Hoppy bubbles

I was 27 and a few months when I lost my beer virginity.


It wasn't great. First times, you know... I do remember it clearly though: a Mexican restaurant in Evanston, an iced cold Corona, a wedge of lime, and a frosty glass. I gathered all my will, squeezed the citrus in the bottle, pushed it deep down the neck, grabbed the culprit and brought it to my anticipating (albeit slightly dreading) lips.
I took a gulp.
Closed my eyes.
Swallowed it.

Wow-wow-wow.
Stop.
I feel like I need to give a few precisions here.
I am no angel. No choir boy (if I could have been one) either. I was no adept of some obscure non-drinking club where I was supposed to save myself for "The One" (Ketel? Hanger? who knows?!?)
Nope.
None of that.
Being a French chick I was allowed to drink pretty much since kindergarten. And I am only slightly exaggerating; you will probably not be allowed to get totally inebriated in a bar or a nightclub when you are 15 (and even this is highly disputable point, and completely up to your garçon's sense of morality) but at the same time no-one will stop a 10-year old from buying beer, wine, vodka or moonshine liquor at the supermarket.
It's just how it is. And frankly it doesn't make things any worse.
No taboo. No thrills of the transgression. Ok, that's a little too simple but you get the gist.

But being a French chick precisely, I was destined to one libation of choice: wine. Cliché? Maybe. Yet true story, at least for me. I started my drinking career with reds, whites and blushes. And champagne. Bien sûr. It was a long education, very unsavory at first. But as years went by I learned to appreciate the grape juice for grown-ups that was being offered to me at family dinners. I started to request a little more than my usual glass-bottom. And then, ask for another glass.
And so on.

But beer?!?!?!?
Hell no!!
Beer in my French world meant two things: Kanterbrau and Kronenbourg. Talk about choosing between two evils. I took a few sips in my time. From my dad's glass as a kid. From my friends' growing up. My requirement to date someone - to kiss someone - was : "No beer drinking". I was serious. One hoppy close encounter had left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Foul play. Never again.

Up until this day in March 2004. To my surprise I discovered that this not half as bad as I remembered. Second sip to confirm the first.
Yeah...
And just like that, the curse was lift.
A new world was opening up to me.

My friend Mary introduced me to the first brew I really liked: Blue Moon. We had gone to her place after class one day only to discover that she was out of wine. We braved the cold and gray Chicago night and walked to the neighboring liquor store to buy a six pack. My first one ever. We shared it. I got almost sick on my train ride back home, but I was hooked.

And then I met Robert. We exchanged - among other things - knowledge: my wine VS his beer. I quickly became a convert, a happy and eager one. I learned all about ales and lagers. The varieties. The malts. The wheats. Ohhhh...the wheat....The colors. The cloudiness. The draft methods. And the rich, infinite and delectable palette of tastes. Orange, cloves, vanilla, banana, leather, chocolate, coffee, tobacco........the whole universe can be contained in a mere 12-ounce vessel.

And how can words give justice to the supreme pleasure one knows after the first gulp (the French gorgée is so much more sensual; not as onomatopoeic as English, it smoothly rolls down in your throat. Beautiful.) of a fresh, iced cold beer on a hot summer day? This very first one; the one you anticipated feverishly during the few minutes it took the waiter (or your wife) to bring your order. You know this one. It's divine. You keep drinking, waiting for the magic to happen all over again, but it's gone. Read Philip Delerme about it - he's magnetic.


Of course the whole 'world in a glass' comment can be made about wine. Which has the distinct advantage of not making your stomach swell like you are expecting a set of triplets. Or a baby keg. Besides wine is refined, elegant, feminine in essence. Crimson, ruby, velvet, burgundy...it screams good-taste and aristocracy. Beer, on the other hand, is definitely working class. A frothy pint cannot compete with the fine crystal of a carafe. But despite its figure-unfriendly characteristics and its popular roots beer has a particular appeal to me that I cannot quite explain. The more I try to pin it down, the more elusive it gets.
A volatile quality.....
Could it be the magic of bubbles?
This light sparkle, the subtle but decisive dance on your tongue, distinct from any other effervescence, specific and unmistakable....allied to the rich and mealy mouthful that only truly belongs to the beer. The ambrosia of the gods, in all its wondrous honey color, was probably nothing else.

Too much talking, huh? you may be right. There is surely no better way to celebrate the marriage of hops and yeast than to wolf down pints after pints, leaving the words to philosophers.
But even thinkers are thirsty.

One last word:
If beer is your thing, two interesting websites for you:
- www.michiganmicrobrews.com - a great website "for Michigan Craft Beer Enthusiasts" (and others). You will find all about festivals, breweries, where to buy beers and homebrewing supplies, as well as employment opportunities.

