America's Obesity & France's Fast-Food Addiction

This past year in Paris, I've been surrounded by slim women, in fact, slim people in general. I don't know how they do it - good genes perhaps? But the image of the slender, elegant Parisian woman holds a lot of truth. And when I'm out there working up a sweat as I jog around the Eiffel Tower, I'm stunned to see that it's mainly men who are exercising, not women. Maybe the women exercise within the comfort of their own home, but I have a feeling that a combination of chain smoking, small portions and good genes are the real reason behind their slim physiques.  And maybe the fact that on every advert there's a health warning. If there's anyone telling you to eat your five portions of fruit and veg a day or not to snack, it's the French.

My first stop this summer on my American adventure was a six hour layover in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Since the layover was so long, we decided to pass the time in the largest mall in America with its very own indoor theme park. And I'll tell you now - it was something else. Or, as I like to say, sumfin' else.

As we wandered around the mall, the sheer size of the people we came across was worrying. Maybe malls are social hubs for overweight people, but I couldn't get my head around it. Fat kids licking ice-creams larger than their heads or people so overweight that they had to be pushed around in wheelchairs because they couldn't walk. At one point, I saw a man sitting on a bench with his XXXXL t-shirt which still didn't fit him and I noticed his leg was purple and swollen. When he got up to move, I felt pain come over me as I saw the large globules of fat bursting out of the back of his knees. Surely that cannot be comfortable. His head looked so small in proportion to the rest of his body that if I'd have seen a photograph of him, I'd have thought he'd been photoshopped.

From beer bellies to muffin tops, I kid you not when I say that 90% of the people we saw were overweight, and many of them clinically obese. In that moment I envisaged a world where everyone was fat; really fat. Where fitness died out and the average person didn't move from their couch because they had everything they needed within their reach. Fridges walked towards them with the click of a remote; people ate and slept in the same seat because they couldn't lift themselves out of it. Automated cranes heaved people from one location to the next.

And another shocking discovery in this mall was the fashion, or lack of it. I know this wasn't Beverley Hills but where the hell is Gok Wan when you need him. Neon trainers and oversized basketball shorts are never a good look. Neither are tight tops which cling painfully over heaving guts, butt cracks on display and cankles: the lack of calf/ankle definition where the two seem to merge.

The root of it? Oh where to begin. Free soda refills in every restaurant, the continual fast-food frenzy, the HUGE portions. I remember on our trip to Alaska a few years ago when I ordered a cooked breakfast. My plate arrived and on it I had about 3 fried eggs, 6 rashers of bacon, 4 sausages....and to top it all off, a stack of four large pancakes on the side covered in lashings of butter and Canadian maple syrup. If that doesn't clog your arteries just thinking about it, then I don't know what will. I think it's safe to say that I didn't even manage a third of it. And even just a few days ago when I went for a single scoop of ice-cream in a cafe, the scoop was so large that it could have easily passed for a triple scoop in the UK where in comparison, the portions seem stingy.

And I'm not kidding when I say that being fat costs you, and not just because of the amount of food you're getting through. Samoa Air for example charges passengers per kilo. Thus, a 60kg person will be paying a much lighter airfare than the 120kg person sitting across the aisle.  Fancy a future where along with baggage, passengers also have to hit the scales to determine their airfare. And before people start getting sensitive over the issue, "Every extra kilogram means more expensive jet fuel must be burned, which leads to CO2 emissions and financial cost" according to Dr Ian Yeoman.  

The sad reality is that the fast-food frenzy has made its way to France, too. A recent survey showed that more French people go out for fast-food than to your typical French cafe or bistro. The shocking discovery shows that 54% of all restaurant sales in France comes from fast-food chains. Part of me is not surprised at all; many (male) colleagues at work spend 4 out of 5 lunches a week at McDonalds, and don't bat an eyelid. For the country which gave the world "gastronomie", things aren't looking too great. In fact, reports have shown that after the U.S., France is the largest consumer of fast-food. But the pressing question is: How do the French stay so slim?

I appreciate that certain medical conditions mean that being overweight is not a choice. But I'd be very surprised to hear that all 75% of overweight individuals in the U.S. suffer from medical conditions which mean that being overweight is uncontrollable.

Now, would someone please go get me a corn dog with extra mayo, a side of fries and a large soda.  I'm starving. 

