Ode to Dust (dedicated to all bunnies out there)

Previously published on theSmartlychicago.com
(Mom, please, DO NOT read this. I know you won’t but don’t try to find a translator who would tell you all about my take on dust. It would give you the chills and deprive you of sleep for many weeks.)

Dust…for the first 18 or so years of my life, you were like a myth to me. I mean, I knew of you, read your name printed in books and magazines, heard about you on TV and the radio but rarely – if ever – saw you. Never got the chance. You were The Enemy in a house kept spotless thanks to a housewife solely dedicated to immaculate cleanliness. I mean –  a cleaning freak. Like, nuts. For real. Daily vacuuming, cleaning of the stove and the kitchen and, worse yet, scrubbing the bathtub after every single shower. Not a single drop of water allowed in the bathroom please.  That would be so out of place.

She was a (more than) willing slave, and we were dragged in with her.

Talk about hell (without brimstone powder or ashes, of course)

But after – Gosh! – 16 years out of the nest I know all about you, my friend. Mi casa è su casa. I am not exactly welcoming you with open arms but the result is quite the same: you are everywhere. What the hell was I thinking while buying dark furniture? That I would be rug in hand every five minutes? Ha! And, sneaky you, you love company and usually don’t come alone to the party: dirt, crumbs, hair, the occasional flowers petals, bits of cake and other scrubs….yeah….I know all of you guys.

But I am not ashamed.

I decided long ago that I lived in a house, not a museum. You and your friends are LIFE. Well, part of it.  Not the most glamorous one, for sure but still evidence that I open my windows, go outside, bake, eat, pet my cats and dog (and yes!! horror - they do lose their hair everywhere), breathe and enjoy. I don’t live in a dump though, and I will always frantically go in “Mom Freak Mode” during the few hours before my guests are supposed to arrive because I want the best for them (and also maybe for them to say that I am quite the house-keeper…um, um…) But I refuse to spend my nights and weekends mopping, sweeping, wiping up, down, across and in-between. Yes, it can be messy. Dirty even sometimes. But guess what? I deal with it. And I haven’t died of septicemia yet. I am a firm believer in germ exposure anyway. The cleaner, the weaker.

Right?

One thing for sure: as soon as I get a steady job, a grown-up one where I earn money every month, I will give some work to someone who needs it, and hire a cleaning lady. And worship her. In the meantime I give myself a break, and so should you. 

So I baked a (surprise) cake...

What do you do when an important birthday is coming up, and you are completely, totally, utterly broke?
You cry your heart out, try to make a decision between panhandling in Wicker Park and asking your husband to rob the bank he's working at but finally come back to your senses to put your best "Pause Gourmande" move forward and offer to bring dessert to the party bien sûr!


Except it was not really a party, because it was not really a birthday celebration.

But that's just semantics.  It doesn't change much to the elaboration process; I just had to drop the candles at the end; fine by me. I am not good at blowing:

I know my girl. She likes good things, fine wines (hello sweet bottles of Pommerol!! I loved you all dearly), boudin (blood sausage), quenelles, raspberries (already covered by dessert #1), chocolate (but not with raspberries) and pistachios. Hates blue cheese and not a fan of liver.
No headaches. They are not great in desserts anyway.


Plan of action: find a chocolate-pistachio cake-ish recipe.
Means: surf the Internet.
Time-line: a week.


I quickly found the winner, on my beloved Chocolate and Zucchini. Really darlings, if you don't know the lovely Clotilde Dusoulier you should. Not that she desperately needs your patronage, her blog is well and running but still...she is quite the reference. And her Gâteau surprise chocolat-pistache was the obvious choice.
Phewwww!!
The hardest part was already behind me.


Or was it?


First obstacle: find pistachio paste
One of the problems with using a French recipe is:
- you have to convert the measurements; I am not good at math. In fact I also hate with a fierce passion the American system which belongs to the 16th century. Found on my butter wrapper: 1 lb = 2 cups ; 1 stick = 1/2 cup = 8 tablespoons; 1 tablespoon=1/2 ounce.
My hair hurts just reading this line. Metric is the only way to go; it's also the work of a collective genius. Just sayin'.

- you are supposed to use ingredients that are impossible to find in the US. Yup, pistachio paste is exactly what I have in mind. I mean, what the hell?!?!? Never even heard of it. To C&Z defense I didn't search the whole city of Chicago to find it. Mea culpa. I should have. Maybe. But I did find a solution.
Saving grace?!?

Accidental Hedonist, after deciding that Fxcuisine was too elaborate for me. I love you Pierre Hermé but damn....you don't make it easy on us, simple mortals. You are just too good to be true.


(side note: if you are planning on making the said 'pistachio paste', A. H. instructions are slightly off....too much water. You don't want a pistachio syrup.)

Second obstacle: find unsalted pistachios

Easily solved: just don't go to the supermarket next door and head on a busy Saturday morning to one of the most crowded parts of town to the Mecca of complete, full, integral and undivided Food (no free advertisement for corporate America on Pause Gourmande, if you'll excuse me).


Third obstacle: stay awake
No comment...


Fourth obstacle: read the recipe PROPERLY
And that was definitely the biggest challenge of them all.
Which is scary, a bit embarrassing and worrying for my culinary future. Or not. It might just mean that I am too cool for school AND recipes. In truth it just means that I am a creative wizard and don't need anyone to tell me what to do and how to do it.
Yeah....
I wish.


My main problem was the word HALF. See there are basically two batters in this cake: the chocolate one, and the pistachio one. Easy enough to follow, right? Well....obviously not.
I kept walking between the kitchen counter and the computer to make sure everything was done according to instructions. That's really the sad part. Because I tried. Hard.
Here is how the recipe goes:
"In a food processor, mix together half of the sugar and half of the butter until fluffy. Add in two of the eggs, one at a time, mixing between each. Add in half of the yogurts and all the vanilla extract, mix again. In a medium bowl, combine half of the flour with half of the baking powder, half of the baking soda and all of the cocoa mixture. Add the flour mixture into the food processor and mix again until just combined. Pour the batter into the cake pan, and reserve in the refrigerator".


I mixed half of the sugar with all of the butter, added all the yogurt, combined half of the flower with all of the baking soda, forgetting the baking powder but adding it in extremis to the mix in the pan freshly removed from the fridge.
FML.


Since my pan was way too small I had to make do with a bastardized version of the pistachio component of the dish, already bastardized a first time by my poor home-made rendition of the PP (stands for pistachio paste if you followed anything at all in this post).
That was a pitiful day for your trusted Amélie. I already know I sucked at math but still....I thought my limited abilities were enough to carry me without trouble in the kitchen world....
Not so, my friends.
I will never be a baker extraordinaire.....
I only hope I won't mess up fairy tales when I read them to my kids and talk about The Six Little Pigs, Snow White and the Three and a Half Dwarfs or say that a mermaid is just a big-ass fish....


