day2-how to eat what you want when you are verbally disabled
Streets in Paris are mischievous, crossing diagonally, merging here and diverging there, never on a tamed grid like the ones in the New World. But at least they are named, unlike nameless streets in the floating country in the Far East where I am from, so once we found the Boulevard Magenta, it took us to the Place Republique, from which a roofed alleyway winds out to our cheap hotel bearing the same grand name as the plaza. We lowered our backpack in our third-floor room balmy with a hissing radiator and damp with Paris winter air trapped in for too long. Having examined the tiny bathroom that barely accommodates Patrick, peeked out of the lace-curtained window giving to the alleyway, and performed other rituals expected of tourists just arrived at a hotel, we headed out for something to eat, not knowing whether it should be called a breakfast or lunch, after a prolonged lethargic day up in the sky.
A twenty minutes walk from the station to the hotel was more than enough to convince us that almost anything we grab from almost anywhere should be good, indeed considerably better than American average. Showcases of cheap yet fresh sandwiches with simple ingredients like lettuce, tomato, ham and cheese on baguette, trays after trays of golden pastries with all kinds of fillings, tables in roadside cafe's with plates of omelets and sassy little cups of espresso along with a cigarette slowly turning to ashes in an ashtray. Paris seemed promising. At least when it comes to food.
Skipping the nearest eatery from the hotel, which was a Chinese takeout place on a triangular corner, we settled down in a cafe' with red awnings and large glass windows. To my awkward murmur of "Bonjour" appeared a young, comical-looking waiter with a monk-shaven head and big, brown, friendly eyes. There were a young man nibbling on a long baguette with butter and jam, an older couple sipping their cafe' au lait and hot chocolate, and an Asian woman endlessly puffing her cigarette as she flipped a paperback, with a long dried-up cup of espresso next to the ashtray. We gave up on deciphering the French menu after about half an hour of vain struggle with the better-than-nothing aid of our phrase book, and decided to have the "natural omelets," whatever its difference from just the plain "omelets" may be. But it was too early for a sigh of relief. The waiter nodded, and proceed to the question of what ingredients we wanted in the omelets. With a visible effort to fumble around for words stored somewhere in his brain, he kindly went out of his way to translate the ingredients on the list for us, which turned out to be bacon, ham, cheese, potatoes, and herbs de Provence. Patrick picked ham, cheese, and potatoes, whereas I jumped on cheese, potatoes, and herbs de Provence just because they were on the tip of my tongue. After a short while, along with small bottles of Lipton's peach ice tea and apricot nectar we had ordered appeared a mysterious wine bottle with transparent liquid, but without any label. It took us another short while, with glances at other tables, undereducated guesses and some secretive discussion, to convince us that it was not an expensive white wine brought to our table by mistake but chilled tap water free to drink.
Outside of the window, tiny cars swarmed a busy intersection, their muzzles literally touching the rears of the cars in the front, with other cars parked anywhere they choose, even on sidewalks and IN the intersection. A nightmare. To our delight, there was no sign of commercialized Christmas Eve around, except for a scarved old lady with fresh twigs of holly purchased in a nearby marche'. No speakers blasting with holiday music, no inflatable Santa Claus, no one overloaded with bulky shopping bags sprinkled with worn-out Christmas images. The omelets were huge and heavy with potatoes inside them and French French fries on the side, almost huge enough to give me an illusion of still being in Chicago, the capital of too generous servings, had it not been for the absence of the flood of so-called holiday spirit. We forgot to check the menu if tip was included in the price or not when we ordered our food, which might or might not be, according to Patrick's guide. Not wanting to hurt the kind waiter's feeling, Patrick decided to leave two euros. It of course required some more sneaky glances and hushed but heated discussion. In an unfamiliar place, getting two simple omelets can be a complicated task if it were to be performed perfectly. We gave out sighs, and went out, with our sincere "merci" barely making it out of our larynges.
On our way back to the hotel, we dropped by at a bustling bakery/pastry shop to stuck up on some food, for fear of not finding any store open on the Christmas day. A quiche with Provence vegetables, another with mushrooms, a pain au chocolat, a tartlette au citron, and a tiny bag of chocolate macarons cost us a little more than 7 euros. (And they all turned out to be super-tasty.) I wished we hadn't had the language barrier that hampered us from trying more unfamiliar food, or food with unpronounceable name in a show case way too far away from the store clerk to ask her to fetch one by simply pointing at it. Being barbarian is quite humiliating. We need to be thick-skinned and full of compensatory smile when we are travelers abroad.