My Romance with Restaurants: Fondue

Since my love affair with men hasn't gone so well in France, I've decided to turn my amorous efforts towards food instead.  And since I couldn't possibly discuss all of my restaurant adventures in one blog post, I've decided to start my own mini series, starting with fondue.   I need not remind my readers of my intimate relationship with cheese.  Cheese, fromage, formaggio, queso...it's one of my greatest pleasures, in every language.

On Valentine's day (oh so long ago now!), the girls and I went for a late night seating at "Le Refuge des Fondues" in Montmartre where they serve a set menu for 21€ per head.  Between six of us this included an aperitif each, a couple charcuterie sharing platters, unlimited quantities of red wine in baby bottles, one cheese fondue, one beef fondue, and fruit salad for dessert.  We were crammed into the tiny restaurant which consisted of two long tables on either wall and narrow benches.  The walls were graffitied with messages and signatures of people who'd consumed fondue within its walls and old bank notes had been tacked up on one side.  The waiter held my hand as I stepped onto a chair and clambered over the table to get into my seat.  For anyone too preoccupied with the term 'personal space', I wouldn't suggest going.  I also managed to splatter sauce all over my silk dress after attempting to pull my bread out of the cheese fondue which appeared to be at the other end of the table.  It was a little on the runny side which meant getting it to melt on the bread was a chore and a half, but I managed.  Would I go back?  Perhaps with a party of four because it's a mini adventure.  But I think six was slightly too many for practicality's sake.  Not the best fondue I've had in my life but the waiters were lovely, particularly the older one who had a sense of humour and was slightly eccentric.

I went to another fondue restaurant recently on Rue Mouffetard with a friend of mine.  The cheese here in my opinion was superior to that in the other restaurant, being a much thicker consistency, but the service was shoddy.  And I mean offensively shoddy.  It took us about ten minutes to get a menu - not because it was insanely crowded but rather because it appeared that they had about five menus in total between God knows how many people.  It was like battle of the menus.  When we were finally in possession of said menus, we quickly decided upon the three cheese fondue and a tomato and mozzarella salad to share.  After a long wait, the waiter returned and snatched the menus off us.  This would have been mildly acceptable if we'd already ordered but quite the contrary: we were still waiting for him to scribble something illegibly into his notepad.  He stared at me expectantly but instead I looked at him incredulously and tugged the menu out of his hand before opening it and pointing at what I wanted.  He then snapped it back out of my hand and asked what we wanted to drink.  I turned to my friend opposite me and sighed, mumbling something like 'Well if he'd just give me the bloody menu then maybe I'd know what to have'.  He insisted on holding the menu just out of reach so that I was squinting at the rather meagre wine list.  After a short kerfuffle I asked for a carafe of red wine to which he responded: "carafe ou demi bouteille?"  I asked what the difference was in price and quantity but he seemed to avoid the question and the conversation continued in a vicious circle for the next few moments before I huffed and exploded with "carafe".

It arrived ten minutes later, half-baked apparently.  Yes, it appeared we'd been given a bottle that had been sitting in close proximity to an oven.  Before long, I noticed Naomi's eyes straying from me and a frown formed on her lips.  "That waiter just ate a hunk of meat from that plate he's about to serve" she insisted.  I turned around in dismay and saw his jaw chomping hurriedly through his stolen bit of meat.  We were practically adjacent to the kitchen which I would never recommendd.  We soon witnessed our waiter bringing his hand to his sweaty forehead and wiping it.  Two seconds later he was pulling a baguette out of the bread basket and slicing it.  He scraped the bread into the basket with beads of sweat trickling down his fingers.  He placed the basket on our table.  We paid about 26€ each.  I wouldn't go back again.

So I'm still searching for the best fondue in town, and I'll let you know when and where I find it!  Alternatively, if you have any great suggestions, please comment below!

St Germain-des-Près

So back to square one again.  For those of you who haven't caught on, I'm currently living in St Germain-des-Près (the "fashionable area" of Paris), south of the Seine in the 6^th arondissement.  But fashionable districts don't come without a big fat price tag, and that doesn't stop at renting an apartment.  Indeed, this infectious price tag has infiltrated bars, coffee shops, high street stores and supermarkets in the area.  In fact, it's home to two of the most frequented and prestigious cafés in Paris - Les Deux Magots and Café de Flore - which compete against each other on opposite corners of a buzzing street near the ancient Eglise St Germain-des-Près, founded in the 6^th century by a Childebert I (ruled 511–558).  Tourists swarm the cafés like bees to sip the renowned hot chocolate at Les Deux Magots, once frequented by the likes of Hemingway and other famous intellectuals, or to soak up the philosophy of Café de Flore and its WWII style Art deco interior.  The literary culture of both hangouts is apparently infinite, but the modern-day crowd it attracts seems rather superfluous in comparison.  As Timeout says of Les Deux Magots, “The former haunt of Sartre and de Beauvoir now draws a less pensive crowd that can be all too m'as-tu vu, particularly at weekends”.  Yes; the real attraction is being seen on either terrace, sipping your poignantly expensive cup of coffee, because it makes you feel like you’re somebody.