I let my cake cool down, made a chocolate ganache, iced the cake and even drew a big M - just to make sure that I still had some basic skills (math: F, reading: F, writing: A-)
And you know what? In the end, all was well.

Just like in Fairyland.

The end.

Sex is to French movies what _______ is to American

As an instructor of French I had to lead one-on-one conversations several times a week.
A gruesome task when you have to listen to a 101 student trying to make the distinction between the different nasal sounds "on"/"an"/"in" three hours in a row. Thank God for the "r" diversion in the middle.
It REALLY numbs your brains out, trust me.

But with more advanced students it was of course different (though scarily enough, not that much sometimes. But that's beside the point). We usually talk about French movies they saw the week before as part of their 'exposition to the target culture'. It's a strong belief of language acquisition pedagogy that students learn a lot that way; I guess they can thus see that we belong to the 21st century as well. You wouldn't believe the questions I was asked in 9 years of teaching in the US.....

Anyway - whether it triggers excessive enthusiasm, curious recording or outraged embarrassment - and, frankly, between the two extremes I am not quite sure which one makes me the more uncomfortable as an instructor -the one single element everybody is pointing out is sex. More specifically, nudity.
Yep, you see boobs, butts and sometimes even more.
Ron-ron-ron, oh la la!!! Mon Dieu!

See - when a man and a woman actually have sex (you know...it happens...especially in movies where things are incredibly accelerated and revolve around drama) the woman doesn't keep her bra on; that would pretty stupid of her actually given the fact that it's a major erogenous part of her body, and she supposedly put herself in that situation to get pleasure out of it. And seriously, who gets out of bed wrapped up around sheets? WHO?!?!? Did they all join the "Never nudes" along with Tobias Fünke in Hollywood or what?

But wait, I have even more shocking: actors walk butt-naked not only in mainstream movies but also in TV shows and  - supreme horror - commercials. On TV and on billboards. Believe it or not - women take their clothes off in the shower and you do see their nipples while they are rubbing Dove, Nivea and what not in their skin.
Crazy, I know.
These Frenchies....
I am the first to admit though that sometimes it is a tad too much; having a naked lady on her kitchen floor caressing a bottle of olive oil is not totally necessary (unless you want to use the oil in question for purposes that are not strictly culinary, and that is another question; cf. Last Tango in Paris for similar misappropriate usages of alimentary products).

To sum it all and put it quite simply: the Janet Jackson 'incident' would have generated a big laugh, some sarcastic comments and that's about it.
I would say it's rather healthy. But I am obviously biased.

The traditional opposition between slow-paced, dialog heavy and psychology oriented French movies and their more action based American counterparts is this one: sex vs. violence.
I do not agree.
To be fair let's keep it very 'concrete'.
To me the US equivalent of (gratuitous) body exposure is vomiting.
Throwing up.
Puking.
And I find it quite disturbing, to be honest with you.

It's one of my Russian colleagues that brought up the subject for the first time in 2001. And since then I have been watching closely and she was totally right. For some reason TV and film producers think it's appropriate (funny? instructive? telling?) to show people getting sick. When people are drunk (OK), scared (maybe), exhausted (really?), even happy (yes, sometimes - I promise) or for no reason at allthey throw up. Not only that but they do it in close-up shots -you could almost tell what they had for lunch if you really wanted to - and with the corresponding soundtrack.
It grosses me out so much.
I mean - why?!?
I am not sure about what it says on a culture shocked by its own nudity but fascinated by its perpetual upset stomach....if you have any answer for me, please share them with me.

I feel like I am missing something here.
Excuse my French and my blunt honesty but personally, I'd take fucking over puking any day.

Cinna-not-bon

Here we are once again: Fall has finally arrived. Please let your coolness relieve us of a suffocating summer, but don't yield to Old Man Winter too soon. Amen.

This - by the way - is one of the only concessions I will make to weather comments. I just don't get it. Why do people feel the perpetual need to talk, worse, COMPLAIN about the alteration of atmospheric conditions (fancy, huh?)?!?Dudes, seriously, nothing is going to change because of your rants. We are already trying hard enough with all the crap we produce. So do us all a favor, just accept the sky as it is and just shut up already. Or hook up with The Weather Channel guys, Tom Skilling, Ginger Zee and Amy Freeze (sic).
Leave. Us. Alone.

Fall.....there is much to say and write about it. But to make it quick, let's just say that this morning was just the pure illustration of what it can be at its best.
Like - Norman Rockwell picture perfect. If there was such a thing. (Since there is not, we'll have to do with this on the right and not complain about it. The fact that we are not really going to talk about pumpkins is totally irrelevant here.)


Blue sky. A flock of geese. Fresh breeze. Football practice in the park. Hats on toddlers (which I call champignons, or mushrooms, for that very reason...big hat on small bodies? Yeah? Got it?).
AppleFest in Lincoln Square.
I mean, does it scream Fall or what?!?!?
It was crowded; I don't know if people have an insatiable appetite for the forbidden fruit but they surely act like it. My assumption: they are starving for all the goodies that go with it: apple butter, pies, tarts, turnovers...ya know...the good stuff (my theory is that biting repeatedly in the actual fruit, chewing its flesh, swallowing while trying not to smear juice all over the place is way too much work. Much easier to gulp down a slice of pie, right?). And of course brats, sauerkraut and potato salad because OktoberFest is around the corner, we are in Lincoln Square and let's keep priorities straight: we all need a side of protein with our fruit.
So - prepared food everywhere, and here and there, some fresh apples for the bravest souls.

I have to admit that I don't care very much for apples but I do love a good tart (and you know it). Yup, a t-a-r-t and not a p-i-e which doesn't belong to my childhood pantheon of all good things, thankyouverymuch.
Remember Miss American Pie? Guess what the key word is?
But when in Rome....so I learned to eat pie. Sure. Why not. Not bad. But one of the things that really bugs me about them is cinnamon. More often than not a slice of apple pie tastes just like cinnamon. Which I like. As a spice. In small dosage.
But not as a main ingredient.

So I am asking you here and now: what's up with America and its obsession over cinnamon?!?
Seriously?

Finding it in apple pastries is one thing; they are, after all, complimentary flavors. Even MY grandmother was using it, and hers before that. But when every single piece of cake, muffin, or scone tastes like cinnamon - not to mention coffee, buns, cereal, bread, gum, candles, and toothpaste* - I say STOP.
Really guys.
Hold on a minute.

I understand; it tastes good, has a sweet, woody fragrance and these sticks look pretty cool in a jar. Of course you want to benefit from its antioxidant proprieties and make it lower your blood pressure. I get that. Is it really 'romance enhancing' though? Naughty you....you wouldn't get very far with me using your "Cinnamon Flavor Breath Spray", I can already tell you as much. Even if it's seen on TV.

