Industry Figure Tom Chappell

[The story thus far: our heroes have navigated their way safely through the minefields of car rentals and viciously-designed European washrooms and have emerged: washed, tanned (we're from California), and hungry - above all, hungry.]

We met at 7:30 on Sunday night and strolled through La Défense, making our way up to La Grande Arche.  For some reason it was not lit up during our stay — no one was sure why not, although we didn’t ask anyone who actually worked there.  From there, we turned around and walked back through La Défense 1 and across Pont De Nuilly into Nuilly itself.  We could have taken the Metro, of course (in Paris, you’re never more than 1/2 kilometer from a Metro station) but we felt that the exercise might help combat any jet lag, and anyway, it’s fun to walk through Paris, even on its outskirts.

We stopped at a restaurant more or less at random, trying to avoid any apparent chain resaturants or any foreign cuisine.  On that night, we wanted French food!  The one that we selected, like several others that we saw later, had both a “bar/pub”-like area, and a more formal “pure restaurant”-like area.  We sat down in the bar/pub area and asked for a menu, and were immediately confronted with the fact that none of us knew French, even though I took four years of it at school and have been studying it again recently.  It turns out that names of foods are not high on the vocabulary list of words that they teach you in school, despite their importance in real life.  After our waiter felt that we had struggled with the French for a decent amount of time, he offered us the English Menu, which was admittedly a great help, but which you have to be careful of relying upon, because it often has fewer and less interesting items on it.

I had already decided that I would try The Scary Foods while in France, and so tonight settled on the Boeuf Tartare.  If you’ve never had it, it’s a raw hamburger patty (by which I mean completely uncooked - grind up your meat, and you’re done!) mixed with a raw egg, various spices, etc.  Larry Helmerich had had Steak Tartare back in the states, back when you could get it here, and pronounced this one to be superior.  Yes, I know, I was taking my life in my hands, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about Mad Cow disease swimming over from across the Engish Channel, unless, of course, there were illegal pirate cows being dumped on the European market - that does give one pause.  It was pretty tasty, actually, but not something that I imagine that I could develop a craving for, at least, not in the same way that I crave Hot Fudge Brownie Specials from Ben & Jerry’s ice cream shops.

As the bar/pub area became full, some Parisians were seated at our table with us.  Even though I’m somewhat shy, or perhaps because I am, I liked this - it’s a great way to meet new folks, and to have an excuse to talk to them, even though they’re stangers.  They said hello very pleasantly, and later on, when Larry noticed one of them using the same nerdly personal digital assistant that the three of us from Alcatel use (the Palm V), we chatted with we them about that for a bit.  As Larry observed later: no rude French people so far.

For dessert, I ordered crème brulée (a custard that has been scorched with a blow-torch — it’s become quite popular in America in the last 10 years or so).  Although it was extremely good, and subtly different from the American versions in ways that I cannot describe, I almost immediately suffered from Buyer’s Remorse when I saw that one of my tablemates had ordered something called Profiteroles, which I can not describe adequately, other than to say that they involved pastry, chantilly cream, chocolate, and being super-delicious.

Actually, because we’re all on the web, I can point you to a web page that has a nice picture them, along with a recipe for the pastry:

    http://saveurs.sympatico.ca/ency_8/cacao/regional.htm

The text reads, in part: “Henri IV had, among his favorites, a mistress named Profiterole. To please her, he invented a light pastry, filled with chantilly and sprinkled with hot chocolate sauce.  Nowadays, the pastry is often filled with vanilla ice cream, but that recipe is not original.”

After a short stroll back to our hotel, we retired to our rooms and slept uniformly well, and awakened easily.  Where was the fearsome jet lag that we had heard so much about?  It seemed that this would not be a problem — and how wrong, how horribly and foolishly wrong I was, to think this.

[Next Installment: "Qu'est-ce c'est l'autocar?"]