As I am writing these lines, I gracefully cut in halves a “Paris Brest” and a “Religieuse au Chocolat” from Storher across the street, dramatic vestiges of the battle which opposed LL to France during the last week and sadly ended with the death foretold of LL. Leave me just a second while I gobble them with a chilled mini glass of Pineau des Charentes.
So what was I saying ? of yes… our friend LL. LL is lying down in the room next to mine dreaming that he is visiting Notre Dame and that none of the mean Parisian want to give a subway map. LL GOT SICK. Stomach sick. If you've got to be sick in Paris, any sort of stomach sickness if the disease to get I guess. It is considered very noble over here as well as a classic if you are American. Everyone meets their Waterloo in Parisian’s kitchens, I just hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. We have more or less stopped our excursions as it seems quite silly to walk around gorgeous monuments with an air-sick bag around his mouth (it worries the poor japanese turists and hurt business I was told) and other various unpleasant display of stomach discomfort, once valued at the Moulin Rouge but never in the subway. Not to worry, LL had the time to see all of Caen’s monuments (the few that were not destroyed by the American-led 1944 invasion of Normandy as my grandmother kindly notified LL), including William the Conqueror’s castle, before his American intestines decide to give in to the French culinary guerilla warfare as well as maybe CDG airport and la Joconde….
One would never have imagined it would end like this, watching how he gladly accepted one of my snails while he was drowning some oysters with Champaign, how he wolfed down innocent foie gras and Roquefort at any time of the day at my parent’s house, at la Coupole, on New Year’s Eve (we shopped it at l’ Epicerie du Bon Marché…) and in my cousin’s restaurant often accompanied by a young St. Nicolas de Bourgeuil and how I had to stop him from ordering a Choucroute or some Tripes of Caen. LL’s naïve and upbeat incursion into French food and culture fell short of tactic. His body probably barely endured Air France Business Class food, don’t even talk of anything moldier. LL's defeat at Metro Republique ended in tears, bile and swearing and he is now considering the healing power of drinking water, praying and eating rice for abdominal pain.
Among the things LL could not see in Paris: Place Vendôme, Muséee d’ Orsay, Notre Dame, l’ Ile Saint Louis, la Sainte Chapelle, Bathouses, le Père Lachaise, le Bois de Boulogne, Ladurée, le Musée Picasso, Montmartre, le Sacré Cœur. Thank god they are well documented on the internet and I have hope that soon he will have sufficiently recover so I can show him some pictures online.
Thank you for your prayers, blessings, and support.
We don't understand 75% of the words in this post.
Posted by: Fagat | Thursday, January 05, 2006 at 01:37 PM
Don't worry Fagat...at least for once it doesn't mention you.
Posted by: LL | Thursday, January 05, 2006 at 01:44 PM
FHC, I encountered a drunken Frenchmen in a bar in Boston the other night. My friend deciphered his drunken , French muttering to be "French women are like fine cheeses, the older they get the hairier and smellier they become." Do you have a comment about this?
Posted by: Sushi | Thursday, January 05, 2006 at 02:20 PM
He actually put tripe into his mouth?
Montmarte and le Sacre Coeur were amazing.
Posted by: Damien | Thursday, January 05, 2006 at 03:54 PM
No Place Vendome = for shame! Hopefully you made it to Colette?
Posted by: KMZ | Friday, January 06, 2006 at 01:17 PM