You should really let it be. Chill out. Take a minute, and remember - in silence - that merchants, traders and your great-great-great-great grandpa died - no less! - far away from home, on the Spice Road to bring you back a whole bunch of other spices. Choice. Ginger, saffron, five-spice, cardamom, nutmeg, cumin, pepper, paprika.....
Check them out.
They are in little jars as well.

And please, don't make toothpicks or floss out of them.


*I haven't checked (just 'cause) but I am pretty sure there are some cinnamon-flavored condoms out there......right?

Bed Stories

Last week Reuben and I went for a little getaway in Door County. We badly needed it; our summer had been pretty awful. As well as our spring. And winter. Oh well. It happens. I am placing all my bets on 2011 to be the year of permanent, never-ending and glorious bliss.
Blindingly bright.
I already have my sunglasses on.Anyway - we made reservations in smaller hotels. Nothing fancy this time, just a bed and a shower, you know. Wooden cabins, outdated picture frames, quilts and lacy window treatments. Country-style. Cheesy much? Oh yeah!
Everything was good and well until we settled down for the night after a long day of riding in:
- the car for close to 6 hours
- a smelly ferry on a very choppy Lake Michigan
- and a couple of ancient bikes we used to tour the island (Washington) we were at. On. Whatever. We did in the wind and under the rain.that's what counts.

The bed was squeaky, very bouncy (powerful springs, lemme tell you!!) but also...............very small.
Full-sized small.
Bummer.So now for most of the world a full-sized bed is NOT small. It is just perfectly normal. And in any case, a big upgrade from one's twin from childhood. I happily shared one of these for years without questioning, feeling squeezed, uncomfortable or claustrophobic.
I never fell off of the boat either. Even by 'rocky' waters (insert stupid grin here).

But everything went awry 4 years ago when Reuben decided that he was tired to deal with dwarf-size furniture and pulled an American move on me.
He bought a KING size bed.
Oh boy. Oh man. Oh God.
That was the end of the world as I knew it.
At least it was not Californian.

The thing is just huge. HUGE. Ever heard of ménage à trois? I am sure this bed was created for that particular naughty purpose. I jokingly say to all my friends who are considering taking the ultimate step that going from queen to king is just asking for divorce. Seriously - how do you keep the intimacy alive when there is an ocean of pillows, cotton sheets or - way worse - fleece sheets (ahhhhhhhhhhh!!) between the two of you?!? Add to the equation a cat or two, a demanding dog and a wife who likes to sleep at the edge of the bed, and there you have it: a marriage in peril.
Just kidding kids.
Or am I?

At first I was not a big fan. I was cold, felt lonely and abandoned by my bed partner. I missed feeling his hairy legs on mine, his respiration on my neck and his vicious kicks in the middle of the night. But I quickly realized that it was indeed......nice. Incredibly so. I could almost sleep in a diagonal without bothering anyone. Sweee-eeet!
Our Ikea bed is not the best nor the most comfortable in the world but I grew really fond of it. It takes most of the room in a little chambre but what the hell?!? This is, after all, a BED-room. Right?
The only thing that still bothers me a lot about my XL-size bed, American fashion: the price tag of the sheets. But every luxury has its price.

So that night we laid down, turned off the lights and closed our eyes. Trying to get away from each other. Bodies way too close.
He got up - on my sleepy suggestion - in the middle of the night to go on the sofa.

That says it all.

I hope we'll never have to move back to Europe.
We'll be screwed. In the bad sense of the word.

No Pain, No Gain

I already talked about my coming to running: how it came as a surprise since I always dreaded it and therefore loathed it. How thanks to my friend Erin I got into it, signed up for 5Ks and decided to kick up a few notches. How I learned to enjoy it, excitement and soreness alike and how it allowed me to stay sane in moments of disarray.

Three days ago I ran my first half-marathon.
13.1 miles. 21.1 kilometers.I was exhilarating.
And painful. Of course. Actually much more than I had anticipated. I had gone through my summer training without noticeable trouble and was not prepared to have my lower back killing me (not so) softly the way it did on race day. It started almost right away, mile 2. I was 3 minutes under my 11:27/mile pace, my breathing was right, the weather was perfect and then I felt it: a dull ache in my loins worsened by every stump on the ground. I tried to change my form, straightened up, arched my back - to no avail.
I knew then that the 13 miles were going to be even longer than they already were.

But you know what? Despite the pain, the fatigue and the gradual disappointment that settled in when I found out that I wouldn't meet my goal time I enjoyed every single minute of it. OK, most of it...and now that my body has recovered I am looking forward to the next challenge. To next year. To - maybe - even a bigger challenge.

Running is freaking addictive.

It is hard to explain why because seen from the outside it looks nuts. Boring. Useless. At least it's what I used to think, and I am sure that most people out there would agree with me. Most sports have a purpose, points to score, an opponent to defeat, a task to accomplish. You have tools, partners, a coach, a program, a common goal.
Running is mainly a solitary activity. You don't need much to do it, and you certainly don't need anyone. It is you against a clock that you set however you want, a pair of shoes, your legs and your lungs. And no real direction.
It is simple and pure.


Sunday will forever remain in my memory as one of the very special days of my life. For many reasons.
Accomplishing a goal that you had fixed for yourself months in advance is in itself very satisfying. And I have to say that besides the mundanities of everyday life I hadn't achieved anything in quite a while. Quitting school a few months ago was liberating in many ways but irremediably deprived me from this sense of accomplishment that is so essential to one's life. Dedicating to this program 6 years of my life to the detriment of my physical health, sanity and self-esteem to get nothing concrete out of it wasn't particularly pleasant. It was - and some naught days, still is - painful. Maddening. Frustrating. Despite people's encouraging comments of: "You made the right decision". Other people's decisions are always much easier to validate, aren't they?
So crossing the finish line - ironically enough, just a couple of blocks away from campus - after months of hard dedication gave me an incredible rush of happiness. I raised my arms, yelled "We Did it!!" and would have been ready to hug the first random person to cross my path. Fortunately for both of us Reuben was just behind me; we kissed, exhausted but elated.

Doing this incredible journey with him was an incredible gift. I kept telling him he was crazy, insane, loco, fou, Сумасшедший, 狂人 and the biggest monkey to ever walk on Earth for wanting to run the race with me without proper training. But in reality I am damn impressed by my silly hubby. He did it. Out of love. To support me. He was initially supposed to run by my side the first 3-4 miles - the hardest for me. But he stayed the whole time. Encouraging me all the way. Pushing me. Handing me water and Gatorade. Telling me "you got this!" every time I needed to hear it.
That made all the difference in the world.