That noted, I haven't actually been to either café, partly due to the extortionate prices (which is inevitable), and partly because I don't fancy being a sheep, let alone wait half an hour for a cappuccino while the couple next to me fuss about today's special.  There's something quite nice about going to off-the-beaten-track hideaways in a city, rather than squeezing into tourist territory, surrounded by overweight Americans and Germans speaking defunct French, yapping away like maniacs and pronouncing everything wrong.  Not that I've got the best accent or anything, but some of the pronunciations I've heard are almost offensively bad.  I may have snorted over a coffee and a croissant one too many times because of it.

But despite the hyper-lavish crowd, you'll be hard-pushed to find a more idyllic (albeit upmarket) setting in Paris.  For the food-lovers among you, Le Marché St Germain, hidden away from the hustle and bustle, is a daily indoor food market where you can purchase fresh fish, meat, fruit, veg, cheese and plenty more delicacies.  There’s even an Italian stall where freshly made vegetarian and meat lasagnes, ravioli, risottos and blocks of parmesan cheese are paraded behind glass frames.  A Japanese stand is located in another corner where freshly rolled sushi and noodle dishes are available at the point of a finger.  A man carving jambon cru from a pig’s leg serves a short line of customers at another end.  Food is flowing, and cash is being counted.  Although I should warn you; my only purchase there has been an €11,50 slice of Lasagne.  Not exactly the cheapest dinner-for-one, but it’s nice to visit the market from time to time to take in the pleasant aroma and vivid colours.

Passing straight down the middle of St Germain-des-Près is a long avenue known as Boulevard St Germain where you can find yourself bombarded with an influx of tasteful cafés (what would France be without them?), Swarovski crystals, expensive footwear, haute couture clothing and an infinite number of shi-shi bars frequented by Dior-clad diners.  The neighbourhood’s artistic license is confirmed by its number of reputed museums and galleries, notably L’École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts (the distinguished National School of Fine Arts), La Musée du Luxembourg (Paris' oldest public museum which showcases a vast array of the city’s artwork) and La Musée D’Orsay (housed in a former railway station) which is right around the corner.  It was mainly after WWII that the neighbourhood exploded into a hub of existentialist thinking and a haven of avant-garde theatre, painting and jazz, and much of this culture resides to this current day.

Yet while it may be excruciatingly expensive to entertain yourself south of the Seine in St Germain, if you like the words 'suave', 'sophisticated' and ‘swanky’, you've come to the right place.  One of my preferred night-time retreats is Le Pub St Germain, a restaurant-bar which opened here in Paris in 1968 during a time when English pubs were starting to flourish in France, partly due to the political climate in France as well as a revolution in gastronomy across the globe.  At the time, this new genre of establishment attracted many Parisians because of its atmosphere and conviviality.  Its classic décor with a hint of exoticism make it a charming hideout for drinking one of their original cocktails, sitting down to a dinner of roasted duck breast and gnocchi, or for enjoying a more traditional Sunday Brunch.  Whether it’s gossiping over a carafe of red wine with a friend, sipping a liquid nitrogen cocktail, or spicing up a tomato juice with a splash of Tabasco, each rendez-vous at the four-floored Pub Saint-Germain has been equally indulgent.  I need hardly mention the complimentary olives, peanuts and generous supply of cocktail sticks.  Nor the tap-dancer who gave us a private showing à la Singing in the Rain, umbrella and all.

And my favourite street?  Once when I wandered upon the back entrance of the pub, I discovered a charming, rather inconspicuous street arcade, Cour du Commerce-St-André, whose cobbled pavestones, archway and turret from the 13th-century wall of Philippe-Auguste lend it a rich antiquity.  The wall was originally built around the city as a means of defense and in former times, the passageway housed Georges-Jacques Danton, a leading figure in the French Revolution.  To this day, the oldest restaurant in Paris, Le Procope (1686), whose walls entertained the likes of Voltaire, Diderot and Rousseau, remains a stunning part of the passageway's renowned aesthetic of picturesque boutiques and living history.

