I was in Paris once before, eleven years ago... when I was much more interested in running around ancient castles and buying trading cards than cooking strange vegetables and watching morning sunrises. My father decided that a trip to England, France, and Ireland was in order, so we set off for a month during the summer. I don't remember much from the trip, except perhaps the Tower of London and the fact that my dad might have clipped a few side view mirrors off some cars on those narrow winding roads.
Now that I'm back in Paris, I have the occasional déjà vu from that trip... such as the time when I played chess with a middle-aged Italian guy under the hot sun in the Jardin du Luxembourg, or when my brother and I insisted that my father take us to a "Hippocampus" restaurant (an ubiquitous chain here). One thing I do remember quite fondly is the fact that even as a child, without the developed taste buds that I think I have now, I still thought that everything we ate was amazing. The quality of the food was so strikingly good- no matter what restaurant we visited or what market we happened to buy a stray melon or box of strawberries from.
One episode in particular stands out in my memory- we were starving, having just walked around the Champ de Mars, and decided to grab a sandwich from a local boulangerie. My father ended up ordering a chicken salad sandwich, essentially a long narrow baguette filled with, well, chicken, mayonnaise, lettuce, and maybe tomatoes. Given my utter fear of mayonnaise at the time, I had no inclination to touch the sandwich. I complained bitterly. yet, when I finally took my first stubborn nibble, I found it to be absolutely delicious. The combination of flavors, perhaps given the freshness of the ingredients, merged perfectly. I munched away while still complaining (you know, to keep up appearances), and to this day I still haven't told me dad I actually liked the sandwich.
So what's the point? Well, I find that for the rare occasions that I eat out or on the street, I end up eating things here that I'd never ever touch at home. I'll happily consume a sandwich with ham, butter, and pickles, or hard-boiled egg, mayonnaise, tomatoes, and lettuce. I once ordered a plate (admittedly by accident) of some sort of bizarre sausage on top of french fries... and it was delicious! Without hesitation, I let the cheese monger at my favorite shop or stand in my market pick out a new cheese for me to try each week. I even can't wait to taste the blood sausage! I don't now if I'm ready for kidney, liver, and brains yet, but I'm sure that because people know how to prepare them here, and have been passing recipes down for generations, then I'd certainly enjoy eating them if I was.
I guess the reason for my change in behavior here is that I've found that the French really value precision and perfection in everything they do. Take the language- the strictness of the grammar for example. Its lists of rules and equally rigid pronunciation leave little room for mistakes. When I pass clothing shops, I see the articles hanging daintily on hangers, shrouded in artificial light and otherwise serenely undisturbed... in other words perfectly arranged. And the food? Don't get me started :) I'd happily wake up at 3 am to see a boulanger set up his or her immaculate display of pastries and breads. I never tire of looking here- it's the perfect city for a quiet observer.