I was not alone in my journey. Fellow runners supported me all along; we shared training stories, exchanged tips and routes, suffered through the summer heat. And on Sunday I had 20,000 companions to carry me along the way. I never thought that I would enjoy running among other people, total strangers, the way I did. But for a couple of hours we were all mates. Breathing, sweating, and pounding the asphalt of Lake Shore Drive in unison.All embarked on that same adventure for different reasons and with different expectations, but all of us united by the same objective: cross the line.
And the spectators.
I never anticipated that. Hundreds of them, all along the way. We were all cheered on by families, children, cheerleaders, sign bearers, and rock bands. ROCK BANDS people. I felt like a star. "Did you know that you were my hero?" one sign read. My two favorite? "Run like an angry Kenyan" and "You are all very good at exercise",
LOL assured.
Emotion too.

When I stepped on the red line I had tears of joy in my eyes. I felt overwhelmed. Exhaustion, pride, happiness, disappointment and a little sadness to not have anyone there with us to share this special moment in our lives. I watched with envy other runners being greeted by family and loving friends. They were hugged and congratulated. Acknowledged. Some even had flowers.
We rested for a while on the grass of Jackson Park, stretching, smiling, taking a few pictures, still in awe of our accomplishment. Then we got up to walk back to the car parked on campus. People started to send us congratulation messages on our phones. But the most important ones were missing. My closest friends, my family. I took solace in thinking they didn't understand what that day meant to me. And welcomed all the others who did.
We celebrated with brunch in Wicker Park, and a festive dinner at one of the most wanted restaurants in town. A lot of pork was involved. Pints of beer as well.
When I went to bed that night my legs were not even sore anymore.

I am hungry for more. I heard that runners are kinda crazy like that.
I prefer saying: motivated.

Blog Shout Out: Et si on se promenait...à Paris!

This is my first time doing this.
People who know me will tell you that when I love, I love. For real. A lot. I came across this little gem of a blog on Twitter and fell head over heels for it.

This is amazing.

"What about taking a stroll in Paris?" (rough translation of the title) is not really about the text content, rather minimalist (even though you can still find some very useful information in some entries). What makes it all are the PICTURES.

They are fabulous. Gorgeous. Fantastic.
And make you discover a secret, out of the beaten path Paris. Little alleys, small squares, hidden gardens and cours intérieures, shop windows, restaurants - this is all worth it, and breathtakingly beautiful.

Since all the pictures are copyright material, I cannot share any here with you but GO AND SEE THEM.
http://beegirl.squarespace.com/

Enjoy!

Restaurant Review: Brixie's, Brookfield, IL

OK. To qualify Brixie's of 'restaurant' is totally overkill. And people who know the place have probably chuckled.
It is not a restaurant.
Brixie's is a bar, pretty divey at that, that serves food. Bar food. Not gastro-pub fare, nothing elevated, elegant and refined. No. Bar Food. Fat, greasy, artery-clogging, heart-stopping, hip-fattening and fingers-dirtying.
YUM.
(At least they haven't put 'deep fried butter' on their menu yet; only in Texas. I really need to go and figure out for myself what's going on over there....there must be something in the water...)

From the outside, Brixie's look like a warehouse or a garage. Not very inviting. But don't be fooled and push the door: you'll be rewarded by the best beer selection around, nice and welcoming people, darts, pool and "The Hotter than Hell" burger that deserves by itself the trip to the 'burbs. And with them being open until 4am, there is really no reason for you not to go.

Review written on Yelp 8/25/2010:
"History of Brixie's, fine drinking establishment in the lovely town of Brookfield, IL - according to Mister Aurore L, former resident who used to haunt the locale on a regular basis between 1987 and 2005:

1 - in the beginning, the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
2 - the plot of land used to be a watering hole where bison came to quench their thirst by the thousands, even breaking the ice in the winter to achieve that purpose. 'Break ice' is actually the etymology of the name Brixie's (deformed and transformed over time. See rules of historic phonetics for more details)
3 - in 1934 a family of immigrants lost their construction business because of the economic crisis and decided to open a bar. They decided to call it Brixies to honor their past (brixies = brick + ksi - ksi being a pressure unit: kilo per square inch).
They heard later the rumors about the watering hole, and thought it was a very happy coincidence.
4 - in 1987, Mister Aurore L discovered the place. At the time it was licensed as a package goods store and had shelves and shelves of liquors and a tiny bar.
5 - M. A. L. became a regular, got drunk and sick for the first time within its walls and learned how to become a pool shark feared by the most ferocious players.
He will tell you of his exploits on occasions, when he's in the mood and doesn't feel too hungry.
(Tip: you can buy him off with fried chicken)
6 - M. A. L. took A. L. one night to meet his friends and when she wasn't impressed with it (she had some perception issues at the time), decided to cut all ties and vowed to never come back. He cried for days. Brixie's would have too - if it could have.
7 - A. L. made her debuts at the pool - under the patronage of the former hero of the place.
She totally flipped. That was a flop.

8 - M. A. L and A. L. went to Brixie's one night after hearing marvels about their burgers. They discovered much to their surprise that the place had had a face lift, and lost a couple of pool tables but had definitely gained a lot in the 'appeal' department.
Among its charms:
- a juke box
- two dartboards
- a super cool retro looking little booth in a corner
- 32 beers on tap
- more than 100 beer by the bottle!!!!!!
- late opening hours, we are talking about 4am during the weekend, 3am otherwise (kitchen hours differ)
- $8.50 for the Hotter Than Hell burger served on a pretzel bun with jalapeno slices (13 of them on mine), smoked gouda, chipotle aioli and a big, thick, juicy patty of meat. KRAZY DELISH. Perfectly cooked meat, pretzel bun - I am in paradise.
- $5.50 for make you own mac'n'cheese
- pretty dilapidated bathroom stalls - it's a must.Totally worth the trip kids.
Be a part of history, go to Brixie's!"

In Need of Daily Bread

You know these questions that people inevitably ask you?!?
"When are you getting married?"
"Are you planning on getting a kid anytime soon?"
"How long before you decide to move on?"
blah-blah-blah..........I have a few of my own to deal with. Sweet, huh? And here they mainly have to do with my being French. Ohhhh....this accent. I can't quite pin it down....
Yeah. I am learning to be ok with it and accept it as a 'charming asset' of mine. After all it is So cuuuuuuuuuuuuuute. But then - once my country of origin is figured out - come the following duet, as exasperating as a solitary mosquito trapped in your bedroom on a hot summer night:
- what are the differences between France and the US?
- what do you miss from France?

Zen.
It's not a coincidence if I started yoga recently.
I have a lot to learn.

I am usually so annoyed by the first question that I want to scream. There is a silent nuclear explosion going on in my head every time I hear the words. You want to know? Jump on a transatlantic flight and see for yourself.
Just. Leave. Me. Alone.

