Highlights from Paris (only half is about food):

* Rose wine and spring rolls at the rooftop restaurant of the Pompidieu
* Notre Dame at night
* Caramel, chocolate, and salt macaroons from Cacao et Chocolat (36, rue Vieille du Temple).
* Spotting tile spacemen throughout the city
* Lunch at Bastille market (Roast pork, baguette, comte, crepes).
* Wandering around the Marais
* Chocolate and raspberry croissants, courtesy of kind hosts Iris and Irv
* Conversation about the future direction of journalism (and the Wall street Journal), once again courtesy of Iris & Irv
* Roasted tomato stuffed with lamb confit at La pamphlet (38, rue Debelleyme)
* Running along the Seine (morning run through the dew around the Eiffel Tower; afternoon long run)

Francia

After the initial cultures shock (village to city), it was nice to be among tons of people again. Montpellier was very relaxing and full of good French food, cheap wine, and delicious yogurt. In a café/bookstore, I found Adam Gopnik’s Paris to the Moon, which I read over a cup of tea. His writing was marvelous, as usual.

En route

On the journey from Chamonix to Montpellier, someone rummaged through my bag and stole the one thing that was very dear to me and (I thought) no one else in the world—my running shoes. So, I visited stores in Montpellier like Courier (“To Run”) and Footlocker. They do not sell ANY sports equipment.

UPDATE: The list of missing things continues to grow – a bit of zyrtec, American cell phone, unlaundered Arizona State basketball t-shirt. I don’t know the full extent of the damage, partially because I never took a census of my stuff and partially because I’m very disorganized.

Cookies and milk

I still love the Alps. When I’m there, I (1) blend in with the other people wearing polar fleece (in Chamonix), (2) thank God I’m not lactose intolerant (in Courmayeur), and (3) have a new appreciation for Frodo’s climb in Lord of the Rings. The Valdaosta also has a wonderful cookie called Tegole (“tiles”). These hazelnut cookies are round, thin, and the diameter of my mouth, the result of which are little razor cuts on the corners of my mouth from eating too many in quick succession.

The Mont Blanc ultra marathon was a few days before I left, so incredibl(ly crazy) athletes were beginning to descend on the area. I wanted to bow and touch the hem of their gore-tex jackets. I half expected to see Dan O’Flaherty among them, but then realized he’s probably quite content running ultra marathons in New Jersey.

P.P.P.P.P.P.

I love food, but what I love more is feeding people. It's more fun to cook for others than for myself, and more satisfying to cook for friends than for strangers. Therefore, in exchange for a bed, visitors to my humble village must eat my food. (And, to keep the gender roles blurred, clean the dishes.) (See Exhibit A: "Captive house guest." Don't worry, Barry. I set him free eventually.)

Usually I recreate dishes from work. One day after a night at the restaurant during the Toscana Nights street festival, I tried to replicate Marco's gnocchi with cream and pears. The dish was doomed to poor imitation from the start due to a lack of gnocchi and cream. With no gnocchi, I changed the consistency of the sauce to better suit the long pasta I had. With no cream, I changed the flavor profile to fit a lighter sauce.

In other words, it came out completely different. Crepes rather than pancakes. Cake rather than brownies. Gumbo rather than jambalaya. This dish, which I call 6Ps (porri, parpadelle, pecorino, prosciutto, pera, pepe), has been declared a favorite by all (three) guests who visited after it's creation. And only one was related to me. God's smiting thumb! I'll have to hang on to this one for when I'm a yuppie.

6Ps - Add olive oil in a pan with chopped prosciutto and chopped leek. Add cubed, skinned pear and let cook for a few minutes. Add dry white wine (Vernaccia di San Gimignano) and let cook until alcohol evaporates. Add pepper and butter to taste. Add cubed pecorino and let cook until pecorino starts to melt. Add almost-cooked parpadelle to pan, mix, and let cook excess liquid in pan has been absorbed by the noodles.

* To make the pear flavor more subtle, crush cooked pear pieces with the tines of a fork before adding pasta.
* Salt levels in this dish will vary based on the prosciutto you use. (di Parma = dolce; di San Daniele = semi-dolce; di Toscana = salato). Add salt as necessary.

One thing I forgot to mention

Marco is a great chef and entrepreneur. He opened the restaurant where I work about three years ago. The restaurant is decorated with bold colors and modern art and features a courtyard out back where visitors, both Italian and foreign, can enjoy the Tuscan dusk.

Most of these visitors must be surprised by the tattoo/piercing parlor that opened across the way in June. Nestled in the a thousand year old castle, the shop is painted black with gold trimming and also features Lucky 13 Apparel. Leaving work one day, I saw an Italian grandmother in a cashmere sweater looking first at a black hoodie encrusted with a fake diamond scull (100 euro), then at a pleather belt (35 euro), and then at a set of handcuffs ("for sex").

The shop has caused a small stir among the more conservative citizens of Ambra, and students of economics know that the solution should be Coase's--the family restaurant should buy the tattoo shop. And then shut it down.

The latter will never happen, because the former already has.

Marco, a great chef and entrepreneur, is also a tattoo artist and the athiest drummer in a heavy metal band. Anticipating public consternation, he named his tattoo parlor "Doctor Madd" rather than "Doctor Satan." The shop in Ambra is doing quite well. Marco plans to open other stores in Florence and Arezzo.

I mention this to shed light less on Marco than on the area, because Marco's shop can survive only as long as there are people who require his services. There are British and German tourists that walk among the castles and celebrate the red wine and rolling hills. There is the nearby bridge, which Leonardo da Vinci painted into the background of the Mona Lisa. And there is the youth culture. Here, you can get a piercing with your pasta. You can drink prosecco with folks with multiple tattoos and barbells in their ears. You can learn about scarification until the explainer must go home for dinner with his mother.

Rock on.

In my room lives quite possibly the dumbest mosquito in the world. It bit the bottom of my foot.