Gastro-porn

The French are pretty shameless when it comes to public display of affection especially when they are dans le feu de l’action ( in the heat of the action ). One particular girl didn’t care that the crack of her derrière ( ass ) was aiming to eat the brioche au chocolat in my hand every time her boyfriend shoved his face on her. And not the least bothered that the sound of their spit as they exchanged it - put me off eating a favourite French roll: croissant packed with chocolate and hazelnut. No wonder I couldn’t give two lardy arses about Saint Valentine's Day. I was too tired coming home from the trip and had enough of this soppy lovin’ feeling to last me a lifetime.

People in France go nuts with their chocolate and hazelnut spread. Not only as a substitute for Viagra but also for Prozac. Apparently, a jar of Nutella sits alongside the weapon of choice in a suicide scene of every French teenager and jobless graduate who had a nervous breakdown.


The bus we took during the tour is packed with plump middle-aged tourists and young fit Parisiens like a tin of sardines but the view from the window was oozing with vitality, intrigue and appétit just like a Bernardo Bertolucci movie. I don’t know why, but every time I think of Paris, I remember that doggie style scene between Marlon Brando and Maria Schneider using butter as lubrication. Could be the reason why I got this very funny mental carnivale de l'erotique thing going to any food that I ate whilst I was there: Crème Brûlée, strawberries, cheese, crêpes and even a sandwich.

I’m not surprised about this Freudian fascination with the most celebrated landmark – The Eiffel Tower. Like the rest of them tourists, I was transfixed to the romantic view. Then I suddenly had butterflies in my stomach. Or more like worms clamouring for food. We got off at Champs Élysées and took a lovely long walk in the most beautiful avenue in the world.
Dining in a restaurant is really tricky. The waiters can be a real pain in the derrière. Most can speak English but they have this weird view that most people, even tourists can also speak French. You must at least know how to twaddle a bit no matter how unintelligible it is just to get their attention:

"Répondez blah-blah, s'il vous plaît." ( I know it means respond if you please -that RSVP note they usually put at wedding invites, but if you mumble it rather quickly, the waiter may take it that you would like to see the menu, please. ) Otherwise, your bum will bleed quicker on a chair waiting for them to serve you than you would if you swallow and crap a dozen Big Macs. Then there is the nightmare of actually reading the menu. Whatever you like just avoid the word: "escargot". It’s better to eat lumps of green grass / things drenched in olive oil than a row of terrestrial snail in their shells swimming in yellowish goo of butter. I had it before. Not very pleasant.

The wine list is another. The girlfriend was quite good at this. Like a true connoisseur she read it aloud punctuating her words with oh’s and ahh, I’ve tried this before and that, or something: it was like watching Chinese movies - I didn’t understand a word but I liked it. I noticed she picked the second cheapest bottle. Uh, huh. I bet she was bluffing. The steak was a bit dry but not bad. I’d preferred it if they drowned it in gravy though, and not piped a silly heart-shaped trim of sauce around it.

The dessert was scrumptious.

The rest of Paris pics are here:
City of Lights, Gastronomique, Disneyland