Christophe; brains on rue Descartes

Beige, beige. Beige.

Rosa: Lunch started so well. Ben had been listening to Biggie on the metro, and I was stoked with cold parisian air and felt high as a kite. I should have known something was wrong when I saw the font chosen by Christophe. Very curly. I think it's called Curlz Desdemona. Anyway, it's what year 8s use for their first essay. And it was orange on green. Bit Irish for me.

I should have appreciated them more because these were the only bright colours I saw chez Christophe. We plumped for the 2 course luncheon for 16 euros. Both of us took the cream of lentil soup. To be fair, it fulfilled that soupy stereotpye of being a hug in a bowl. It was essentially double cream which had met a lentil on the street once and said 'hi' but didn't really even shake hands. But there was a porridgey element to it, which was important to me because porridge is important to me. I set up a group dedicated to it on a cool social networking site called Facebook. It is called PAN, which is clever because it stands for Porridge Appreciation network AND, unless you use that sachet shit, you normally need a pan to cook porridge. I'm not sure how I came up with it. Anwayz, back to our friend Christophe: his bread was copious and excellent, the burnt edges had a woody raisin tang to them.

Grey was understandable for lentil soup because lentils are grey and it wouldnt do to jazz them up with food dye. A quenelle of something bright like beetroot wouldn't have gone visually a miss though, but whatevs. Forgive and forget. But then the mains came out. Not only was mine - mackeral fillets on seigle spaghetti - the colour of a Velib, so was Ben's. No flotsam of salad, or jetsam of punchy sauce. Just Velib grey; stoney, steel, sad.

My main was alright. Mackeral is very fishy, I forget this. The pasta was wet with something that wasn't sauce. I think it may have just been water. Salty water atleast - kind of like the sea that the mackeral had come from - so it was not strictly unpleasant. But it didn't leave me wanting to write poetry, or even dance.

Most importantly, Ben had brain. For me, it was like loose, wet souffle.

Ben: Oh man.

I'd heard good things about this place. I'd read about it in Gourmet, see, which has a special place in my heart. Where some needy children steal their mother's Vogue, I would store copies of my dear ma's Gourmet. I'd intercept the delivery, grab the mag, and run like buggery to sift through those silken pages. Such vivid memories. Probably cuz I last did it a month ago. Ran like an excited school girl to sift through the pages, nearly broke the sofa as I belly flopped onto it.

This was one special Gourmet, a Paris issue all about inexpensive restaurants. And guess who happened to be there, Christophe and his brand of hearty, traditional French fare, with a twist. That twist happened to be brain.

I chose it, I ate it, I ingested 400% of my daily cholesterol (http://caloriecount.about.com/calories-veal-brain-i17190). And it wasn't really that bad, at first. But then that mushy, gloopy texture just took over, and the crust started peeling and you could see the individual brain bits. And the thing about brain is that it looks like brain.

So I ate it, and finished it, and wont be having it again. That lentil soup was good mind.

To end, a few words from Biggie:

" When it comes to sex, I'm similar to the thriller in Manila
Honeys call me Bigga the condom filler
Whether it's stiff tongue or stiff dick
Biggie squeeze it to make shit fit"

Couldn't put it better myself.

Le Vieux Cèdre; my local hero for my Year Abroad essay

Rosa: Ahmad and Wakim, as I will call them for now until I research their real names, are the best men in the 5th arrondisement, maybe all of Paris.

They run, and live in, I think, a 9M2 sandwicherie booth which sells superb Lebanese fare. I will add pictures (not the dodge ones of me and Wakim though, don't worry Mum!)

Ben: I had the kofta, it looked like a turd. The anemic chicken, in the most positive sense, that Rosa had was much better. They give free tea and baklava though, so I'm a fan!

Le Pré Verre; wine at lunch makes you send effusive emails

Rosa: Team Meat went to Le Pré Verre to celebrate Obama's victory. O-bama O-bama O. Black is back.

