une fête de noël chinoise

being back at home means lots of "asian occasions" -- what my friends and i dub these gatherings of family friends to eat, drink, and gab :)

i will never, ever get tired of this season. or mulled wine.

happy christmas!

love,
li

did you know?

"Long before fast food chains invaded the city, New York’s favorite place to grab a quick lunch and a cup of Joe was the Automat.  

"If you were a working stiff in New York any time during the mid-twentieth century, there’s a good chance that your daily lunch breaks were spent at one of the fifty Automat restaurants around the city. At the height of their popularity, they served around 350,000 customers a day. With their vast walls of chrome-and-glass food-dispensing machines offering everything from Salisbury steak to cream spinach to apple pie, the Automats were famous for simple, hearty fare at a low price."

-- Automatic for the People: Remembering the Automat Restaurant

I'm in awe. Sounds a lot more fun than Seamless!

(h/t @alishalisha)

say hello to my newest love

this is saundra.

i met her at a christmas party (more on that later).

she's 7 years old, and so darn cute it's unfair.

but this is eased by the fact that she told me she loves me.

the best part? her mother said i could have her. lol!

chez l'ami jean, from my diary

paris, march 2011

it is close to 8pm, the time of our dinner reservation, as we plod down cobblestone streets. 

from la motte picquet grenelle we had transferred to ecole militaire, harsh lights of the underground clipped by cool night as we climbed to street level. ink sky brightens in moving patches, spotlighted by the cylindrical glow radiating from the eiffel tower.  

with our tattered map in hand, we stumble through the streets of the 7th arrondissement, passing doorways and signs, squinting at the foreign letters that darkness renders even more incomprehensible. along the street, potted windows glow with the warmth and ruddiness of wine-blushed diners inside, until we reach—aha!—l'Ami Jean. 

source

on the sidewalk outside a forlorn-looking young man is peering at the menu posted beside the door. just as we are about to duck inside he turns to us with a faint air of confusion and desperation. "hey, do you know if this place is any good?" 

his americanness is palpable even before the first word. i smile. "it's actually our first time here, too." 

he introduces himself as michael, an architecture student from boston ("no way!") who is studying abroad in florence for the semester and freshly (as of about an hour ago) and cluelessly arrived in paris for a week-long trip.

"this place is supposed to be really good," we tell him—no better place for a first meal.

"do you want to have dinner with us?" we offer, without really expecting him to say yes. but a moment later we are inside apologizing to an irked maître d' who is making a huff about providing an extra seat. 

"what's this yellow stuff?" [pops a wedge into mouth] "hm.... butter."

the three of us cram into a corner table meant for two, and a bounty of charcuterie arrives, the cutting board so large it nearly overthrows our wine glasses.  

leaves of marbled ham, thick slices of white baguette, niblets of pure pig fat, velvety goose liver terrine, and tiny cornichons that have to be fished out of their brine with little tongs. it is probably more food than those of the peasant class saw in a lifetime under louis xvi.

michael rifles through his backpack and pulls out an enormous dslr and begins to snap photos. i marvel, feeling quite intimidated clutching my pink p&s. [clearly, this was before i got my own dslr.]   

 

between gusty mouthfuls of charcuterie (do art students not eat unless someone feeds them?), michael explains that he had escaped to paris following a gut-wrenching breakup. 

"what happened?" i ask.  

"she got back together with her ex."

"fuck. forget her." 

"but she smelled so nice..." he sighs. i giggle as he waxes poetic. he is a charming caricature of un artiste emotif. he was definitely in the right city for wallowing in forsaken love.

my underage self is tipsy with the first glass, woozy with the second, and drunk with the third.  