I can’t imagine being anywhere else in the world right now.

Watch this space.

Montana

Cheesy Choices

Food has always been a high priority of mine, so it is hardly surprising that this hasn't simmered down since my being in Paris.  While my fridge out here is often stocked with life-long milk, fruit juice, pasta sauce, a carton of eggs and other uninspiring purchases, I dedicate the worthiest part of it to my fondness of fromage, or as we Brits says, cheese.  My diet out here has notably consisted of a lot of cheese, and I mean A LOT.  Brie, Camembert, Comte, Chevre, Emmental, Gruyere, Mimolette, Mozzarella, Parmesan, Pecorino, Raclette, Ricotta, Roquefort, Tomme de Savoie.  The list goes on.  My aim was to buy a new cheese each week, but I soon became confused as to which cheeses I'd tried and which I hadn't.  The pre-purchasing process is a long one and usually involves poking the cheese to determine its texture, inspecting how old it is, and having a cheeky look at the price-tag.  I'm sure you're gawping at my cheesy expertise.

And cheese isn't just for spicing up a ham sandwich or throwing on top of your hamburger.  Before coming to France, I'd often eat it with Digestive biscuits, but the bread-loving French have converted me to smothering it on crunchy baguette.  The only thing missing is some good 'ol chutney or Branston pickle to accompany it.   However, since the quality of cheese in France is generally far superior to that in England, eating it sans chutney is perfectly acceptable.  Although I often see little jars of fig compote at the cheese counter so maybe that's the French alternative.  

I will never forget when I first arrived in Paris and bought a little boite of Camembert from the supermarket for under two euros.  My expectations weren't particularly high but when I took it out of the fridge, it was the gooiest, smelliest, mouth-wateringly delicious Camembert I'd ever tasted.  I've never turned back.  

But while on the whole I've been thoroughly impressed with the cheese out here, sometimes it's good to get back to my roots and raid a tub of philly every now and then.  And of course I get the 'light' version, because I think it tastes just as good.  That's how I feel about mayonnaise too.  Many mayo-eaters are offended by the concept of 'Hellmann's Light Mayonnaise' because they don't believe it's real.  However, light mayo is what I've been brought up on and what I'll continue to eat.  In fact, I think full-fat mayo tastes too rich and it feels like I'm spreading lard on my sandwich.  Hellmann's doesn't actually exist in France and there are plenty of other branded mayonnaise's which I am sad to say don't quite live up to the same standard.  I find the mayo here too strong, teaming with mustard which I'm not a huge fan of anyway and instead of complementing my tuna mayo, its taste is overpowering and combats the tuna's already strong flavour.

Anyway, I recently purchased a small tub of philadephia light at the supermarket and discovered that it tastes scrummy on biscottes (melba toast) with a splash of sweet chili sauce and parma ham.  I can't remember how many I devoured in one sitting, but needless to say I wiped clean half my pot of philly.  It probably didn't help that the hob wasn't available so I had to console myself with cheese.  It definitely worked; cheese is totally becoming the new ice-cream.  Sweet chili sauce is also something which I will happily garnish on most things (bar ice-cream).  Whether it's with cheese, noodles, prawn crackers, crisps, pizza crusts, in fajitas...sweet chili sauce is one of my favourite fridge friends and I can always rely on it to liven up my meal.  Philadelphia is another great fridge friend, but for very different reasons.  The cream cheese is perfect for adding to soup, mashed potatoes, stuffed in chicken breasts, cheesecakes, or spreading on a bagel with smoked salmon.  I'll also use it for making Smoked Mackerel pat which tastes great with lemon and ground black pepper on warm pitta bread.

I think that's enough cheese-talk for one day.  You know what they say about cheese and nightmares....

Watch this space.

Montana

Splashing out by the Seine

Tucked away on a luminescent strip of river, the boat looked every inch the glamorous water haven.  Its magnificence seemed unparalleled by twilight and I felt every inch the starlet as I walked across the jetty, my hair blowing gently in the icy breeze and my red ochre smile widening in eager anticipation.  I was wearing a strapless rouge dress, my new pearls, skyscraper nude platforms and a scarf made of rabbit fur draped gracefully around my neck.  I was going for classy with a hint of sultry.