We sat downstairs which is less atmospheric, but the waiter man if I remember correctly was very tall and accommodating.

The French wazz on about rapport qualité-prix. This place has a great rapport. Lunch time - 2 courses, good red wine and a jet-engine coffee - 13 fiddy. Nice.

Except the starter is parsley soup. I hate the parsley, man. In Mexico they sprinkled that shit on everything. Or was it coriander? Anyway, I hate them both. Crap leaves.

Instead I got a bean terrine, on an olive oiled-up salad. Terrine is a funny old technique but I liked this because there was none of that gelatine stuff. Regarding the bean, it was kidney.

Then we had brandade de morue (Cod). Oh it was like baby food in the best possible way. Stodgy, moist, copious. It reminded me of when I used to order a full english and cut it all up into little pieces and blend it all together with my fork and eat it like that. I adddddored it. And I adored the brandade. It was so filling, Leah was felled and I got to finish hers. I love weak women who leave stuff for the stronger brethren.

We drank the wine we were given and also the wine given to a Chinese couple who didn't touch it. I am not one to drink it the day so I was very merry. And when I got to work I sent an email to a woman I had never spoken to using the word 'love' and a lot of exclamation marks. And then I studiously avoided her eye. Nice.

Le Loup dans le Théière; the most gargantuan lemon meringue pie in the history of eggs

"We missed our spot you dorks" Kir-Royale 2008, queue-er extraordinaire.

Ben: I really enjoyed this meal.

Good food, good people, good times.

My ol' mucker Lewis was in town, and we'd been raving it up the night before, getting lashed and lairy and ripping shit up, and the like. Pretty standard really.

We were to meet the ol' gang for breakfast, which soon turned to lunch as we didn't wake up til late as we're such heroes, lash heroes that is.

We also had to go to monop so that Lewis could get a towel. He chose a lovely number with a bear holding a heart. I still have the towel to this day, though I gave it a proper wash mind....

So we met Rosa and Ciara and the delightful Jimmy in the marais for some eats. And it was good. Nothing spectacular, but a nice convivial atmosphere for friends, and not so much friends, to talk and act like they like each other. Which we did. I think.

What we ate isn't as important as the atmosphere, a rich, velvety bonhomie, like veal stock or lentil soup. Incidentally, I order lentils, with some sausage and onions, and I enjoyed it. The girls (who else...) then ordered a lemon meringue pie that struggled with its own weight. Poor fella.

Minh Chau-down

If I could fill a bath with their molasses-coloured Boeuf Sate, sprinkle it with their sweet and sour salad and have a shower head that sprayed in rice; that would be the life I'd choose.

Breizh Cafe; and other Crèpe-y contes

Rosa:

Crèpes Crèpes
are often Crèpe
But sometimes a good
type of food
when i was little
a 12 year old shittle

I came to Paris and only, only, only ate Nutella crèpes. (Very drying on the mouth)

Anyway yes, there are lots of Crèpes to be seen and conquered in Paris.

We went to Breizh cafe, which is supposed to the the Breizt in Paris. They do like crèpe that are cut up and look all like sushi and shit. Way out.

I was quite unadventurous and went for the old egg, cheese, ham and confit onion. I've got to say that the galette itself was shiny and buttery crispy at the edges. But la-dedans... I salted well good but the flavour lacked punch. It was closer to a flick with a broken finger. Wasabi dressed salad equally did not have the desired nasal passage plumbing effect. The caramels they gave when we paid were superb though and stuck to my back teeth for many hours to come.

Mi va (oh my oh my) Mi

Rosa: In the words of the Artful Dodger, re-re wind. Back to meal number 2. The Marais... for FALAFEL. Jewishness and gayness (in the archaic joyful sense), squooshed together, and deep fried into crispy heaven sacks.. yes, mate.

Anyway, start at the beginning. I used to hate falafel because my mum pronounces it wrong. Like she pronounces 'trauma' wrong, and also the surnames of all teachers I have adored. Man, mispronunciation gets my goat.

