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.

French eat French food. I am not (anymore).

When you are French, you have quite the reputation.
You are supposed, no, expected to be pretty, thin, stylish, romantic, on top of being a great kisser and a master in the art of wrapping a scarf.

Who cares if you are also supposed to smoke 5 packs a day, have hairy armpits and not floss??
(Yep, some stereotypes will never die. The hairy armpits thing apparently stems from the GI of WWII, horrified to see French women shamelessly exhibit this 'shady' part of their anatomy while greeting them during the Liberation. Did it really occur to them that these poor girls had other things on their mind than shaving their underarms?!?!? Gosh...these men....so superficial.)


But one of out most celebrated qualities is also the tastiest one: gastronomy and France seem to have been walking hand in hand for quite a while now, and sure enough, I am most of the time regarded as some sort of supreme judge of food and wine, as if my nationality alone was elevating me to the levels of the posh and sophisticated writers of Bon Appetit magazine, these fierce critics whose sole purpose in life is to dissect every single bite they take, and try to turn it into a edible poem of sorts nobody but themselves understand.
You know them. Nope. No name dropping.
That's really not classy.

The truth is, I was not born that way.
I became a true foodie when I moved to the US.
This may come as a shock, and may very well be to a lot of my friends still out there. The US of A: the Enemy and its intent on imposing the Golden Arch all over the world, destroying everything on, above and below its way to the globalization of taste!!! The Americans don't know how to eat! Look at them! All obese and sitting on their couches! Burgers and pizza! Snickers!
And the decisive argument: They put ketchup on everything......
(what about: they drink coke with their meat? but of course they don't have good wine over there so....they don't know any better.)

Oh yeah. I heard and read these statements over and over again. It is a favorite litany, as if people needed to reassure themselves by denigrating the other, the easy target being this Uncle Sam that everybody strangely hates and loves with the same equal passion.
And yet, they don't know about the true abominations: Twinkies, French dressing (you should have at least the courtesy to leave us out of this), Velveeta, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter and what not...
Would they know, I don't think their heart could go on beating.

Talking about food is probably one of my favorite things. I have always been a curious and avid eater. I went through a rebellious phase where dairy products couldn't possibly find their way down my throat but since I successfully defeated that heresy around the age of 5 (really?!? no yogurt, no cheese, no butter?!?!? Who was that alien hidden inside of me?), I can say that it is almost insignificant in my history. Cauliflower gave me some trouble too, as well as strong cheeses (conquered through nose plugging - French ingenuity) and I have to admit that to this day I am rather picky with my meat. Big chunks of fat, cartilage, tendons.......yeah...nope. I want muscle, Diana Ross style, thankyouverymuch. Other than that I am pretty much game for anything.

But growing up in France does limit one's exposure to the world of food. Sure, French food is worth celebrating and harbors treasures that changed the culinary universe.
The mother sauces, the use of butter, CHEESES - hundreds of them, bread, the ever so important notion of the soil, the terroir. Bordeaux, Beaujolais, Bourgogne, Careme, Brillat-Savarin, Escoffier, the Guide Michelin and its star ratings. A rich heritage that every family tries more or less to live by, to respect, seek and reproduce on its own scale. My mom, a housemaker (Man do I love that expression. It is so.....unfairly deceiving. I used to think that homemaker was a synonym for 'architect'. Ha! so naive) is a good cook. She goes all out for special holiday dinners, and happily spends hours in the kitchen preparing a meal she thought about for months in advance. It's a stressful process. No one is allowed in the kitchen. Twenty dishes, pots and pans later - and a few merde and putain down the way too - the result is not only lovely and pleasant to the eyes, but delicious and refined.
And SO French.
That's the problem.

I was lucky enough though to be exposed to very exotic influences through my stepmother. Born and raised in Madagascar she brought to the dinner table scents, textures and flavors totally unknown to me. And spices. Hot, smoky, tangy - different, foreign, strange, and absolutely disgusting to the eyes of the 8 year-old I was at the time. I complained bitterly about that torture imposed on me to my mom. "She is a horrible cook!!! I hate eating there! It stings!" I used to cry while coming back home every other Sunday night. I gradually learned to love it all, and crave the kick of hot pepper, cayenne, and ginger, the earthiness of cumin, the richness of saffron, the pungency of massalas and five spice.
I discovered Carribean, Indian and Chinese cuisines.
I learned to handle the heat.
To this day my mom can't even eat a sweet mole without choking.

I was 18 when I first started going to restaurants on my own. Well - not exactly; my boyfriend and I would try every restaurant we could think of (and afford) during our first few months of dating. We never stopped. But living outside of Paris, Lyon and a couple of other major cities with livelier restaurant scenes, our options were somewhat limited. For example, we first tried sushi during a trip to the capital while visiting my best friend. You see, we didn't have any Japanese restaurant. I remember very clearly the puzzled looks on our faces while studying the menus. We knew we were in for raw fish but that was about it, and frankly that was already quite enough. Had never heard of the difference between sushi, sashimi, maki. Had no clue on how to use wasabi or pickled ginger. Hated the miso soup.
First experience: major fail. Swore off the Japanese and their 'stuff', and moved on.

So yes. France is a foodie destination, but doesn't do much in terms of educating your palate. It's good, no doubt about it - at least when the cook knows what s/he's doing, which is not guaranteed by any means - but it's also unidimensional, even verging on flat and boring if talent is lacking.
What I discovered here, on the other side of the ocean, is diversity. Vibrancy. Creativity. A melting pot indeed.

A story - a meal? - to be continued.
We have barely touched the menu.

Parlez-vous le....social media?!?

