Fezzik In Paris

In the month or two before I left, we were consuming copious amounts of Frank’s Red Hot sauce (it’s hcg diet compatible).

While we were dating, I think that my wife was surprised to learn that when I said I was cooking chicken and vegetables for dinner, I was cooking chicken, cooking vegetables, and then putting them on a plate and eating them (no, we’re not skipping any steps here); having been placed in a small aparthotel (I hate the word, but the French seem to dig the portmanteau, and it is, sadly, a very accurate and efficient description) with a kitchen that’s smaller than our guest bathroom back in Houston (the fridge is basically a stainless steel version of the dorm fridges that seemed to merit so much envy when living on campus in college), I have reverted to my bacheloresque cooking habits (actual reason: I’m lazy). Which is to say, I cook some chicken, cut up and briefly boil some broccoli, dump it on a plate, and if I’m feeling particularly Master-Chef-worthy, I have a little cheese on the side too.

At three weeks in, I am still alive, so I’m inclined to declare the plan a success. There shouldn’t be any reason to mess with success, except for the fact that I would punch a baby (not too hard, but, yeah) to get my hands on some Frank’s.

The grocery store down the street has, to my spoiled American eyes, a selection commensurate with the Quick-E-Mart (actually a weird Circle-K knockoff) back home. This is, however, a neighborhood grocer, so it’s probably what I’m stuck with unless I want to go to the huge Auchan in the mall (I looked at the Auchan in the mall. I don’t want to go there). Like all good (or hell, even bad) grocers, this store has an “ethnic” aisle helpfully labeled “l’ethnique.” The contents of the aisle are, to say the least, entertaining, as it should really be called the “hello American dumbass with your crappy food” aisle; there are salad dressings (Wishbone, if anybody cares), various Kikkoman sauces, cans of tuna, and an entire section, floor to top shelf, of Old El Paso taco kits. And Skippy, thank god, crunchy Skippy (Lunch is a PBJ or PB honey. Deal with it.). As deeply amusing as I find the huge selection of Old El Paso, and as relieved as I am that they have Skippy (though at the equivalent of $7 per  12 oz jar), they do not have Frank’s. They have (and I bought) Tabasco sauce (in the French sauces aisle, which came as a bit of a surprise), but Tabasco is a poor substitute; it’s mainly heat, and what little flavor it adds is of the ass variety.

Such is life, I suppose, but I suppose I could try that frighteningly large Auchan…

I am reasonably certain (95%, k=2) that I have just finished consuming the worst-tasting Chipotle burrito I’ve ever laid my hands on.

I know, I know: “Going to another country and just eating American food is stupid. What did you expect?” Well, after screwing around in the Metro station for almost an hour without successfully figuring out which fucking tickets I actually need to buy to get across the city tomorrow morning (at rush hour), I decided that I would walk home through the mall, which was puzzlingly both open and well-attended (it appears to be open in the mornings on Sunday. The more you know™). Having decided that there were really too many people in the mall at that particular point in time, I made for the nearest exit and found myself staring at the newly-opened (as in, they opened this very morning) Chipotle. Shrugging my shoulders and vaguely surprised at the complete lack of a crowd (apparently only Americans get excited about fast food openings – I was kind of expecting the scene that the Chron reported on when the new Chik-Fil-A opened in the Energy Corridor), I figured what the hell, and decided to tempt fate by ordering a burrito with effectively zero knowledge of French.

Fortunately, the woman making my burrito put two and two together (I was reading what I wanted off of the overhead menu as opposed to interacting with her) and switched to English. Victorious, I took my burrito and hiked up the steps of the Grande Arche to see what the hell was up at the top and kill a bit of additional time while I waited for the cleaning crew to get the hell out of my “apartment.”

Bored of the arch (and mindful of the pigeons, who seem not to know that getting stepped on would be fatal), I headed back home and tore into my prey. The tortilla had a weird consistency, the menu wasn’t bullshitting when they said that the rice was lemon and coriander, and he chicken had a faint hint of a spice that I have no idea how to identify. The medium salsa, surprisingly, tasted just like that from back home, and the cheese was almost right but just a little too overpowering; whatever they substituted for fake American mozzarella is good cheese, but too real for a burrito. Prices here continue to astound, too; €9.30 ($12.75 at today’s exchange rate) for just the burrito.

All that said, I’ll almost undoubtedly be back. I’m not going to stoop to Mickey D’s, Parisian or not, and I’d rather not get to know the owner of the pizza place on a first name basis, though I can get a small pizza (two days of dinners) for €11.