As for the second one - that's easy. And I have to say that I were just a tad religious I would be pretty upset with you, peeps - because you are failing me as a Christian.

You - are not giving me my daily bread.
Therefore I am a lost soul.
Shame on you.

I miss BREAD. Good bread.
I used to live above a boulangerie.
A very nice one. A few steps above the ground, two nice windows filled with cake displays and other goodies, a wonderful aroma escaping from the wood-burning ovens in the basement. People were coming from all around the neighborhood to buy their award-winning bread.
They were closed on Sunday afternoons and Mondays.
I was inside every single other day of the week.

Because it's just what we do in France. We buy our baguette, pain de campagne or pain aux céréales daily. EVERY DAY. Rain or shine. Snow or hurricane.
Fresh. Crunchy. Moist. Odorous. Magic.
It is a ritual, a delightful one, a happy pause that doesn't belong to the long list of chores one has to accomplish during one's day. To me walking in and asking in a cheery voice: "Une baguette pas trop cuite, s'il vous plaît" was a definite highlight of my routine. I liked my baguette not over-cooked: the outside crust still has a very blond, soft yellow color, reminiscent of the wheat it is made of; the crunch is soft and delicate, and the crust slightly gives in without breaking.
Perfection to me.

So yes, the joy of using a serrated knife in the morning to cut and open your tartine, and then spreading a nice sweet butter from Normandy on its still slightly warm mie is unparalleled in my world.
But I haven't known such a feast in a very long time.
And you wonder why I am always in such a bad mood.

As heartbreaking as it is to admit - most French people buy nowadays their bread in supermarkets and desert their beloved bakeries. Cheaper, more convenient and sometimes even better quality. Shocking?!?!? Good bakers are like good husbands - hard to come by, and they would be a hot commodity on the market of 'wanted goods'. I was lucky but that type of love is not equally distributed among the population.

So massive production it is. If you cannot get quality, shoot for quantity.

But even in the most intimidating, 30,000 sq. ft. store where everything looks robotic, soulless and sterile - you will never, EVER find bread that can stays in the back of your dark cupboards for weeks on hand and still be 'good'. Let's say - consumable. Without one single speck of mold. No green to be seen on the horizon. Just.....slices of carbs.
Because this cannot be bread.



Yucky?!? Hell yeah.
But NA-TU-RAL. Just the way things should be.



Have you ever wondered how such a culinary prowess is possible?!? Seriously - this requires some sort of genius. A very twisted, devious, oblique type of genius sure, but genius all the same. I wouldn't know how to achieve such a result.

My guess? They - the wicked - load their loaves with sugar. How do you think diners can keep their ketchup bottles on tables for weeks?!?
Saccharin, fructose, corn syrup and sucrose are the A-Team of the American food industry.
Hallelujah.

Good bread around the 87th meridian (that would be Chicago) does exist. I saw it. And tasted it. But mainly in restaurants. When I come across such a miracle the following usually happens:
- I pinch myself really hard to check that I am not dreaming - you never know.
- you can then see frozen on my face the most stupid, idiotic smile you'll ever seen. Just enjoy live but no picture please. I do have some pride left in there.
- I empty the basket, ask a refill and butcher whatever spread comes with it.
- I sing the praise of the baker to the waiter/waitress and usually don't find anything more about him/her.
- I keep thinking about this moment of pure ecstasy for weeks.

Yup....not easy to be me.

All hope is not lost though. Since I am not planning on going back to France and since I need good bread in my life to be consistently happy I decided to track my carbs bliss high and low and relentlessly. Lucky for me someone decided to make my life easy; Vincent Colombet French (ha! who would have thought?!?!), already owns a whimsically-named catering business (Cook au Vin) and is all set to open - ready?!?!?! - a bakery in Logan Square at the end of the summer.
Its name?!?
La Boulangerie.
He is even going to set up a Bread Delivery system on his bike. You can get fresh bread to your door twice a week.
And no, this is not a dream.La dolce vita.
Pane, amore e fantasia (Bread, love and dreams. A Italian romantic comedy from the 1950s with Gina. And next on your Netflix list).
I wouldn't be married already I would totally ask his hand.

We have come to full circle.
Stay tuned, and don't forget - always stay gourmands!

You Don't Choose Your Family....But You Love It Anyway

I am not gonna lie: every time I am being asked if I miss my family back home, I have the immediate tendency to say: NO.
A big, fat, emphatic no.
Probably shocking to a lot of my interlocutors.

The run down?
My parents are divorced since I am 6, I haven't talked to my father since December 1999 (that was still last millenium!) and my relationship with my mom has always been....stormy. My younger brother grew up without me. My grandparents are all deceased and uncles, aunts, cousins and company have never fully been in the picture.
Not really Seven Heaven, Full House or Cosby Show material.
Our family is definitely not modeled on the Ingalls whom I wanted to adopt as a little girl. Who cared if they were semi-fictional, American and long-time dead.

I am fine with it. No need to be sorry, hand me a handkerchief, or revise your will. I am 34, had plenty of time to get over it and decided a long time ago that family is really an open concept anyway.

Then I met my husband. And discovered that the whole family idea was damn itching all of a sudden. I was given, right there and then, a second chance. A possibility to forge ties and create bonds that would possibly last a lifetime. Something almost as strong as blood.
For better or for worse, as the line goes.
(How can anyone in their right mind agree to swear by it?!? The worse you imagine at the time, standing in the transept in your beautiful white dress, holding hands and ready to party cannot be that bad....)

I quickly realized though - as I had during my previous romantic relationships - that you might choose the one, and feel sure about it, happy, fulfilled and all - you still don't choose the family he comes with.
Or his past.
Even though I was elated to discover my beloved had two sisters and still married parents, I still had to pass the test. Always dreadful, right, but made even worse by the existence of a previous wife that didn't score very high on anyone's tablets. I was petrified on my way to the Thanksgiving dinner where I was supposed to meet them all while gracefully wolfing down turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and apple pie.
Talk about an impossible mission.
I quickly conquered the parents - who apparently whispered to him in the semi-secret of the kitchen "She is a winner!!" - but never really managed to break through the thick (protective?) shell of the sisters. Too old, too foreign, not cool enough, not good enough - I never really understood what was lacking.
It just didn't happen.
And despite me trying, there was nothing I could do to change things.
This time I was not that fine with it.
But still had to make do.

In-laws probably shouldn't function as a 'family substitute' but in a case like mine, with a biological family far and estranged, I had hoped it would.
And it does.
Just not in the ideal, rainbow, flower and TV-show way I had dreamed about. Which is just as good because in the end, it's real and that what matters.

