classic romance

I have a confession.

My excitement for visiting Paris was dulled by the focus of Greece.  Greece and Paris does seem like an odd combination, culturally and proximally, for our first time in Europe.  But my family builds vacations around Dad's conferences... and then we go where the layovers go, apparently.

Greece has just always been my dream destination, and I felt like the older I got, Western Europe was bumped down on my travel priorities list after countries in Southeast Asia and South America... and Iceland.  But Greece remained.

So all that is to say that Paris was kind of an afterthought as I was packing and mentally preparing to abandon my proteins for two weeks.

Plus, I embarrass myself every time I try to utter French.

Well, I was pleasantly surprised.  I liked the feel of walking through the city as we tried not to get lost.  I liked our charming little hotel, a block or so away from Moulin Rouge, in the Pigalle area where all the decor is red.  I liked the openness.

Our first stop after touchdown was to fill our stomachs though.  Hanger is so real.  So lunch at 3pm it is.

At Buvette where I just couldn't resist the eggs with some of my favorite things - probably because I didn't have access to eggs for breakfast.
Brouilles tomates confites tomatoes confites et chevre frais

Dad chose the most obscure thing on the French menu, and by "obscure," I mean the one item my brother couldn't very well deduce with his middle school background in French...beyond that it was under the category of "fish" anyways.  He was immediately intrigued when the waitress said it was salted cod ground into a paste with olive oil... and then he was confused when the waitress brought out a little jar of salty cod puree.  Typical Parental Unit and his selectively weak grasp of listening and comprehension - at least I don't live with it anymore.
Brandade de Morue salee dans notre cuisine in the background.
Plat du Chef assortiment de legumes at the waitress's suggestion.
I was really feeling all the pieces of the salad until I got a mouthful of the bruschetta, which was not unlike getting an unpleasant mouthful of ocean water when you're just calmly treading water beyond the waves.  At least the water and bread were free (because they weren't in Greece).

No makeup Mondays is everyday when it's above 90 degrees every day.  I was not amused by the City of Love trying to smoke us out, especially since I packed long sleeves because before I left, the weather  channel so erroneously told me it'd be in the 70's.

Can't go to France without finding the Eiffel Tower.

Just like you can't pass by six soft serve carts without getting a cone of pistachio.

To the top of the Arc de Triomphe as they honor the unknown soldier below.

Weave through Notre Dame while a young choir performs.

Climb a gajillion steps to see Montmarte in the spotlight.

Finally, let me tell you the cautionary tale of the girl who knew no French before going to France.

For the most part, food found her in Greece.  And even when it didn't, the content and quality were similar enough that she wasn't too concerned with researching and finding the best places.  Paris was different.  At the very least, she could isolate by region (around tourist sites).  She read a couple blogs/articles, consulted Yelp, double checked price range, and lead her undiscerning family to La Poutre.  The sky was deep navy blue and it was far past time to curl up in bed, but restaurants on every corner were filled with people eating dinner at 9pm or sweating it out over wine and h'orderves outside.  She finally saw the shining yellow sign.  There it is!  But... wait.  Why is it so empty when the two places across the street are buzzing with the steady hum of familiar chit chat?  She didn't realize that when reading over the menu, she was really searching for a way out, but Dad saw fried frog legs and was sold.

Duck gizzard salad.

Something just didn't feel right for the girl throughout the entire meal, from ordering to dessert.
The only couple by the window had finished up and were gone before they got their appetizers.  The roasted lamb and whatever cut of steak were mediocre.  Even... off.  But she decided to attribute that to the difference between intense Greek and subtle French flavors.  The fries were quite soggy, and she might as well have brought her own bag of lettuce from a sketchy grocery store.  How could this food have been rated so well on Yelp?  Do the French use Yelp?  Shit, I should've figured out what restaurant finder they use over here.  The girl remained quiet, listlessly going through the motions of eating as the clock crept closer and closer to midnight.  Her family seemed to enjoy it all... but that was hardly reassuring.
By the time a dish of canned peaches with ice cream was delivered to the table, the restaurant staff and/or family of the restaurant staff were enthusiastically digging into plates of what she assumed were the day's leftovers.
The girl felt oddly dejected and guilty when the check was paid, and they were off to explore the night scenery.  Food regret is worse than hanger.
It wasn't until she crawled into bed, exhausted and bloated, that she realized she was actually looking for the restaurant next door - Le Portager de Pere Thierry.

So moral of this story... read carefully.  And always trust your gut.

Bonne nuit, Paris.