- www.ratebeer.com - " the largest collection of beer reviews and used as an authoritative buying guide by consumers worldwide".

Cheers!
-

Restaurant Review: Cevapcici Chicago (no fixed location)

So....I thought about it long and hard and decided to include in here some of my favorite reviews written for Yelp (that you can follow 'live' here; I used a pseudo).
Why?!?!?

1. Because it's already done, and it makes the whole thing so much easier, doesn't it?!? (I am French after all and allegedly, partisane du moindre effort. The less I do, the better I feel. Have a look at the work regulations if you want to be enlighten, as well as incredibly envious).

2. Because this whole thing is supposed to be about food (and drinks, obviously. One cannot go without the other, or so I learned in the last few years). As a food lover I go out to eat a lot. Too much. Cannot stop. I also write about it (to prolong the pleasure?!?!? who knows?). Sometimes take pictures of it. Oh boy. I AM obsessed.

3. Because people seem to like them: they got FUCed at lot. Vulgar? no way. Sibylline? a bit....in everyday language it means that these reviews were found Funny, Useful and Cool. FUC. And so I don't want to argue. I aim at being a crowd pleaser, and I go with the flow.

The last 'successful' one: "Cevapcici Chicago"
(FYI, ćevapčići are is a Balkan (here, Croatian) dish of grilled minced meat. It's made out of pork, beef and lamb, spices and other aromatics. It has the size and appearance of a sausage (without casing) and is usually served in a flat bread called lepinja, with chopped onions, sour cream and ajvar, a red pepper and eggplant relish. Heaven on a piece of bread...)
Here it is (with photo illustration, lucky you) :



"My husband, Mister Amélie L., has a couple of talents.
Arguably - that's why I married him, right? It's at least what every woman on the verge of walking down the aisle should think about: "What does he do well?!?!"

If it takes her more than 30 seconds to come up with something, my advice is to run away.

Mister L. is a good kisser.
He explains arcane banking secrets like no one else.
He knows how to grow a beard in 2 days tops.
He builds ponds in your garden like a pro.
He makes plants grow when I kill them.
He can tell a story in excruciating details, and make it last 2 hours if he wants to.
And above all - he can cook.

One of his specialties: lamb keftas.
So, so, so good. Our friends keep asking for the recipe, and it quickly became his signature dish - the one he rocks every summer on the charcoals all around the city (and beyond).

But our friend Phil has something on him.
Pork.
Do I need to say more?

The cevapcici are so delicious that - opportunity been given - I might trade men and meats and go with the cevap' instead of the kefta.

This is just ridiculous.

Such goodness shouldn't exist and be allowed to roam free on the city fests. This is serious business. Divorce inducing?

Croatia surely wins the sausage battle in my books.
But my Mister L. doesn't lose the war. Still love him bunch, as well as his grilling talents".

Daily Deal Chicago!!

August is the most important month of the year.
You want proof, huh?
Well, first of all - it has the unique privilege of counting 31 days even though it's preceded by another 31-day month. Check on your knuckles if you don't believe me. Or on your calendars.
It's all true.

Then, it's the peak of the summer. Ripe fruits, grilled meat, lazy afternoons on the beach, sun, beer gardens and mosquitoes are all there for your entertainment, and you know you love them. It's not even that different on the other side of the pond: replace the hamburgers by merguez (spicy lamb sausages), and beer, by pastis (anise alcoholic drink, aka as the French ouzo, raki or sambuca) and you have it. Even the mosquitoes are the same. Word.

And this year, on August 1st - Chicago will have the incredible privilege to welcome Daily Deal.
How do I know this?
Simply because I have been asked to let you know about it. Since I am nice and gracious I accepted; and oh - there was this little $25 gift card enticement that helped too....but shhhhh....

So here is the skinny on this new kid on the block:
- you'll buy vouchers on line to redeem them at all your local favorite haunts - bars, restaurants, stores, theaters, you name it. It changes every day. It's exciting every day. You'll want it every day.

- with Daily Deal, spending is saving. You are guaranteed to save at the very least 50% on your purchase. To make it clear - and if like me math is not your forte - you buy a deal for $50 = you can spend at least $100 at the business highlighted that day.
Too good to be true?!? Not on your life. That's the naked truth.

- of course you have already heard that song. There is more than one bird on this tree. Ok, yeah, you may be right. But with Daily Deal you are the master of your destiny (and who doesn't like feeling powerful?!?); whatever happens, you get your d-e-a-l. You don't have to care about the others: you buy, you own. No minimum, no quotas, no headache: freedom.
Cheers to that!!