Sunday night.
As I am typing this, R. is at his parents' house in the suburbs. He won't come back tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. His family - our family - is on crisis. Sickness gave us a nasty blow.
It hurts.
More than I would ever thought.
It hurts to see them suffer and be powerless. It hurts to think of what is going to inevitably happen. It hurts to see my love struggle with his emotions and try to keep strong because everyone else is falling apart. It hurts to not be able to help.
And ultimately it hurts to know that soon enough my new found family - imperfect, dysfunctional, flawed and fragile but MY family - will not be the same ever again. It is a dull, haunting, almost surreal feeling that lingers in the living room where the dog sleeps on the red pillow of the sofa, softly snoring and oblivious to the world.

This moment, this very minute - is bittersweet.

In the vast solitude of the apartment I am realizing that, for better or for worse, I love my - unique, irreplaceable - family.

Goofy picture of us - photoshopped by Bill(?) and taken

the day of Matt and Morgan's wedding almost four years ago

The Dinner Game

"Dinner for Schmucks" is apparently the hit comedy this summer.

Surprised?!?
I am.
And a little bit angry as well.

I just don't like remakes.
Especially when the original version is just fine, thankyouverymuch, I mean, merci beaucoup.I didn’t think that Le diner de cons could have made it onto the American big screen. It is an essential French comedy, heavily based on dialogue and play on words, defined by a confined, huis clos like atmosphere much closer to filmed theater than real cinema. Très français.

Apparently Steve Carell, jack of all comical trades, was fit for the role, and more French than I would have ever imagined.

In Le diner de cons the main event actually never happens. Watch the movie if you want to know why. I promise it is worth it, and yes, you can handle the subtitles. But still – dinner is at the center of things.

And this is what is interesting to moi, Amélie, "Pause gourmande" writer extraordinaire.

Dinner.

More specifically - dinner parties.

They are an endangered species. Dinner as a social activity is almost exclusively taken out, involves restaurant reservations, expensive drinks beforehand, the very limited intimacy of a public dining room, tax, tips and taxi fare.

Why?!?!?

I hosted my last real dinner, gourmet-style – the one that involves hours of thinking, browsing, prepping, cooking and a serious dosage of stressing out, cuts and minor burns – last April for a few friends. Cheese soufflé, canard à l’orange with a twist and a velvety red wine sauce, gratin dauphinois, bundles of haricots verts and an Apple tarte tatin. French and elegant. Add fresh bread, good wine and a couple of other sweet treats for coffee, and there you have it. Home entertaining at its best.

I had a blast, and everybody chimed in to say that we should definitely do this more often.

Meaning it, I believe.

I don’t know if the general disaffection for hosting dinner parties is an American phenomenon, or if it is a sign of our modern society obsessed with efficiency, time management and immediate satisfaction. In my early twenties, while I was still living in France I would go to friends’ houses on a regular basis for long nights of food, drinks, laughter, games and endless conversations. We were all broke, so we were not going out; restaurants were reserved for special occasions and were usually family affairs. Anyway - the world was ours. We would leave, exhausted and slightly inebriated in the wee morning hours. Sometimes even had breakfast together. I cherish these long-gone moments and fondly remember them as the best times of my life.

So allow me to be a little old-fashioned here. I truly think that we, as a society, could really do with a little more warmth, conviviality and generosity in our lives.

Let’s face it: we all need it.

These last ten years were filled with dinners as well, but of a total different kind. Potlucks and barbeques replaced the elaborate home-cooked meals I was previously used to. You still get together, have fun and a good time but in that new scenario, every single guest get involved in the process. The host is – literally – just hosting and therefore not slaving in the kitchen for hours. Nothing wrong with that. It's quick, cheap, simple and efficient.

In a word – modern.

This is all good and well. However there are few things I love more in life than getting everything ready for my guests. I get up early in the morning, make a mental list of the things that need to be done, drink coffee, smile, and get busy. Chopping vegetables, rolling pastry dough, searing meat, reducing sauces and whisking vinaigrettes, marinating, whipping, baking, sautéing, peeling, tasting. Such a feast for the senses.

The house comes alive. Your pets are begging for scraps and your partner digs his finger in the chocolate coulis, just to make sure. The music is on, you are singing along while checking the clock. The countertop is a mess, just like your face smudged with flour, fruit juice and pearls of sweat. You don’t even have to put on your best Julia Child’s apron and shoot for something incredibly fancy. Just make something yourself with your own hands. A lasagna. Your family ragout. Get involved. Be creative. Have fun. Forget just for once to ask your friends to bring an appetizer or a dessert. Buy your wine. Leave the barbeque for next week and get behind the stove. Set up a nice table with napkins, a table centerpiece and a bouquet of fresh flowers.

Spend time, just a bit of money and give love.

It is so incredibly rewarding.

What the heck is 'dating' anyway?!?

You are a foreigner.
You come to the US for the first time.
You are single.

So far, so good.

You are excited to land on the Promise Land because frankly who doesn't want to add a nice Yankee - tall, tanned, lean, muscular, baseball-obsessed and hormone-fed - to its list of conquests?!?

Note 1: the list of adjectives works for both sexes. This posting is very theoretical and therefore has to stay as general as possible for scientific purposes.
Note 2: 'list of conquests' would totally work in French as well but I would have used more likely the formidable tableau de chasse, hunting board - as if you were collecting your lovers heads as trophy. Like a Black Widow, if you will. Kinda scary when you think about it, right?
Note 3: please don't be offended by the use of 'Yankee' - it's meant in a endearing way.

So once you have recovered from jet-lag, refreshed your pick up skills (and vocab), flossed (a MUST in the US but not really everywhere else, please don't be grossed out) and sharpened your best weapon (see the soundness of the 'hunting board' idea?!?) aka your accent, you go out.
If you are lucky it doesn't take you toooooooooooooooooo long to meet someone nice, talk, maybe kiss at the end of the night and BAM!!!!!!!

You just entered the dating game.

But you have no clue about it.
Because 'dating' as a concept doesn't exist in your country. It sure doesn't exist in France. We don't even have a word for it, much less rules. Dammit.

What are you supposed to do?

Well - if you watched enough movies and/or sitcoms all is not lost to you. You can rack your memory and think about what your favorite character did in the said situation. Or ask around. But don't expect to be pleased by the responses you'll get.

As far as I know things in French work in two different ways:
- you just want to get laid, go to a bar/club/_______ and are pretty blatant about it.
- you are looking for love, romance, sparkles, butterflies and all that and it might be a little more difficult to get the message across but - still - not impossible.
Of course since you have to start somewhere, you usually go on a first date. A rendez-vous. And of course things are not that different from what a first date in Chicago would be. You laugh, you talk, you try to seduce, you flutter your eyes and touch your hair, maybe brush a foot against a leg.

But usually - and again things might have changed since my old days - you don't have to worry about the "Are we exclusive?" bit.

