Alas it was time for my vacation in France to end with the new year
in full bloom and my duties back in New York City calling. I had a
farewell dinner with my father at a little
bistro run by a very young chef. My father is a voracious reader of all
the Parisian publications and came upon a review of the burgeoning
restaurant Jadis. Various newspapers have lauded it as the best of its
kind in the fifteenth and possibly the city. The meal was very good in
a classic bistro fare sort of way though I feel it is a stretch to call
it one of the best in Paris let alone the very best. The food offered
was mostly updated classics and reinvented French conventions. The
cuisine could be called new wave French I suppose, archetypal though
innovative.
The food was mostly game oriented and incorporated every part of the animal from kidneys and entrails, to feet and brain. My father ended up being the bolder of the two of us, ordering two dishes that I loved tasting but would rarely order myself. He began with the pied d’agneau or lamb trotter. The round white bowl that appeared contained a strange looking soupy ragout with chunks of lamb foot meat, snails, button mushrooms, and sliced cardoons. It sounds more like a bizarre sorcerer’s potion but those were in fact the ingredients and they worked surprisingly well. The lamb trotter tasted like fatty pieces of roast leg of lamb and the saltiness of the sautéed snails matched well with the texture of the mushrooms. My father was overjoyed with the dish; naturally a big fan of organ meats given his French heritage. I tried two or three bites and would have gladly accepted my own serving.
Tears always run down my cheeks as we cross that first bridge on the way to the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. I promise myself repeatedly that I won’t cry, but I always do. I can feel my emotions start to well up when I am denied Paris air when the Air France autobus door shuts out the sweet scent of my favorite city. I get anxious knowing the door won’t open again for a whole year as I start my ungraceful shuffle homeward bound. I’m not sad to be going home, I’m sad to be leaving Paris.
The desert palate is grey and yellow now. The grey of sagebrush, and the vibrant yellow of daisy-like brittlebush that bursts in great round humps among the rocks. In fact, it's gloriously golden absolutely everywhere in Palm Springs. These plants flower only once or twice a decade, so I feel enormously grateful to have been there at the right time, not that my Hipstamatic does them justice.
New Orleans, founded in 1718, has many long standing traditions. During the holidays, many of these still exist and there are even a few new ones! There is always a reason to have a celebration in New Orleans but from November - January, traditions and celebrations truly shine.
One of the finest lessons I ever learned in my life was from my
grandmother, "Mamie." We were having dinner at Harry's Bar in Venice
many years ago on a warm summer night in July. My parents had given me,
as a graduation gift from high school, a month in Europe. I had gone
through numerous brochures and found the perfect trip, 10 countries in
28 days. I was exhausted on day 22 but Mamie was quick to remind me, as
I was slouched in my chair, my head nodding dangerously towards what is
probably the most expensive spaghetti in the world, that most people
would break their left arm to have the opportunity to have dinner on a
Saturday night at Harry's Bar in Venice. I sat up straight in my chair
and have always remembered her poignant words.