As I walked through the grand entrance, I delicately slipped off my leather gloves, trying my best to retain an air of sophistication.  The waiter took my navy blue coat when I entered the aqua universe and swapped it for a numbered ticket.  I looked past the pristine white tablecloths towards the sparkling ripples of water magnified through the big glass windows.  We were to be dining on a boat.


It was already quite late when we waltzed in to celebrate my friend's birthday, so we swarmed the table with a vibrant energy.  Glowing lanterns were hanging above us like modern-day chandeliers, each one a different shade of yellow, pink or orange.  Menus were swiftly placed in front of our expectant eyes and before long I was persuaded by the lady of the evening to join her in ordering a Mojito Royal.  I thought of my ever-slimming wallet, and then of the occasion, and made a very blasé hand gesture as I finally succumbed with the words "oh, why not!".  I knew it wasn't going to be a cheap evening, and I'm particularly fond of my Mojitos.  Especially when they're topped up with Champagne for that added treat.  The perfect Aperitif.

The boat was a giant expanse of enchantment and it felt so liberating to step into this harboured beauty; like the world really was my oyster.  I looked around at the other tables, many of them empty, bar a large table of men and women who howled and guffawed in timely unison.  I soon conjured up images in my head of romantic soirées on boats in dazzling ballgowns, dancing to the music of Elvis Costello or Louis Armstrong.  All that was missing was a man in a tuxedo to sweep me off my feet and twirl me across the shiny strips of wood.  In this fairytale sequence, I playfully let my red ringlets bob up and down like the gentle waves lapping at the boat's exterior.  The fantasy was overpowering.

Just as I was picturing my dress revolving in twirling pleats, my eyes were suddenly drawn to the bread sticks, olive tapenade and fish paté which were sitting in front of me, desperate to be eaten.  I immediately swept the bread stick into the pungent olive mixture and let the strong taste melt in my mouth before the inevitable crunch.  It was truly divine.  To my right, an overflowing bowl of crusty bread looked too appetising to be ignored so I slipped a piece from the basket and nibbled on its soft, doughy goodness.

Before long, the waiters arrived laden with plates of different fish and meats.  A true seafood fan, I had ordered the salmon which came with a side of creamy tagliatelle.  I looked in awe at the heart-shaped pinky fish which was sitting beautifully in the centre of my plate.  It was fleshy and tender and I marveled at the infusion of flavours.  The eggplant purée and concentrated lemon and thyme juice were bursting in my mouth and complemented the salmon in delectable fashion.  A couple glasses of white wine only intensified the goodness.

After finishing the main course, the birthday girl wowed us all with a huge birthday cheesecake.  Mojitos, salmon and cheesecake are possibly my three favourite luxuries; I was literally in heaven.  The cheesecake had a gelatin-type top layer which was adorned with fresh passion fruit and mango, a soft creamy centre and a crumbly biscuit base.  I think I must have scraped my plate clean; a testament to my satisfaction.

According to my mother, I need to find myself a rich husband if I'm planning on living the high life and taking it seriously.  My expensive food tastes, my love of cocktails, my slightly rash spending habits; the money has to come from somewhere.  Happiness comes in many different formats, but for me, dressing up, eating fancy food and sipping complex cocktails while soaking up good company in glamorous surroundings is a sure way to make me smile.  Why?  Because I know I'll savour the experience for years to come.

Restaurant sur la Seine - je veux retourner.

Thanksgiving Feast

So maybe this is old news as Thanksgiving was last Thursday, but I still feel it's necessary to grace this special day with a blog post.  Better late than never and all that jazz.

After celebrating Canadian Thanksgiving a month or so ago with some Canadian friends in Paris (which, admittedly, was rather scrumptious), it was finally time to celebrate (real) Thanksgiving with the Americans.  And since 85% of the people I work with hail from the US, celebrating Thanksgiving was sort of a no-brainer.  It's the highlight of the year for most Americans, and being an American in Paris certainly wasn't going to spoil the fun.  Although I did find myself asking what exactly it is that the Americans are giving thanks for (despite being a half-breed myself).  Surely it isn't just an excuse to eat nice food and be merry?  I thought I'd do some research...

