berce mon coeur // cradle my heart

Your worst disappointments always stem from your greatest expectations. I speak, of course, of Laduree.

Laduree is one of the most famous bakeries in Paris, known especially for their macarons. I haven't been able to confirm it, but I have heard that they provided said delicacies for the movie Marie Antoinette. I suppose that that should've been my first sight--Things That Look Good® tend to taste like shit compared to their more rustic, home-baked cousins.

I went to Laduree for the first time in mid-September, a Madwoman on Mission for Mouthwatering Macarons. You know how some women waffle over which pair of shoes they want to wear? Well, I do that when faced with a choice of pastries, except I'm worse. It took forever, but I eventually decided on the macaron with the caramel au beurre salé. (I am a woman of immense faith, you see, and I was convinced that salted butter caramel could make anything taste better.)

Imagine, then, the sheer despair that overcame me when I bit into that macaron, expecting heaven and being confronted instead with a stale and oversweet monstrosity. I experienced my first true heartbreak that day--even worse than the disappointment I felt upon discovering that Magnolia Bakery in NYC sold dry cupcakes.

But you see, I am a sucker, easily swayed by pretty packaging and whispered promises. And so, a month later, with M. from Princeton's friends visiting, I took the opportunity to go there again. Despite having been burned in the past, I stepped through its green doors with hope in my heart.

Knowing better than to pay 1.50 Euro for a measly pastry the size of a half dollar, I (very logically) gave up an arm and a leg to try out one of their bigger pastries. M. from my university did the same so that the two of us could each sample two different desserts.

I guess I should've known. My pastry came to me in a pretty green box, further protected from the weather by a plastic bag. Upon opening the shiny lid, I was confronted by the comforting sight of chocolate and coffee pastry cream. Eating said pastry (I forget its name)....that was a disappointment. There was a brief moment of clarity where I realized that at least 80% of the 7.60 Euro I paid for the confection went to the Department of Making Shit Look Good.

But I can only be fooled so many times, Laduree. I have some friends visiting soon, and so I will probably be suckered into visiting your establishment again. This time, however, I will be strong and resist your siren's call. I will fortify myself against your sugary charms with a ton of chocolate before venturing into your territory. Never again, Laduree. We are over.



On an unrelated note, a Frenchwoman who is on a perpetual diet asked me for my Chocolate Espresso Torte recipe. I guess that means I win at life?

Up next: Paris as a Tourist Destination, or How T. Will Take the Opportunity to Document and Photograph Touristy Places that She Should've Done the First Time Around

tâche d'être heureux // try to be happy

I haven't cooked too much lately, mainly because I've gotten a) busy, and b) lazy. I've also been willfully eating like shit for the past two weeks. Oops.

That said, I made this for dinner:

Sweet soy glazed chicken and onions on a bed of steamed broccoli.

I actually wasn't a big fan, despite the fact that it came out looking delicious. One of the few times food blogs have led me wrong.

To make up for this pedestrian effort, I made Chicken Cacciatore the next day. It is a stew with tomatoes, mushrooms, zucchini, red bell pepper, and...chicken. It was much more delicious and satisfying, but does not photograph anywhere near as well.

And comme d'habitude, I made enough to last a week. Or at least three days.

la vie n'est pas un théâtre // life is not a play

I forget sometimes that Paris is a large city and therefore potentially dangerous.

Despite the impersonal reserve of Parisians, the city is set up so that you always feel as though you are walking through a series of villages. While this is true of the charming neighborhoods like Montmartre, it also applies to the shabbier working-class neighborhoods.

A few days ago, I witnessed my first act of violence in Paris.

We'd been reading about the increasing instances of "senseless" urban and suburban violence in class, so the topic was already on my mind. It was, however, something that I thought of in a purely academic light. Sure, I always joked with my friends about getting mugged or dying in a ditch somewhere, especially during the times when we'd walk through an especially unsavory part of town, but I never really took it seriously. Because to be honest, Paris is a pretty safe city. Many people have it a lot worse elsewhere.

But seeing a girl get beat up by a gang of other girls while you are stuck, helpless, on the other side of the Metro tracks changes your perspective quite a bit.

My faith in humanity remains intact, however, as there were people on the other side who could and did immediately come to the girl's help. People do give a shit.

I was never overly naive about the realities of the world (or even of Paris). I also am fairly certain that I would be an unlikely target for any gangs. Thus, I am relatively safe. Regardless, it is always a bit saddening and disconcerting when you realize how much clearer the rose-colored glasses have become.

Girl-on-the-Metro, wherever and whoever you are, I hope that you got home okay and that you are safe.

quel est ce mystère // what is this mystery

I was feeling super-depressed when Thanksgiving rolled around. This was unexpected, seeing as I wasn't really into it while in the States. In addition, I'd thought that since the French didn't celebrate it, it'd be better since there would be no reminders.

Instead, I got out of class at 7:30 p.m. on Thursday night, feeling utterly bereft and maudlin.

This malaise, however, might have been due to the fact that M. had been whining about it too. And since misery loves company...

I'm not blaming anyone. Really.

In any case, we decided that a Thanksgiving dinner was, in fact, absolutely necessary. And that goddammit, the boys were going to have to dress up. (The girls, too. But girls don't need convincing.) And so we did.

We all showed up at M.'s place in Boulogne after having spent a fortune on American food ingredients. Despite the fact that pretty much everyone was milling around in the kitchen, each needing to use the oven and stove more than the last, we got dinner on the table in about four hours. Very impressive, if I do say so myself.

Our menu:

• butternut squash soup (I winged it again this year, adjusting things to my taste with much better results)
• smoked salmon & tomatoes quiche with confiture d'oignons
• garlic mashed potatoes
• green beans with lemon butter & garlic (I guess I was determined that we had some sort of vegetable on the table, even if it was slathered in butter...)
  
• roasted chicken (try finding a full turkey in France on a student budget...)
• pumpkin pie with whipped cream
• apple pie with vanilla ice cream
• M.'s whoopie pies from who-knows-when

and



I forgot my camera, so these pictures actually belong to M. from Princeton. I shamelessly purloined them from facebook.

There was, of course, red wine, white wine, and cider to round things out. Not bad for some poor college students three guys and two girls, huh?