You want me to eat a bird's nest?

We arrived at the 16th Century farmhouse at the end of a road to a garden of sculptures. I said to Steven, “An artist lives here.” I asked Madam if she was said artist, but no, it was her husband.
In the description of dinner, I heard the following words: St Jacques (I assumed that had something to do with scallops), endives, buerre, orange, jambon, poire and fruits d’hiver ( I translated that to Steven as “winter fruits”). So far so good, except she turned to us at one point in the description of the jambon course and said “where the bird sleeps.”
Where did the bird fit in with the jambon?
An artistically arranged plate of six of the juiciest, sweetest scallops arrived with braised endives and an orange, white wine and butter sauce. Steven uncharacteristically decided to savour his food, whilst I characteristically inhaled mine.
Then, a pot containing ham and lots of hay around the edges… jambon in a bird’s nest! It was tender and moist and salty and delicious!
And for dessert, a pear tart with kiwi fruit sauce.
We slept under a canopy which was an old milk tank from the farm.
For breakfast the following morning, home-made bread, yoghurt and jams; a local specialty custard cake and buckwheat pancakes.
As we left, I said to Madam “You are an artist.” She smiled shyly.

A kick in the gizzards

Steak tartare, roquefort, duck, croque madam, chocolat chaud…… I’m a walking cliché. If I keep this up, I may have trouble with the walking part of that statement.
I’m just in the mood, so I’m going to try it. And if I don’t like it, I’ll probably eat it anyway.
Last night at the art deco Chartier, formerly a working-man’s cafeteria, now a very popular eatery in Paris, I chose the Choucroute Alsacienne. Didn’t know what it was, but I should have guessed from the word “Alsacienne” that it involved sausage. Several, in fact, plus sauerkraut.
Tonight I had a salad, which I thought was a healthy option. Pity it involved meat from many animals, plus their insides. Gizzards were listed as an ingredient.
We nipped across to the supermarche for dessert; fraises de Francaise the size of small apples.
We’re in Brittany now, so I guess tomorrow’s cliché is crepes and cider.

excusez-moi monsieur, i think my steak is not cooked!

What do you do when in Paris?
Wear a beret.
Visit the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame.
Eat steak tartare, duck, escargots and/or chevre.

Didn’t bring a beret.
Walked the Promenade Plantee (a disused viaduct which is now a 4km walk high above the street with gardens and parks and pushbikes and children).
Ate at Bistrot le Cap. Feeling rather full so can’t type much. Mon bon mari had the escargots with lots of garlic and butter sauce and the duck. I had a delicieux chevre encased in brik pastry with hazelnuts and honey.
I was a steak tartare virgin.
Not any more.

It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t over too quickly. It was actually very pleasant.

I might even give it another try.

Boulangerie Beatrix, Paris

After a quick stop-over in Kuala Lumpur, home of the super-highway and mega-mall, we landed in Paris, surprised and delighted by the mild spring weather. We decided to combine our love of walking with following up some internet recommendations for good coffee shops. The first was not too far from Notre Dame and sold lots of varieties from all over the world. While the barista/owner was very helpful and could make pretty designs on top of the foam (not something that usually inspires us), I noticed he had a habit of licking the spoon that he’d used to make the designs and then re-using it on the next cup. Nice. I figured we’d survived two flights with various edible food-like substances, so I kept it to myself, and we ordered a Machiato each. It was ok, but the French heat-treated milk will always taste odd to us. A French woman once explained to us that “Milk is for babies (bebes)” and therefore only good for making cheese, yoghurt and other yummy things.
We did a longish circuit around Notre Dame, and then stopped for lunch at our favourite Boulangerie, Beatrix, around the corner from the Pompidou Centre. Last time we came to Paris, we caught the Metro into town, and then wondered what to do with our luggage. More seasoned travellers would have taken them to their hotel, or found a locker or something more sensible, but we decided to ask the bakery owner what she thought we should do with two small suitcases. In contrast to what we’d heard about the French, she offered to mind them for us. We thanked her by eating a large morning tea. And then came back for lunch every day. The afternoon coffee shop was fine but while the french do baguettes and tarts very well, the coffee is a bit disappointing.