  

 i am basically full by this time but, unbelievably, there is more food. 

the server brings out a tray of braised beef cheeks so tender it melts at the prod of our silverware, the glistening canvas of china prettied by daubs of coloured vegetables

soon we discover that the table adjacent to ours is also occupied by folks from les états unis—a trio of girls: mother, daughter, grandmother. we laughingly wonder if the restaurant segregated us on purpose, then shift our tables closer together. it rapidly becomes a party of introductions, shared dishes, "how do you know each other?"s, and more wine.

our waiter—ostensibly tipsy now as well—insists we order the rice pudding. "the best in paris!" he boasts. i'm dubious—how good could rice pudding be?, recalling the watery substance my mother always made with leftover sticky rice.  

but we acquiesce.

it appears in a huge white bowl, an oozy divine mountain of rice globules streaked with honey. it is so thick that the wooden spoon stands up straight. 

he spoons a cloud onto my plate, garnishes it with spiced granola and crumbled meringue, and finishes it with a drizzle of caramel au beurre sale.

a spoonful to the lips, a dream on the tongue. jesus. 

my eyes close involuntarily as i drown in the silky sweet crunchy perfect melange of flavours, textures, and colours. christ. 

 

three glasses of sauternes to finish. i drink it in one breath because... why not? 

a while later we bid our adieus and fetch our coats. on the street outside my head spins from the wine, tongue yet tasting lingering sweet. le garçon obligingly lights a cigarette for me. a draw sears my throat, restores my balance. i stick out an arm and a cab instantly appears. we hastily exchange contact information and promise to invite him for dinner tomorrow... 

from the window of the taxi i watch him saunter down the street, shabby backpack slung over his shoulder and cigarette perched between his lips. walking slowly, without any end or aim but to mend a broken heart.

—

we never did hear from michael again. i hope he was okay in paris by himself.

sometimes when i'm walking through the back bay and i catch a whiff of cigarette smoke i turn around, half expecting to see him.

—

p.s. names have been changed to protect the innocent :P
p.p.s. smoking is bad for you. [ETA: i don't smoke!]
p.p.p.s. you should check out the ulterior epicure's photos on flickr from his meal at l'Ami Jean! they are infinitely better than mine.

—

Chez l'Ami Jean
27 Rue Malar
75007 Paris, France
01 47 05 86 89

eastern standard

i adore eastern standard inside the commonwealth hotel. the food's not revelatory by any means, but it's comforting and always reliably good. the atmosphere is vaguely french and elegant, but still relaxed and cozy -- i don't really feel like i'm at a restaurant; instead, i'm just sitting down in a well-appointed room, and there just happens to be people serving me food (how nice!). there's also a cool photo gallery on the second floor. and last but not least, the drinks here are definitely some of the best in boston.

all in all, it's just a wonderful place to come to eat and talk and drink and repeat ... on and on for three hours, and never feel rushed. :)

"corio coupe"--reyka vodka, apricot puree and orange oil

offal du jour: crispy chicken liver!

camembert & tomato flatbread

egg cream; drowning my reading period woes

christmas decorations in the commonwealth hotel!

truffle risotto @ la petit maison, nice

this feels like it was a world ago, but i thought i'd share anyway because it makes me happy!

mistral

school night dinner at mistral in the back bay. i'm just going to let these pictures speak for themselves...

By the way, what is a "mistral," you ask? (Or at least I did.) I looked it up on Wikipedia, and found this explanation which made me smile:

The mistral is a strong, cold and usually dry regional wind in France. The mistral is usually accompanied by clear and fresh weather, and it plays an important role in creating the climate of Provence. 

The mistral helps explain the unusually sunny climate (2700 to 2900 hours of sunshine a year) and clarity of the air of Provence. When other parts of France have clouds and storms, Provence is rarely affected for long, since the mistral quickly clears the sky. In less than two hours, the sky can change from completely covered to completely clear. The mistral also blows away the dust, and makes the air particularly clear, so that during the mistral it is possible to see mountains 150 kilometers and farther away. 

This clarity of the air and light is one of the features that attracted many French impressionist and post-impressionist artists to the South of France.