I mean - what the heck is that?!?!?
Isn't it difficult enough already? finding someone interested in you, willing to take you out more than a couple times without getting upset if the big ta-da issn't happening right away - now you have to wonder if you are the only one in the game?!?!?
Is it some sort of fool-proof warranty?
Do you need to go on a test drive before choosing which car you want to ride?
Flash news: it's ok to dump someone after a couple of days, weeks or months if you don't like it. Really, it is. You don't have to keep 'one' handy, just in case. It's just..........wrong.
On so many levels.

But I guess I am either too foreign or too stooooopid (and too married) to play the game anyway. Good luck to all the others and let me know if you figure things out.

Heart out

This entry is not a recreation.
It is not really a Crosswor(l)ds entry either. There is nothing even remotely 'crossed' in what I am going to say. It is coming straight from the heart, just because sometimes - it is what you have to do.

Monday night.
A sleepless night, a long, hazy day of sadness and sorrow behind me. Things are tough right now, have been for a while, and it's just the way things sometimes are. You - I - can cry, yell, scream, wonder, bang your -my - head on the walls all you -I - want but sometimes, yes, sometimes there is nothing you or I can possibly do. You just have to accept the hand you were dealt, and try to play it anyway.

Without throwing all the cards up in the air, calling it quits or trying to be convinced that you have been cheated.
And that's fine.
These are the rules of the game.

But still.
I am tired of these rules. Because I am here to play, and fully ready - and prepared - not to win every single time - but surely, it has to be stated somewhere in the big Book of All Rules that you cannot lose every time either?!?
Right?

I haven't been near a math textbook for years. Last year of high school.
16 years.
Being an economics major I spent a good chunk of my Terminale studying statistics. I hated it, of course. Numbers were never made for me. Too sharp. No flexibility, subtle interpretation, or hidden sensuality. Lines, angles and squares. But as dry and, well, predictable as they are, they are reassuring. And I take solace in knowing that things will eventually turn around - if there is no other reason, at least because mathematically, logically they have to.
That's soothing.

People tell me about how you supposedly make your own chance.
I understand the soundness of the concept. I even agree with it to some extent. But I find it utterly offensive when the only answer one is being given in time of disarray and hardship is to think positive.
'Cause I have news for you: it doesn't cut it.
And if you insist, you are just insensitive and totally out of touch with the world as it goes.

I don't really believe in chance. But I want to believe in karma, or at the least the bastardized, simplified, Westernized version of it.
As a human being I do have my weaknesses and my short-comings. But fundamentally I am a good person. I always try to give out my best, without - precisely - counting. No premeditation, scheming or plotting involved. I am genuine in my likes and dislikes. I aim at pleasing. I have deep morals. Strong work ethics. I do my best to be accepting of the Other in its many appearances and all its embodiments. Race, color, religion, sexual orientations are easy to transcend. But the Other is also so much more, and often much closer to us than we thought.
And the hardest to really embrace.

But I find that being nice, open, smiling and yes, even positive hasn't taken me anywhere. If I were a cynic I would vow here and now to change my ways and become a selfish bitch. Because when I look around these seem to be the successful ones in life. Along with the wicked, crooked, corrupted and heartless souls of this world.
What is it in being BAD that make you attractive to people? The more dismissive, intolerant, opinionated, hurtful, loud and obnoxious you are - the more attention you get. The more drama you create, the more worthy you become. This is reverse logic, and one I don't understand - do people want to be entertained, do we all have a secret need to take care of seemingly lost and childish individuals, do we really admire the lawless, unscrupulous ones? I am not really sure.
.............
I just know that I don't want to change my nature to find my place in the sun. I can toughen up, have and still do - but not to the point of losing my sense of compassion and care towards people around me.

I have been rewarded with the presence and love of some extraordinary people who understand and value who I am. I am grateful for them, and shouldn't probably ask for more.
But I am. Just a bit.
Please.
I'll be thankful.
That's a promise.

Nasty Bits

Picky people are one of my pet peeves.
They really, really, really get on my nerves.


Big time.
Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!








Now you cannot like everything you eat. I understand that. No, really - I do. What's the point of having taste buds otherwise?
But some people are in serious need of scolding. 'Cause their mom and dad obviously didn't do a good enough job while they were kids, and allowed them to dictate all their desiderata. That was definitely not my case. I had to eat what was on my plate. Period. And they didn't even have to tell me about the starving kids in China; they just reminded me that my grandma almost starved to death during the war. Enough to make anyone shed a little tear, right?

So I ate. Except for cauliflower. There is always an exception to every rule in French - and not only in grammar.

But I was always very particular with my meat, even as a grown-up. I am by no means a vegetarian. I do crave on a regular basis a fat, juicy burger or a flavorful, melt-in-your mouth, chimichurri covered piece of steak. Thinking about it can even make my mouth water. (Like now). But at the same time meat is surely not my diet staple. I can spend days without it, and feel perfectly fine.
Yes, it is probably a mild form of insanity, but what can I say?!?

I used to drive my mom crazy. I had to thoroughly inspect my meat, turning it on my plate over and over, before deigning to put it in my mouth. And every single little piece of fat I could find was violently discarded. NO EXCEPTION.

But things have changed. Big time.The culprit? The carnivore I share my life with. And no, it is not my dog Sake (who's a character in its own right but let's not digress).
My husband is probably the least picky person I know. He eats EVERYTHING.

E-v-e-r-y-fuckin'-t-h-i-n-g.
He is incredible. That is quite the skill to have (tell that to Napolean Dynamite, he'll be impressed).
Fat? what's the problem? weird-looking? sure! foul smelling? he'll give it a try anyway. Nothing is off limits....well, preserved lemons might be. And bitter melon as well. And still. He would eat, making a face, sure, but would eat anyway.
It's just how he is. An all category champion.




Thanks to him (even though I have to stop here and wonder if I should really be thankful for allowing him to introduce me to the wonders of fat....hmm...that's a tough call...) I extended my meat territory far beyond its lean-beefy limits (which also included, of course, chicken - duh - veal, rabbit - my favorite - and pork tenderloin. You'll notice the italics. They are essential). Corned beef, carnitas, pork belly, goat stew, lamb shank, ribs, wings (with the skin, please) and co. - you name it, I eat it.
I might sometimes say something irrational like: "It's a little too porky for me" (which inevitably triggers a head shaking reaction from my dinner partner) but I came a long way, and you have to be patient and forgive me.

I tamed fat.
And I conquered 'nasty bits'.

