre d’hotes called Chez Casimir. This brightly yellow card and its somewhere-off-Eastern-sounding name made me think I was in for north African fare.

After all, I am always in search for one great north African meal when in Paris. However, as soon as I entered the corner locale I knew it was a typical neighborhood traditional French restaurant. As it turned out, I was going to be the last customer, Casimir took that evening.

The menu was fixed price, which I always prefer in Paris. You know how much up front. That is so much better in Paris as well as in all of life.

Now let me digress. I have a problem with my brain. I cannot, no matter hard I try, remember things in French. I have a few words committed to memory in Russian from many years ago when I took it in college. I have the Hebrew alphabet from the class as well, despite not being Jewish and never able to read the language; and I have perhaps 200 or so words at my grasp in Spanish. However, when it comes to French there is simply a traffic jam in my neural net.

It may be the many accent marks used. It may be that the pronunciation is vastly different to my ears than any other language has been. It may be simply a lack of commitment on my part – no class, no time to study, no true practice and rehearsal.

So, Casimir brings his handwritten black board over to me and begins rattling off the lengthy menu and I need to interrupt because I do not understand. And I say: If you please, English.

This phraseology is particularly offensive I have discovered. But what is worse, is I think I am saying: do you speak English? So, the host reacts badly and I react confused and everything goes down hill very quickly.

Well, Casimir, says, pretty much, this is the menu, huh, its fixed price, and you let me know, ok. And he walks away. I feel terribly because the fifty times I have said parle vous anglaise? In my head throughout the day has failed with the utterance s’il vous plait, aiglaise?

So, I sit there. Me on one side of a bistro table and a giant blackboard in the other chair. I need only a dunce cap.

Then I realize, my Marling Menu-Master in French would have saved the day, but alas the heretofore unforeseen complications of the move from apartment dweller to mortgage prisoner shows itself in a new way.

So, I decide, as all culinary survivors must, to pick words I know.

In course one: Of the seven choices, I know – canard (duck).

In the entrée course: of the seven choices, I know four – joue de beouf (beef cheek), saumon (salmon), poulet (chicken – I think) and something-something asperge (asparagus).

In the dessert course: of the seven choices, I know – chocolat, chocolat chocolat, frambois (raspberry) and rhubarbes (rhubarb).

So, I select: duck, beef cheek, and rhubarb.

Why?

Well, I thought, I was ordering duck and I got pate of duck, though it was amazing. A small, nicely dressed green salad with a ceramic jug of cornichons and a large portion of hunter-style pate. It was yummy to the last morsel on the thick-cut, heavy country brown bread.

With the beef cheeks, I had regretted for a year not trying them since my last visit. So, I was definitely going to have them this time. However, what I learned here was that a beef cheek in one restaurant is very different from the same dish in another. While flavorful and tender, the mashed potato was the star of this hearty dish.

Beef cheeks and my year of regret is why this time around I am trying new things and with this meal, while trying words I knew I ended up trying dishes I never had. Success!

This final dish, dessert, was the most different dessert I have ever had. I am still thinking about it. It is a trip. It is something that has wowed me but also I am not yet quite sold on it. It is an odd experience.

The rhubarb was served as a soup. All the rhubarb was green and stewed either very tender or even very desiccated. Then a series of plump and perfect in appearance and taste raspberries were placed in the soup. Next, a large cannel (ok, Americans a large scoop) of chocolate mousse was placed in the center; however, it was hidden by the fabulous and perfect cookie crisp that gently sit atop it.

I am not sure whether to simply think of this dessert as a religious experience to be remembered or a culinary experience to be copied and tinkered with or a food experience to be reinvented and made into my own.

There is something philosophical about this dish that makes me pause. It’s kind of freaky.

Italian neighborhood food in Paris

It is my tradition on my first night in Paris to dine close to my hotel. Had I been in the old neighborhood, I would have walked to Alla Biche Au Bois or Chez Paul or maybe tried the Egyptian place I have eyeballing for some time.

However, my hosts and dear friends have moved to the 10th arrondissemont and so I was left to go with neither a favorite or something I have previously desired.

So, I decided on a safe and sure bet: Italian.

It was recommended by my sub-host, the cuddly Bertino. Men are not usually cuddly to me, but he seems very kind and sweet. His broken English, laden with a heavy Portuguese accent. He bore witness to its fair prices and its decent fare. So, I decided it would be the Italian place. One block away.

I readied myself and off I went with my travel materials for reading. In the short block of walking, I realized two things that one forgets about Paris when you separated from it for too long a time: a) the names of streets can change with every single block and some streets name can curve in the most illogical of manners; b) Paris is bright late into the night. At 9:00 it is still fairly light out.

The chilled late spring air tell me I ought to sit inside and once I am seated I know a place outside would have been a tinge better.

I review the menu. The salads are very unusual. Three of them are named for places like Florida, Arizona and the Bahamas. I read each ingredient carefully.

The Florida has grapefruit, avocado, apple, heart of palm, chicken, tomato and corn. The Arizona has carrot, cucumber, artichoke, capers, egg, tuna, anchovies and olives. And the Bahamas has oranges, tomatoes, avocado, heart of palm, corn, ham and fresh pineapple.

However, I remembered that last meal I had in Paris last year. I ordered something I order a lot. My dear friend Peet ordered beef cheeks. I would never order such a thing, but once I tasted his dish – Oh, My God! So, I said to my self: “Self, order different things than you normally would!”

So, I ordered the Rimini salad which has orange slices, crayfish tails, hearts of palm, tomatoes, and kiwi, oops no kiwi showed up on my plate! However, it was great and I have in my head concocted an even better salad of my own making, though inspired by Salade Rimini alla Parisienne.

For the entrée I ordered as the menu says: “green and white pastas with light creams sauces, fresh peas, mushrooms and ham of San Daniel.”

The spinach and durum wheat linguini was served in a large portion. Much larger than I have had in some places in Madrid and Paris, which I was grateful for however, I will have to research what ham San Daniel is. Roughly chopped cold cuts seems like a missed opportunity. Of course, that came out the wrong way. It looked like a roughly chopped cold cut, it tasted like the best ham I have had in a very, very long time. Think Boar’s Head Brand and then a step or two up.

The only downside to this dish was the peas, which were fresh, were also a bit over-soft. It would have been perfect to have a bit of a snap left in them!

I will return to this little eatery, I am sure, a couple of times in my two weeks here. It is very much a homey place. Besides some of the pizzas smelled amazing!