An excerpt from "Hungry for Paris"
Some ten years ago, I went to dinner one night with no expectations. A
London newspaper had asked me to write about Lapérouse, an old warhorse
of a restaurant overlooking the Seine on the Left Bank—it was doing
historic Paris restaurants, and this one’s been around forever. I
politely suggested that there might be better candidates, because as
far as I knew, this place was still a slumbering tourist table flogging
its past: it has several charming tiny private dining rooms with badly
scratched mirrors—as the legend goes, these cuts were made by ladies
testing the veracity of newly offered diamonds (real diamonds cut
glass).
The editor was unyielding, so off I went. The stale-smelling dining
room was mostly empty on a winter night, and though the young mâitre
d’hôtel was unexpectedly charming and gracious, I was more interested
by my friend Anne’s gossipy accounts of a recent visit to Los Angeles
than I was by the menu.
“This one, honey, this one looks good.” I said excitedly to Shannon on our first night in Barcelona. We were standing in front of a small, lofted restaurant with windowed walls, wood furniture and an elaborate artistic white chandelier.
My Hungarian grandma made the best apple strudel I've ever had. Here in Hungary it's apple season and apple strudel is showing up on many of the restaurant menus. Yesterday, on the Pest side of the Danube, I came upon the Strudel House. I ordered the sweet cottage cheese-filled strudel, mainly because it was served with a rosehip sauce, which I wanted to taste.
From Casablanca on the coast to the inland city of Fez in the northern part of Morocco, the area looks very much like the American Southwest.
Please enjoy this guide to not letting your eyes and stomach get the best of you while roaming around the city. Because folks, I only have your best interests in mind and would hate for you to pack on an additional nine pounds (you read that right) while visiting this amazing city.