Spacy Patrick stayed at the hotel for a short nap, while I went out for a stroll, as I often did during other trips with my previous traveling buddy.
A twenty minutes walk from the station to the hotel was more than enough to convince us that almost anything we grab from almost anywhere should be good, indeed considerably better than American average. Showcases of cheap yet fresh sandwiches with simple ingredients like lettuce, tomato, ham and cheese on baguette, trays after trays of golden pastries with all kinds of fillings, tables in roadside cafe's with plates of omelets and sassy little cups of espresso along with a cigarette slowly turning to ashes in an ashtray. Paris seemed promising. At least when it comes to food.
Skipping the nearest eatery from the hotel, which was a Chinese takeout place on a triangular corner, we settled down in a cafe' with red awnings and large glass windows. To my awkward murmur of "Bonjour" appeared a young, comical-looking waiter with a monk-shaven head and big, brown, friendly eyes. There were a young man nibbling on a long baguette with butter and jam, an older couple sipping their cafe' au lait and hot chocolate, and an Asian woman endlessly puffing her cigarette as she flipped a paperback, with a long dried-up cup of espresso next to the ashtray. We gave up on deciphering the French menu after about half an hour of vain struggle with the better-than-nothing aid of our phrase book, and decided to have the "natural omelets," whatever its difference from just the plain "omelets" may be. But it was too early for a sigh of relief. The waiter nodded, and proceed to the question of what ingredients we wanted in the omelets. With a visible effort to fumble around for words stored somewhere in his brain, he kindly went out of his way to translate the ingredients on the list for us, which turned out to be bacon, ham, cheese, potatoes, and herbs de Provence. Patrick picked ham, cheese, and potatoes, whereas I jumped on cheese, potatoes, and herbs de Provence just because they were on the tip of my tongue. After a short while, along with small bottles of Lipton's peach ice tea and apricot nectar we had ordered appeared a mysterious wine bottle with transparent liquid, but without any label. It took us another short while, with glances at other tables, undereducated guesses and some secretive discussion, to convince us that it was not an expensive white wine brought to our table by mistake but chilled tap water free to drink.
Outside of the window, tiny cars swarmed a busy intersection, their muzzles literally touching the rears of the cars in the front, with other cars parked anywhere they choose, even on sidewalks and IN the intersection. A nightmare. To our delight, there was no sign of commercialized Christmas Eve around, except for a scarved old lady with fresh twigs of holly purchased in a nearby marche'. No speakers blasting with holiday music, no inflatable Santa Claus, no one overloaded with bulky shopping bags sprinkled with worn-out Christmas images. The omelets were huge and heavy with potatoes inside them and French French fries on the side, almost huge enough to give me an illusion of still being in Chicago, the capital of too generous servings, had it not been for the absence of the flood of so-called holiday spirit. We forgot to check the menu if tip was included in the price or not when we ordered our food, which might or might not be, according to Patrick's guide. Not wanting to hurt the kind waiter's feeling, Patrick decided to leave two euros. It of course required some more sneaky glances and hushed but heated discussion. In an unfamiliar place, getting two simple omelets can be a complicated task if it were to be performed perfectly. We gave out sighs, and went out, with our sincere "merci" barely making it out of our larynges.
On our way back to the hotel, we dropped by at a bustling bakery/pastry shop to stuck up on some food, for fear of not finding any store open on the Christmas day. A quiche with Provence vegetables, another with mushrooms, a pain au chocolat, a tartlette au citron, and a tiny bag of chocolate macarons cost us a little more than 7 euros. (And they all turned out to be super-tasty.) I wished we hadn't had the language barrier that hampered us from trying more unfamiliar food, or food with unpronounceable name in a show case way too far away from the store clerk to ask her to fetch one by simply pointing at it. Being barbarian is quite humiliating. We need to be thick-skinned and full of compensatory smile when we are travelers abroad.
Spacy Patrick stayed at the hotel for a short nap, while I went out for a stroll, as I often did during other trips with my previous traveling buddy.
posted by uBookworm at 14:30
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