It was originally a religious celebration, but much like Christmas, the true meaning has been frosted over by secularism.  The notion of Thanksgiving has been around since 1621, celebrated by Pilgrims and Native Americans after a successful harvest.  But times have changed and this spontaneous gathering of ''Thanks'' held atop green hills has failed to transfer to the modern day (a third of American adults are obese...that plus hills is never a great mix.)  It wasn't until October 3rd 1863 that Abraham Lincoln proclaimed, by Act of Congress, an annual National Day of Thanksgiving "on the last Thursday of November, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the heavens.''  A time for families to come together and give Thanks to the Lord for all the blessings received over the past year.  Or an excuse to kill a bird, eat yourself into a coma, and forget to say Grace.  You see where I'm coming from.  And I still find it difficult to get my head around the fact that we all receive presents at Christmas.  I mean, imagine planning a huge 21st birthday party and all your friends come bringing a multitude of gifts.  You then realise that they've brought gifts for everyone apart from you, and ignore you most of, if not all of, the evening.  I think you'd be pretty bummed.  Yet God is a lot more gracious than we could ever aspire to be; another reason to be thankful.

Thanksgiving started off like any other day here at the IHT until around 2pm when editors and journalists came flooding in with blow-up Turkeys (getting in the spirit of things!), Thanksgiving style napkins with pictures of Turkeys on them, festive tablecloths and mysterious food hiding beneath lots of tin foil.  We decided to go ahead with ''pot luck'' which essentially involves hoping and praying that there will be enough food for everyone (without knowing who will come), as well as having faith that we won't end up having 20 birds and no dessert.  Fortunately for us, a very kind member of the newsroom offered to organise Turkey, gravy and stuffing (or the French equivalent) which essentially looks like thickly sliced spam which I think comes in at number 1 (narrowly beating school dinners) in the ''I wouldn't feed this to my pet'' category.  But apart from the ludicrous stuffing, I had officially died and gone to food heaven.  The creamiest mashed potatoes, the tastiest sweet patatas, beautifully dressed green beans, sautéed mushrooms, roasted root vegetables oozing with garlic, home-made cranberry sauce, cornbread (my taste buds still can't work out whether this is supposed to be sweet or savoury), quiche, red wine, macaroons, pumpkin pie, individual pecan pies, brownies (made by yours truly)...red wine. 

You get my point.  And it didn't matter that we were all eating off flimsy paper plates, or that gravy spillages were snaking around the newsroom, or that the food was lukewarm, because it definitely makes a gourmet change from Emmental omelettes and wilting salad.  

Watch this space.

Montana

Smouldering Sushi

So I've been stuck in a trance all my life, a self-confessed Sushifile (lover of sushi) when in reality the only sushi I've ever tried has been from a supermarket, Pret A Manger or in a Boots meal-deal.  (Side note: my computer keeps trying to auto-correct Pret A Manger to Pet A Manger - which instead of "ready to eat", means "pet to eat" which is pretty sick.  NB: Sick in the original sense of the word, not the modernised meaning of "cool" or "rad").  

A couple nights ago I went to a Japanese restaurant called Sushi Jade in the 10th with a bunch of friends to eat sushi (surprisingly), à la buffet.  It was marvellous.  There was so much to choose from - like diving head-first into the ocean.  Seaweed, salmon, prawns, rice, soy sauce, wasabi, chilli, spring rolls, miso soup, tofu, fungi and other nourishing goodies were scattered in glorious array on three grand counters.  There was even something my friend described as "intestines", although he wasn't sure which animal or fish they belonged to.  I wasn't entirely convinced however, certain they were simply frilly weeds which grow on the sea floor.  Not that that sounds much more appetizing.

But when it came down to it, it was nice to finally eat a real prawn in Paris.  After my shocking experience (see Prawns with that?), it was clear no prawn-cutters were involved and these were indeed REAL prawns, plucked from the ocean, eyes and all.  Although you did have a choice to have the heads on or off.  While my friend decided to have the crustacean in its entirety, I opted for the slightly less "in your face" version which still had a tail and legs, but no black beady eyes staring at me.  And since I wouldn't be eating the eyes anyway, I decided I wasn't missing out.  After plunging the prawn into some spicy water which was slowly bubbling away on a stove in the middle of our table, I watched it bounce along the bottom of the pan, bumping into a few bits of overcooked tofu, feeling slightly guilty that its life was cut short for my pure eating pleasure.  The guilt subsided as soon as I removed its tail and shell, de-legged it, and popped it in my mouth.  Oh so tender.