The cherry on this already delicious cake: go to www.dailydealchicago.com today and before August 1st and you have a chance to win a $100 Apple Gift Card. Not quite enough for the iPhone4 but that's a start. Don't be too greedy, geez!!!

And since we are talking social media, you can also follow them on Twitter and Facebook. Of course.

So yes....August is THE month.
Have I mentioned that it's also my birthday on the 17th?

Welcome to the Sweet Life!

When I am being asked to list my hobbies - in a job application, on a dating website, on my Facebook profile, or - shocking!!!! - by actual people living and moving in front of me - one thing always first come to mind: FOOD.
It's not eating.
Not cooking.
Because, clearly, that's not enough.

Food is a world in itself, a fabulous universe soliciting all senses, luring one after the other in a never-ending celebration combining life, fun, friends, emotions, pleasures and aesthetics. Sure, food IS eating, and cooking (in some cases) but it also means reading, watching, smelling, researching, writing, touching, dreaming, enjoying, sharing.
Food is life.
Food is MY life. Or one of the best parts of it.

I am - and unashamedly so - what French call a gourmande. Not a 'glutton'. Not a gourmet. Nor a gastronome. A gourmande. The English language doesn't have any room for the concept, and I keep lamenting upon this unfortunate state of things. Even though gourmandise is indeed one of the Seven Deadly Sins, the word has evolved and gone way beyond its religious roots. A gourmand is by no means a glutton. Fine - it can be on occasions. Sometimes. But most of the time a gourmand is much closer to the Epicurean than to the ogre. Gourmandise, in the French acceptation of the word, is a refined love of food. A gourmand cannot resist to the last slice of pie on the plate; (s)he has to taste the stew bubbling away on the stove, at the risk of burning him/herself; his/her favorite small pleasure is to study seasonal menus, marvel on the musicality of words, close his/her eyes and anticipate the marriage of flavors; the books on display on his/her living-room belong to the William Sonoma Collections; his/her spice rack takes up half of his/her kitchen cupboards; the other half is dedicated to fragrant boxes of teas and rice, decorated bottles of olive oil and seasoned vinegars, and mason jars of home-made jams, jellies and chutneys.

A gourmand is dedicated. Some, ill-advised, envious, sullen individuals would call them obsessive. And qualify their obsession as 'unhealthy'. They may be right, to some extent.

But this series of pauses that I want to offer couldn't be further from that. Each one of my 'pause gourmande' will be a sweet invitation to fantasy, best enjoyed on a comfortable sofa, a glass of wine in hand, a square of dark chocolate melting on the tongue, shoes kicked off, legs and head resting on a soft pillow.

Shall we begin?

In the Village

"Partir, c'est mourir un peu"
This saying is particularly dear to me. I have experienced its truth and wisdom so many times....leaving is dying a little bit indeed.
And this time was no different.

We had known for a while now that we had to leave our lovely soft loft in Hyde Park, acquired three years ago in this exhilarating feeling of pride of excitement that only belongs to first time home buyers. We spent days choosing the color of the walls - County Cork and Stadium Red - and long hours of intensive painting, precariously balanced on a always too short ladder. I was most of the time by myself, inhaling fumes, singing aloud, elated to at last cover the white that had been an irremovable part of my life for far too long.

We lived, laughed, loved, received my mom for two visits, welcomed a dog, a second cat and got married in that same place.
That was home.

But it was not meant to last. And there is no need to feel bad, have regrets or lament endlessly about the situation. Four walls, a couple of bedrooms and a nice kitchen are not enough to define one's living, and certainly not mine. I moved more times that I care to recall - the actual count amounts to 19 - and it has become a normal part of life. Not quite a routine, but quite close. Always on the search, always on the go.
The fact that, this time, was imposed on me for trivial financial reasons doesn't change anything to the game.

In April I only had one word on my mind: next.

A tad obsessive I spent hours hunting for the elusive 'perfect' place that would offer a dishwasher, a washer/dryer, central air, enough room to fit the knick-knacks amassed in five years of ups-and-downs, and enough flexibility to allow our three balls of fur to follow us on this new journey.
I had decided that I didn't want to settle; no 'just-to-get-by' place; no compromise.

I wanted a home to replace the one we were about to lose.

And after countless emails, phone calls, last minute cancellation and visits - I found it.
I loved it right away.
Home at fist sight.

42 days in, and I realize that I have never felt any better in a place. True, I now have to climb three flights of stairs, park my car on the street and make do with an AC daily defeated by the scorching hot Chicago summer. Sure, the new dishwasher fits about a third of the dirty plates, silverware, pots and glasses than the previous one, and I quit doing sets of jumping jacks, running in circles after the dog as well as improvising stumping dance movements to accompany my favorite commercials out of respect for my downstairs neighbors.