I have always loved liver (a calf liver with onions and a vinegar demi-glace....believe me, you don't have to be Hannibal L. - or have fava beans on the side - to enjoy it) and kidneys, God only knows why. 'Cause they can be pretty nasty. Boudin, the French rendition of blood sausage, oven-baked with melting apples is an all time favorite. And I would kill for a nice dish of perfectly cooked sweetbreads. But as stated above I am not the most rational person in the world. Deal with it; I do.
As for the rest...........no. freakin'. way.
Looking at tripes at the butcher's counter used to make me sick. Tongue, head cheese, ears, feet, heart, snout....seriously, why wasting your time with those when you can have all the yummy muscle around as evidenced below?!?If I hadn't already started to change my mind, what happened in my life last week would have single-handedly been able to do so. Within a few hours I came to fully realize what I had been missing on all these years.
The offender this time was a woman, and her pet is not a dog but an adorable albeit a tad insane-looking little goat.

Sunday night, mentally exhausted from a hell of a week, we (the all-eater and I) met with friends for a dinner we had all anticipated for weeks. No joke. 6pm, reso for 6 at Girl and the Goat. Be there or be square. I - so - wanted to be there.
I can honestly say that for the first time in my entire life I wanted to try every item on the menu. Every single one of them. Including pig face, tongue, rillettes and liver mousse.
We almost did. 16 plates were ordered and shared, and savored in a concert of mutters of disbelief. How can food - nasty food, the waste, the scraps, the castoffs of the kitchen - taste so damn good?!?!? I had such bad memories of a particular head cheese sandwich that I had to eat in replacement of my usual bread and chocolate mid-afternoon snack (torture device cruelly imposed on me at the tender age of 9 by my stepmother, and she was not even as mean as the ones in the fairy tales) that I was not expecting much from the pig face. I ordered it as an act of defiance. Ha! Please me if you can, you sucker!

Well - it didn't please me.
It blew me over.I am not an expert and won't try here and now to describe the deliciousness that entered my mouth. Just now that it was divine. And it was a PIG FACE. My grandma wouldn't believe it. But lovely, curly, sparky Stephanie managed the unthinkable: make me a nasty bids lover.

That night I definitely won my whole-around foodie badge, and I am damn proud of it.

The Taste of The World

I keep complaining to anyone gracious enough to listen to me for more than 10 minutes about how I gained more than 30 pounds since I moved in Chicago.

(What do you mean I am damn boring?!?)

Correction: since I have been dating Mr. Quite Unsure. He might say what he wants, food is always in the realm of certainty for him. He might take some time to decide on what to eat, but the eating in itself is never questioned.
Not that it should. One needs to eat to live, right? But during the last five years I have to admit that we fell, more often than not, on the dangerous other side of the Molière's line. Live to eat, that is (just in case you are a little slow today and need to have things plainly spelled out for you. You are here to relax not work your brain)

Yes....I am ashamed to admit it....it only happens sometimes, only once in a while, well...
Oh boy.

But here I beg to stand up for myself. See, it's not entirely my fault. I might be a glutton, fine. (Really I am a gourmande, we have establish that a while ago but if you really want to insist...). I am surrounded by people who are only too happy to oblige my vice. Some are even worse than me. Yes, it's possible.
And living in Chicago doesn't make anything easier.

Back at home the image of the US gastronomy-wise is rather...how could I put it? - tarnished.
Between burgers, hot dogs, ice cream and donuts French people (the villains at least, with big noses, twisted smiles, warts and an evil laugh, Disney style) think that Size XXXL Uncle Sam has nothing to chew on.
Brothers, forgive them because they know not what they say. Or do. Or even think.
Sigh.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I am no expert, no culinary critic and the only kitchen I have control on is my own (and even that is highly debatable. I can do things in the kitchen, but have control??!?! Hmmmm...not sure. I only leave disaster and consternation on my path, and occasionally a few happy tummies. But the kitchen itself?!? Yes, it's a m-e-s-s. ). Still I can say without any doubt that the best food I have ever had in my life was on that side of the pond, way west of the Icelandic ash cloud.

Eating my way through Chicago, Yelp in my pocket, Yelpers by my side (or not) I tasted the world better than in any other place. I chowed down my share of burgers (Kuma's + Aurore = AESD, amour éternel sans divorce like we used to (cynically) write in our grade school notebooks... quite revealing of the generation we were belonging to, right?), a few dawgs here and there, and I have a thing for Dunkin Donut's coffee (medium, cream only. Beats Starbucks BY LARGE, lemme tell ya.)

But there is so much more.
New American cuisine?? Even if I am not sure about the concept (or its name) I surely enjoy the end results. When it's well-done (I am looking at you Naha, Sepia, Blackbird and onesixty blue among others) it's inventive, creative, fresh and darn delicious.

Mexican birria? Go to Maxwell Street Market on a Sunday morning. Don't take care of anything else but the Mexican food stands. If it smells good, go for it. Goat soup is the best. Or better yet, trek all the way to Birrieria Zaragoza. DIVINE.

Japanese tonkatsu? For the neophytes: it consists of a breaded, deep-fried pork cutlet one to two centimeters thick and sliced into bite-sized pieces, generally served with shredded cabbage the meat is usually salted, peppered, dredged lightly in flour, dipped into beaten egg and then coated with panko (breadcrumbs) before being deep fried. Served over sticky rice.....boy. Check out Sunshine Cafe or Itto Sushi for a taste of it. And for udon - nabayaki udon - the best of the best is to be found in the 'burbs: Sushi House.

Ethiopian injera? yeast-risen flat bread traditionally made out of teff flour? My fave is at Ethiopian Diamond. But that - you can find in Paris. For some reason. Who knows.
Jamaican goat curry? Go no further than Jamaican Jerk, which is far enough since it's right by the city limits. But it's delicious and spicy enough to make a Sinhalese sweat. True story.

Costa Rican platanos maduros? or 'ripe plantains' en Inglés. Irazu is for you.Swedish pancakes? Ann Sather is an institution, but more specialized in cinnamon buns. Elephant buns. Svea and Tre Kronor are more likely to satisfy you. Don't forget your lingonberries, and your trip to Ikea.
Venezuelian arepas?
Vietnamese pho?
Thai tom yum?
Korean kimchee?
Polish smorgasbord?
I travel endlessly, leaving a (food) love(r) in every port of the city, North, South, West and beyond. Nothing is out of my reach. And it's a true and always renewed pleasure to jump in the car, filled with the anticipation of yet another meal to come.

Paris would never offer such a diversity, and/or such quality. Parisian dinners and restaurateurs alike are more focused on their bellybutton than their stomach per se. A real culinary adventure is incredibly hard to come by. It is slowly changing, sure but we are still many years behind and always hesitant to embark on the last trend of the eating world. Latino food is still hard to come by, and finding a good, authentic Mexican restaurant is mission impossible. But - sadly enough - we hopped on the fast-food train with enthusiasm. Mc Donald's French market is the second of the empire, and the French CEO is so highly regarded for his aggressive marketing techniques that he might well become the company CEO.
Isn't it ironic?!?

Meanwhile I savor the planet one bite at a time.
I love Chicago, its 215 neighborhoods, and its thousands of restaurants oh so much. Pounds be damned.