Conversation turned towards a certain fish notorious in Japanese cuisine which has a habit to kill off people if not cooked properly.  Morbid chat at the dinner table is always my favourite.  Meet the pufferfish (aka Fugu).  You may be thinking of the character in Finding Nemo.  The one that talks, cracks a few jokes, makes a fool of itself, randomly explodes from time to time.  But think again.  Pufferfish meat is notorious due to the very fact that if prepared incorrectly it is lethally poisonous.  Why anyone would want to attempt to eat it when there are surely tastier, and less lethal alternatives on the market, is beyond me.  Talk about living an edgy life.  The chemical it contains is tetrodotoxin which is situated within the Fugu's internal organs and skin and has the ability to paralyze muscles, while its victim stays full conscious.  In a nutshell, your breathing is severely affected through your body's inability to consume sufficient oxygen, and you die of asphyxiation.  Hence why only specially licensed chefs are actually allowed to prepare the potentially lethal dish.  I wouldn't want to be the guinea pig in one of those restaurants...

And the pufferfish has a pretty morbid connection to Haiti where elements of the lethal fish were used in bokor's sorcery - the art of zombification, which was used as a punishment for serious crimes.  What no-one realised however was that while the fish had the ability to kill, more often than not it made people act as if they were dead, despite being quite the contrary. Thinking they were dead, people would be buried alive.  But since they were only temporarily resting, the victims, having been sentenced to the ground, would essentially resurrect themselves from "the dead" and believe themselves to be zombies.  I'd like to thank my friend Ben for this interesting story.   So in four days’ time on Halloween, you'll know the implications about dressing up as a Zombie.

Watch this space.

Montana

Pretty in Paris

Until this afternoon, I rather feared that re-stocking my make-up bag would be downright impossible.  I began to prepare for the worst.  I’d purchased some dark glasses for my eyes and a shawl to cover my face.  This was the temporary plan, at least.  Darth Vadar Style.  My beloved brands like No 7, Barry M and Max Factor didn’t seem to grace the Parisian periphery, and Maybelline was only available online.  Whatever would I do?  I’d already parted ways with Herbal Essences, but I wasn’t willing to part ways with my face too.  No, this simply would not do.

Paris, as I have previously lamented, doesn’t have a Boots.  Its semi-alternative is Sephora – which sells make-up that costs you an arm and a leg.  As much as my beauty regime is important to me, I’d rather not spend €30 on some mascara, just because someone decided to scribble Yves Saint Laurent or Estée Lauder across it.  I was beginning to wonder where people in this country actually buy their make-up.  Are they all insanely rich, or am I missing something?  Or perhaps they’re all so naturally beautiful that they don’t rely on smacking on layer after layer of foundation TOWIE style?   

One discovery I did find is that if you’re not fussy at all, you’ll find outrageously cheap beauty products in station concourses.  I went down this route the first time, chuffed at myself for finding €2 mascara.  Let’s just say, I won’t be going back anytime soon.  Not only is it making me look like I have one large eye-lash (shexy), it’s also so flat that it doesn’t give me any of the extra volume I was promised.  Rimmel’s “Get yourself the London look” never seemed a more appropriate slogan than right now.  Because apparently, the Parisian flaccid eyelash look doesn’t suit me so well.

Upon waltzing into Monoprix today on my way to spending yet another small fortune on a baguette, some frozen peas and a tangerine, I came across a blissful discovery.  Not only did I spot make-up galore, but I also couldn’t help notice exactly the same Maybelline mascara I’d be lusting after for so long.  It was like my eyes had finally been opened.  Literally.

And then I bought some Covent Garden mushroom soup because it was raining, and I fancied celebrating*.  Although I did buy some boeuf bourguignon from the Deli counter too, just to make sure I didn’t indulge too much in my roots.

Watch this space.

Montana

  
*I'd just like to clarify that this celebrating has to do with me finally purchasing mascara, not the fact that it was raining.  

Sleepless in Paris

One night a year on a Saturday, Paris stays awake for “La Nuit Blanche”.  In English this translates as “sleepless night”, which inevitably makes me think of Sleepless in Seattle.  And there’s something to be said about Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan meeting at the Empire State Building too.  I thought it would be fitting to re-enact this moment, but instead of mocking up an Empire State Building in Paris, what better place to meet than directly under the Eiffel Tower before marching off into the night?  So that’s exactly what I did.

There are probably easier places to meet than under the Eiffel Tower however.  Number one, it’s a bit clichéd so everyone does it, which leads to number two which is that it gets a little crowded so you see a lot of lost faces searching intently for friends, lovers and online targets.  Made worse by it being night-time (hello darkness), which comes in at number three.  This wasn’t helped by the fact that it was also raining, which didn’t exactly enrich my vision and meant every Sam, Bill and Harry was either holding an umbrella or wearing a rain coat.  Chameleon city.  But eventually I found my friends and after complaining nonstop about the weather, the cold, the puddles and the fact that I was tired, we went on our merry way.   I notice I’m being very cynical.  Never underestimate meeting someone under the Eiffel Tower.  It's a pretty breath-taking affair.