I grew up without a computer. I was not even thinking about it. A computer?!?!? That was for all the spectacled geeks of my prep high school who were wasting their lives playing "Lemmings" (remember those?!? These little guys who were shaking from left to right and yelling "Oh no!!" just before exploding. So much fun. Right.) and whose idea of having a blast was to write programs in Pascal that would allow them to write swear words on a glittering screen.
Yeah. Not for me.

My parents didn't have a lot of money while growing up, but that was not even a financial matter. Most of my friends didn't have any PC. Let alone Macs. God forbid. We were too busy falling in love with rock stars and singing their songs in our bedroom, secretly hoping for them to kidnap us at night during our sleep. Or noticing us in the middle of a concert crowd. We were just fiiiiiiiiiiine. Which is pretty incredible to believe at this day and time, but I swear you guys - it's the truth. The whole and naked truth.

I got my first 'machine' at home in 1999.I was 23 and a few months, and desperately needed one. No, I hadn't turned into a game junkie overnight. And I was not addicted to on-line porn either. I was a graduate student, writing her master's thesis.
And I was not going to do it by hand.

At first I couldn't even type. It got easier. And easier. Using Word, sure, but also surfing the Internet.
I had discovered the virtual world and its innumerable connections to the real one.
It - literally - changed my life.

On March 3rd, 2001 I applied to a whole bunch of doctoral programs in the United States. In French. I wanted a change. Needed one. A big, huge, deep, transforming one.
And it came.
Quite to my surprise.
Through the Internet.

Now typing is a second nature. No need to look at the keyboard, I just wish I had one to use in bed to type the surrealistic dreams that affect my sleep so that I could send them as movie scenarii (yep, scenarii and not scenarios in proper Italian, which is the only language you should know the syntax of, and don't ask me why) to all the uninspired Hollywood producers out there. Going to the theater would be a quite the thrilling experience, let me tell you.

Emailing? sure. Add to that updating statuses on FB, loading up pictures, chatting, twittering, Yelping, blogging, advertising, posting*, again and again. Adding @, # and https every other word.
Without. One. Hour. Of. Respite.

How did I get there?
Seriously?
Could I possibly be one of these women - 49% of them!!!!!! - who would rather give up sex than their online surfing which, according to them, doesn't require any 'special warm-up, treat and/or effort'?!? Hmmmm.....

I am not the only culprit. I am sure that all of my friends are in the other 51% (right?!?!?!?) but still, sometimes I cannot help but wonder what happened to us. For God sake, I didn't even a cell phone in France!! My addiction coincides for me with my arrival to the US. It is therefore hard for me to make a distinction between the two. Being away from home led me to find home on the screen, and everything followed. Effet boule de neige. Snowball effect. It all made sense. And at the university where I was surrounded by these colorful Apple monitors (hell-uuh cuties!!) it seemed....normal.
And at the time I was still social-media free.

I am sure that things are exactly the same in France. In fact, I know they are (yes, we do have computers, and they work, too. We even have high speed and wifi, which some of my students couldn't believe even last year). My baby brother (of 23) in on FB, and actively so. A few days after the launching of Yelp France I received a compliment on my account from a brand new 'Yelper' based out of Metz (my hometown) who was telling me that he didn't know how well Yelp would do since there were already so many similar reviewing sites......
Really?!?
I am much further behind than I thought.
I felt down right stupid for asking him what he thought about it. He knew already all about it, and much more.
Not having been back home in almost 4 years I feel a bit out of touch with the everyday reality. But I am learning step by step to get back into the virtual one.
One megabit at the time.

I have to admit that I love social media. They helped me find love (thanks Yahoo Personals!), friends, jobs and a ton of other opportunities. They also steal some of my freedom and impose the irritant ramblings of people I would rather strangle than read. Submit them to a thousand Chinese tortures??!? yeah......nice...
But these are the rules of the game. I cannot change them.
And I play the game. The best I possibly can. For better or the worse.


* The only thing I have been refusing with an animation I don't always really understand myself is Skype. I don't want it. Gives me the chills, in a bad way. I am doing way too many things while I am on the phone, and I am not ready for anyone to see them. Particularly not my mom. She would immediately notice my pimples, my roots, and my weight gain. Talk about a nightmare. Some things should really remain archaic.

Hardships... are still floating

I wrote my French master thesis (a big ordeal in France.....at least 85 pages - I did 86 - that you spent a whole year working on) on how melancholy was a powerful stimulant for writing. I was focusing on a somewhat obscure French author of the 17th century. His name was Tristan L'Hermite and to me, he looked a bit like Lord Byron, two centuries early. No stupid wig, dark long hair and a little mustache...
I loved it.

But I really have to question the veracity of this thesis.
Because, seriously - melancholy, pain, sadness, depression, sorrow or whatever you want to call it - has radically the opposite effect on me: it drains me OUT.

Things have been pretty hard in our lives for the last few years. Nothing is ever easy for anyone but sometimes you have to wonder what it is exactly that you did to anger the gods to that extent. I am not sure; sometimes I joke around and say that Chicago is not meant for me. Even though I love this city with a fierce passion I often feel that the 'feeling' (if I may say so) is not mutual. Well - too bad. I am sticking around. I was born stubborn and will stay that way.
Hopefully for me the curse was mainly hovering above the University and won't follow me for too long in this lovely Village with which I have fallen head over heels.

And sometimes it is hard not to lose hope, and find the strength to go on - no matter what. But after a moment (or a few) of obligatory mourning, head buried in pillows, tissue in one hand, chocolate/remote/cheese/cupcake in the other something mysteriously happens deep inside. Suddenly it doesn't hurt as much, it's not as dark, the clouds break away and a ray of sunshine, shy, and still pallid comes to warm up the sky.
It happened today, around 2pm.

Let's go back on the field to fight the battle.