But in Paris, all falafel experiences have been very good to excellent. My first was at Falafel King, where the head chef/deep fryer, a nice be-capped man called Jerome, gave me his telephone number. He probably fancied me or something because I am very beautiful. His heaven sacks were so good, I was tempted. If I married him, that would make me Falafel Queen..

I am very glad I didn't take the first offer. Jerome is not Falafel King. He is more of a Prince Regent. The King of the Chick pea mile is Mi Va Mi.

It is opposite the other (famous, whatevs) one - 'L'as de falafel' - endorsed by Lenny Jewish Kravitz. It has a long line due to Lenny and a good review in the NYT, but I like to call it "Ass de falafel". Clever. I mean, it's finnnne, but not great (the oil they fry in is off I think; it has a mild fishy gassiness to it).

But Mi Va Mi on the other hand! Whip me senseless and call me Andy!

Ben: Whip me senseless and call me Andy - indeed

Let me start at my beginning. I'm Jewish. In addition to saving money, Bill Clinton and Florida, I, like all other Jews (or at least all the good Jews - narelim, you know who you are!) love those deep fried balls of goodness.

My first falafels were consumed while still under the roof of my Mother. Dank micro-waved spheres procured from the evergreen M&S. They weren't terribly good. But my young imagination burst with the possibility of these critters - what deliciousness could potentially be had in such balls of deliciousness.

It was not until my Paris years that I truly discovered the premium goodness of this Jewish treat.

Like Rosa, I wandered through the dessert of falafel, struggling to find the promise land...

First, there was the Falafel King (Prince Regent at best!), then the As. The stamp of aproval from Lenny Kravitz, a half Jew, was just too darn convincing. And so I stuck on that As for quite a while, being assured it was the best. But, I always stared, longingly gazing at Mi-Va-Mi across the cobbles, wondering: what if? I never dared venture.

But then, one magical evening, I was shown the light. My 40 years of wandering were over: I had made it to the promise land. When Rosa swayed me, forced me to Mi-Va-Mi, I knew there was no going back. Now, my friendship with Lenny Kravitz is no more, I'll never again receive his amusingly worded Christmas Cards.

And, dammit, its worth it.

When I stuck those deep fried balls in my mouth, I knew there was no going back. I had fallen. The textures, the taste, the spicy tang - it was a perfect falafel.

Plus they gave extra aubergine, no supplementary cost. For a Jew like me, that was quite alright.

2 for 1 on Wags (Buy Cheryl, get Colleen thrown in for free)

Rosa: Crudstains! My friend Ingrid @ Wagamama has just sent me a Wags freebie. Can't bloody use it because in Paris. Any of our 0 abonnes, go here http://www.wagamama.com/showvoucher/ODcy/ to use it. Wisely. On Yaki Udon/Soba and not that expensive prawn dish which you always think will be nicer than it is and actually had a rather loosening affect on my stomach once.

Chez Gladines; a basque ETA-rie

Rosa:
THE ABRDIGED VERSION.

Ben didn't want to eat this:

So we ate this:

And then, when I had finished, I turned my bowl into a helmet, like this:

Ben: As I'm far more serious about food than Rosa, having worked at two star Michelin restaurant Le Gavroche, I will write a far more serious review of this establishment. I'm like the Michael Winner to Rosa's A.A. Gill. No Jay Raynor though, he's a prick.

Rosa and I wanted to get some munch, so we trawled through the restaurants on my list to see where to go. Unfortunately though, we live in Paris, France. Everything closes on a Sunday. Everything. Except the falafals on rue des Rosiers, but that's a post for another time, and what a post that'll be! So we were stuck. However, Rosa remembered this place in the 13th. So we went there.