I have a feeling we then wondered over a bridge somewhere, excitedly pointed at a boat which was all lit up, politely declined an invitation to hop on a moving party bus (I lie, we weren’t actually invited), and played an intriguing game called “spot the puddle” which usually ended with someone getting wet feet before the puddle was spotted.  That was until we got an event plan for the evening, received a free bag full of “goodies” (aka fliers), and hopped on the tube.  Since 2 out of the 3 of us enjoy flocking regularly to the theatre, we decided to go Le Theatre du Rond-Point to satisfy our inner thespian.  Turns out that it was actually “psychoanalysis night”.  Oh, Freud would be proud.  So I essentially waited in a queue for half an hour to speak to a woman in a 60s wig and a royal blue woollen suit (I say 60s, but I’m pretty much guessing the decade).  A woman who then gave me a black stain on a piece of paper and told me to speak, as if this stain would stir my very own Oedipus complex.  Speaking French is hard enough already, but having to stare at an unrecognisable mark for five whole minutes and comment on it in French so that a woman can go all Freudian on you is another matter altogether.  It went something like “Je vois le visage d’un bull”.  “And what’s this bull like?” she would ask.  As much as I wanted to say “it’s the same bull you’re looking at, so why don’t you tell me?”, I responded with “err…aggresif, violent, grand”.  She nodded annoyingly, as if she were trying to determine my inner being; as if she had me all figured.  As I peered deeper into the image I started seeing floating rabbits, gory faces, gloomy caves and deserted islands.  I do think it’s dangerous to stare at something for too long.  Especially when you’re told that you’re actually looking at a picture of your mother.  Her last words to me? “Reflect on this”.  Well that’s useful.  Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to do the reflecting for me?  Don’t make me do your job!

The night ensued and queues for all the worthwhile galleries and museums were snaking round the city.  Next stop was a nightclub turned old-fashioned projection room with random, unrelated images which were flashing up on a concrete wall.  It was trying ever so hard to be artsy, but all it succeeded in giving me was a headache.  Projectors aside, this looked like no nightclub I’d ever been in before.  No alcohol stains or sticky sofas; no bar area or flashing spotlights.  Just a semi-underground concrete block.  Hello prison!

The next part of the night was a little too exciting.  Imagine going to Disneyland for the first time.  Triple that.  This was the extent of my excitement.  Bubbles.  Whatever legend says, bubbles are not just for kids.  And whenever I think of bubbles I can’t help but be reminded of the scene in Finding Nemo in the fish tank.  And anything that reminds me of Finding Nemo has the thumbs up from me.  Blowing bubbles is definitely an underrated activity.  But having a bubble machine that lights up and produces bubbles faster than I can say the word “bubbles”, made this little “occasion” in a league of its own.  Physics bored me in school.  But these were rainbow coloured bubbles.  I then realised that it was the refraction of light and ROYGBIV suddenly all made sense to me. 

I then went to the most amazing ice-cream shop known to man, courtesy of a friend who is all too aware of my sweet tooth.  They even make your ice-cream in the shape of rose petals.  Unnecessary, but oh so pwetty.  They didn’t have my beloved mint choc chip which would usually infuriate me, but I decided that since I was in one of Paris’s most revered ice-cream parlours, it would be rude not to try one of their many gourmet flavours.  Thankfully my friend was a connoisseur so pointed me in the right direction.  Anything that looks and tastes mildly like nutella has always got my vote.  Secondly, Speculoos.  This name makes me laugh because it’s just, well, funny.  But the flavour was sensational.  Tasted almost like a mild ginger nut biscuit within an ice-cream, with caramelised sugar cane, cinnamon and nutmeg (apparently).  Unfortunately my taste-buds aren’t that refined.  But whatever they put in it was darn tasty!  After feeling rather chuffed with myself as I held my ice-cream in one hand and my umbrella in the other, I licked the ice-cream like there was no stopping me.  Talk about guilty pleasures.

I was tucked up in bed by 3am because I had work the next morning (on a Sunday, yes).  But even though I wasn’t Sleepless in Paris, I was still Dreaming of Paris.

Watch this space.

Montana