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.