But I gained so much more.
A large, open deck where I grow my own herbs and salsa vegetables.
A palpable place in this city life that I yearned for since I moved out from downtown five years ago.
A partaking in a lively neighborhood that I slowly get to know a bit more with every passing day, along with its people, tree-lined streets, parks, landmarks and rituals. A vibrant diversity that I only associated with my old 'hood and that I am so thankful to find here, patiently waiting for my unveiling.

But first and above all this move - that made me die inside a little bit more than usual - has brought me a serenity and a sense of fulfillment that took me by surprise. I certainly didn't expect to feel happy so fast, without even trying. You are supposed to work on these things, right? And keep trying hard at it. It usually just doesn't fall on your lap, or tout rôti dans le bec (already roasted in your mouth...hehehe...my likey).
Wrong.
It does.
And it does every SINGLE time.

I am lucky to not have to slave every day at work from 9 to 5. At least, despite the lack of regular income, I take it as a privilege. And this summer, being able for the first time to focus on the little things of life and not on the coming along of my dissertation, care-free, I just enjoy. Feel. Watch. Think. Socialize.

How to explain that I owe it all to the Village? I can't. But I know that its magic worked on me, and that it's now only up to me to keep its spell alive.

The old saying is all wrong. Leaving is, in fact, being born again.

Daily Deal: Sweet Home Chicago

August is the most important month of the year.
You want proof, huh?
Well, first of all - it has the unique privilege of counting 31 days even though it's preceded by another 31-day month. Check on your knuckles if you don't believe me. Or on your calendars.
It's all true.

Then, it's the peak of the summer. Ripe fruits, grilled meat, lazy afternoons on the beach, sun, beer gardens and mosquitoes are all there for your entertainment, and you know you love them. It's not even that different on the other side of the pond: replace the hamburgers by merguez (spicy lamb sausages), and beer, by pastis (anise alcoholic drink, aka as the French ouzo, raki or sambuca) and you have it. Even the mosquitoes are the same. Word.

And this year, on August 1st - Chicago will have the incredible privilege to welcome Daily Deal.
How do I know this?
Simply because I have been asked to let you know about it. Since I am nice and gracious I accepted; and oh - there was this little $25 gift card enticement that helped too....but shhhhh....

So here is the skinny on this new kid on the block:
- you'll buy vouchers on line to redeem them at all your local favorite haunts - bars, restaurants, stores, theaters, you name it. It changes every day. It's exciting every day. You'll want it every day.

- with Daily Deal, spending is saving. You are guaranteed to save at the very least 50% on your purchase. To make it clear - and if like me math is not your forte - you buy a deal for $50 = you can spend at least $100 at the business highlighted that day.
Too good to be true?!? Not on your life. That's the naked truth.

- of course you have already heard that song. There is more than one bird on this tree. Ok, yeah, you may be right. But with Daily Deal you are the master of your destiny (and who doesn't like feeling powerful?!?); whatever happens, you get your d-e-a-l. You don't have to care about the others: you buy, you own. No minimum, no quotas, no headache: freedom.
Cheers to that!!

The cherry on this already delicious cake: go to www.dailydealchicago.com today and before August 1st and you have a chance to win a $100 Apple Gift Card. Not quite enough for the iPhone4 but that's a start. Don't be too greedy, geez!!!

And since we are talking social media, you can also follow them on Twitter and Facebook. Of course.

So yes....August is THE month.
Have I mentioned that it's also my birthday on the 17th?

Hiatus

And here we go again.....a long, uninspired stretch of 8 weeks or so without one single word written on the blank screen....
Busy with the words of another, sure but why should it interfere with mine?!?

I had actually started an entry at the beginning of May. It was supposed to be all about dinner parties - "Julie and Julia", "Le diner de cons" and my very own latest installment a couple of weeks before that. French classic dinner for a small committee comprised of some of my very best foodies: cheese souffle (made with 'muenster' from my beloved region), duck breasts a l'orange and red wine, bundles of haricots verts, gratin dauphinois and a tarte Tatin accompanied by home-made vanilla whipped cream to seal the deal.
I was happy to cook and host for the first time in over a year, and pretty proud of the final result.

But then, life happened.
As always.
Getting in the way of writing of course, along with all the rest.

I wish it weren't the case, and that I could be as dedicated as my favorite authors. But I guess 'dedicated' is probably not the best adjective to describe me, and that I just have to come to terms with it.
Or better yet - change things around.

And that, is a challenge I definitely want to win.