First though, we wandered the streets of the charming 13th to find the Tang Freres shop, the biggest Asian supermarket in Europe. I recently went to Malaysia and Thailand, and have ever since been infected by the smells of the East, quite literally. And Paris is bloody useless for Asian food. As I had to fill up on my noodles and Chinese vinegar and oyster sauce, there was really only one place to go - the biggest Asian supermarket in Europe!

(to avoid the Sisyphean task of roaming the streets of the 13th, in desperate search for the premium Asian food store of Europe, use a map!)

Rosa: It is worth mentioning at this point that Ben believes everything is about a 10 minute walk away. Everything. Eiffel Tower to the Sacre Coeur; Land's End to John O Groats. It drives me to drink. After being promised that the Tang place was 10 minutes away and that I wasn't to worry because Ben has an "excellent innate sense of direction", it took us the wrong side of forty minutes. It was raining so I had to turn my scarf into a coral woolen burkha and look like a dimwit.

Ben: Anyway, after shopping, we got some dinner, and it was good. I had duck confit with 'shrooms and crispy tatties while Rosa had a salad in a bowl. It weren't too expensive and was very filling. What was lacking in finesse was made up with big portions. For a cheap Jew like me, that was quite alright.

Rosa: Also, "salad in a bowl" doesn't really cut it. Since that could refer to those tinned tuna salads, acceptable only in cases of nuclear fallout. My salad featured stepping-stone-like sauteed potatoes, a curtain of thick cured ham, a fried egg with a strikingly orange yolk, and a yurt load of cantal cheese atop a bed of fridge-fresh romain lettuce. Dayyyyym son, he so fine, he blow my mind.

Regarding the environs of the restaurant itself; it is credit crunch Christmas - burgundy and pinetree green - meets jazzy vintage poster meets Basque flags on wall. I'm not sure about the Basque flag, it's kind of like the British one, gone through the wash. Also, we were seated (1) by a bearded australian man who asked entirely unprompted if we needed help translating the menu. Er, no thanks, Bruce! and (2) a nest of booming American men with varying levels of head hair. (I feel this is unrepresentative of the normal clientele: we were clearly put in the Anglophone corner. They must have made a mistake or something)

The Boite de Neuilly Breakfast Club.

Rosa: The first food Ben and I ever ate together was boulangerie produce. We were working very early on a Sunday morning, and all that can be bought at that anti-social time is bread-based. Sometimes I wonder if Ben will turn into bread because he does eat an awful lot of it. I came with a modest pain au chocolate, which I think was a few days old because it's brown, buttery sheaths were very brittle. Benchops however, came with a ficelle, daubed with cheese which had dried like yellow nail varnish, a big old baguette and an almond croissant which weighed the same as my foot. And I'm size 8.

It was the first time I'd really spoken to him. I wasn't sure. Ben has got a funny accent because of his childhood. But apart from that I thought he was OK and I liked that he shared his bread, which is what Jesus did too.

Ben, will you add here what the boulangerie you single handedly funded for life was called?

Ben: The boulangerie is called Arnaud Delmontel, and is on 39 rue des Martyrs in the 9th. It won the best baguette of the year award in 2007. What happened in 2008, no one knows, but clearly they've let their standards slip, well, in the eyes of the baguette of the year award panel at least. I, however, still find their baguettes quite delicious, crusty and dark with a beautifully fluffy centre. I'll eat a whole one for breakfeast, lunch and dinner. Fuck the atkins diet.

I wish I won best baguette of the year award...

Anyway, its on rue des Martyrs, in the 9th, which is near me. I keep on telling people, friends, acquaintances, drunks on the metro, that the 9th is the place to be. Its the new scene really. There are good restaurants, bars, and the best baguette of the year award winner for 2007. But this all a pathetic front. In truth, I'm trying hide the fact that I live in the red light district, around the corner from the Moulin Rouge, passing along side streets with pimps and octogenarian prostitutes. They seem quite pleasant though. I feel they have a sense of maternal protection for me, always giving me smiles as I walk home. It makes me feel uncomfortable.