A Parisian Feast

The 22nd of July marked my second visit to Paris, which is surprising when you consider that my first visit was not all that great. In fairness to the City of Lights, the first time I went to Paris none of our party knew any French, and we went right after a stunning trip to London. After the delightful four days which were my experience in England, Paris seemed like a maze of dirty subways, unbearable heat (it was July then, too), and snobby locals. But when my French-speaking friend Vivian invited me to meet her in Paris for a day before the two of us headed to Amsterdam for the weekend, I couldn't resist. And I am oh-so-glad I didn't.

Having already visited the main tourist attractions in Paris (Eiffel Tower, Louvré, Champs de Elysees, etc.) before, Vivian and I were both utterly unfettered by the usual pressure that comes with visiting a huge city in very little time. Instead, we spent the two nights and one day doing what one should really be doing in the most romantic of cities. . . eating. We made it our goal to take the subway as infrequently as possible, thereby forcing ourselves to walk long distances to each spot on our culinary hit list. Even so, they practically had to roll me to the train station on Friday morning after the day and a half of blissful gluttony that was that trip.

The evening I arrived, we went over to one of Vivian's friend's apartments for dinner. There were baguettes with goat cheese and honey, chopped carrots, sliced avocados, and at least three bottles of wine. As appetizers. For dinner, we had zucchini and mushroom risotto and a huge green salad, and because one girl didn't like risotto (what?) there was also angel hair pasta with spinach pesto sauce. Those girls could cook! 

Thursday morning, Viv and I headed down to Rue Mouffetard to revisit the most memorable part of my earlier trip to Paris: a huge, open-air food market. My friend Chris and I had gone there several years earlier and gotten a picnic lunch of bread, cheese, olives, and fruit, and then gone to a nearby park where I happily read the final Harry Potter book, which had been released that very day. Unfortunately, I failed to recall that the day we went to the market had been a Saturday, so the winding alleyways crammed with all manner of stands was reduced to a mere shadow in my memory. Nonetheless, Viv and I had a great time meandering through the stalls stocked with wine, cheeses, berries, seafood, and melons. We opted out of the picnic lunch, though, and ate at a small French bistro that had a killer lunch special -- three courses for nine euros. The highlight of lunch was Vivian's dessert, a chestnut purée topped with Chantilly cream. 

That afternoon, I had both the best pastry and the best ice cream I have ever had in my life. The ice cream came from what is arguably Paris's most famous gelato shop, Berthillion. The flavors were so unique and delicious-sounding that I seriously considered having three scoops. I managed to control myself, though, and chose two of the most perfect flavors ever to be created, I'm quite sure: Praline Amaretto and Raspberry Rose. I still regret passing up the Caramel Ginger, though . . . I'm just not sure I could have done three scoops with a clear conscience.

After a long afternoon of shopping, Viv and I were ready for a snack. We had passed a fancy-looking bakery that was suspiciously located amongst the fashionable boutiques of Marais, probably to lure young women such as ourselves, who had worked up an appetite browsing the pricey shoes and jewelry and stylish little dresses. Without knowing exactly what I was buying, I pointed to a square pastry with yellow layers and sugar dotting the outside. I'll have to ask Vivian again what the official French name of the pastry was, but to me it was the most perfect lemon bar imaginable.