Back at School

Being back at school means not having any time to eat good food. Pizza and chicken patties, with a whole plate of fries, a dish of ice cream, and a plate of fries for the road is typical. Not that I'm complaining; there are so many creative ways to maneuver the dining hall. I've learned every single way to combine random items around the room into the one perfect plate. Well, not perfect, but satisfying. Or at least filling. Very filling.

But on the other hand- I have been reading a lot. And I find food references everywhere; placed everywhere you'd never expect.

For example, I'm about to finish War and Peace. Tolstoy writes, "if the purpose of dinner is to nourish the body, a man who eats two dinners at once may perhaps get more enjoyment but will not attain his purpose, for his stomach will not digest two dinners."

Tolstoy obviously never went to Wesleyan.

Jean Georges

Last year, during my (literally) one day in the United States, I met up with my friend Andrew for lunch. He was in charge, and the only information I had about that fateful lunch was that I was commanded to wear a skirt. I arrived in Columbus circle; standing in that hectic center circle where all the cars whir past you without a second thought, it's hard to imagine any sort of serenity. But when Andrew led me into Jean Georges, I forgot all about the honking and the running and the swirling lights of Columbus Circle. In the tastefully gray themed dining room, you sit in a room of windows. The yellow taxis are just outside, but once you're inside that elegant world, it's hard to believe they're real.

Being students, Andrew and I could only go to Jean Georges for the surprisingly affordable lunch (fixed price of $25 for lunch!), but when I arrived in New York spontaneously yesterday, I decided to beg my father (a little more settled in his bank account) to treat me. He lovingly agreed, and only 30 minutes after arriving from New Haven, I was ushered into that graceful world I so fondly remembered. I would like to thank my father right now- just so it's clear- I'm very grateful. All the mockery of him that I'm about to record is true, but I say it with all the thankfulness in the world.

My dad was not prepared for the meal that was about to happen to him. I say "about to happen to him" because the minute you enter Jean Georges, you must abdicate control. Let your mind be under the rule of your stomach, and your desires be in the backseat to the chef's established genius. My dad didn't know the protocol. Within the first minute he had already broken a cardinal rule: arriving without a sport coat. Then, he didn't order wine. Next mistake: he asked to replace one of the pre-set courses for another. Doesn't he understand that the courses have been created laboriously with certain themes and orders in mind? I'm surprised that they didn't throw him out then and there. And then- adding insult to injury- his camera's flash went off after every course, disrupting the beauty of the fading light streaming through the glass walls. I can't really complain about that one- the pictures were for me. But still. Tsk Tsk.

We decided to each order one of the tasting menus, so we could have as many courses as possible. The two menus were different, but each course complemented the other meal's course so that two diners are able to have a similar experience. Andrew taught me that when you eat with someone else, it's always best to order the same thing so that you can share the experience. After all, eating is about pleasure, and sharing that pleasure with someone else is all part of the meal's glory. Jean Georges obviously understood this, but also understood that diners have different preferences. The two pre-set meals were able to reconcile these two conflicting perspectives, which only furthers my theory that Jean Georges is a genius.

Of course my dad messed the whole thing up by replacing a course with foie gras, but the chef was able to do his best to keep some semblance of respect for his plan. For that I give him a standing ovation.

The other thing that sets Jean Georges apart from other restaurants is the service. Each time a course was served, two separate waiters brought over each one of our dishes. The dishes were covered, and the waiters made eye contact in order to lift the cover at the same moment. The sauces were poured slowly and carefully, always artistically arranged on our plates. Our bread crumbs were cleared after every course (the table’s cleanness added to the restaurant’s stark décor- white plates, glass walls, grey chairs…) Every dish was explained to us, every question answered, every need met. When the waiter noticed my note taking, he brought over a copy of the menu for me, just so I would know the names of every dish.

The star of the evening (apart from the food, of course) was our main waiter. He made us feel like any request was manageable. He came over to explain cooking processes, inner workings of the restaurant, the back story of dishes, anything we asked. I admired his position in the restaurant, so he told me how he was hired, what drew him to Jean Georges, how to get involved in the dining world. He described the process of working your way up as an “intricate ballet”, where people move through different stages of food service as they gain experience and fame. You have to be known to be chosen to work at Jean Georges though, it’s not the kind of restaurant where people go to try it out. He noted his own enthusiasm as a deciding factor in his success. That made me feel better- I’m the model of food enthusiasm. Um hello! Pick me! Pick me!

And now on to the food.


As is typical of these fancy restaurants, we were first served an amuse bouche. Although this amuse bouche was anything but typical. Three one-biters on a plate, to be eaten in the order the chef suggests. First, quail egg with asparagus. Quail egg is… divine. I chose the word divine because it really is: delicate and smooth yet still a strong presence, rich but light. Slivers of asparagus on top for an added splurge of taste. I would never have eaten quail egg spontaneously anywhere else, but there’s no point of being scared of anything at Jean Georges. Next was grapefruit with shredded pecorino cheese. The grapefruit was subtle, and the citrus was a good contrast to the strength of the cheese. And last was hot miso soup with radish and miso foam (I love the idea of adding foam to food. Cooking is just chemistry, after all, and foam takes it to another level. Just showing what you can do). It was thicker than the miso soups I usually have, but a good end to the lightness of the two other bites. I would have preferred if the three items had been placed on the plate in the order I was supposed to eat them, but I’m not one to question.

The first course was egg caviar for me, and sashimi of madai for my dad. We were both supposed to have egg-caviar dishes, but my dad’s request for foie gras interrupted the prescribed order. I had to dip my tiny spoon down past caviar and foam into the egg innards. Every spoonful had different proportions of the ingredients, so it was exciting with every bite. My dad’s sashimi was light and fresh, covered is Muscat grapes and an herbal emulsion sauce. Not sweet but not salty, the perfect combination.


Next came the foie gras for my dad- covered in brown bread croutons and grapefruit. I love the idea of citrus with the fatty liver. it makes perfect sense to offset the smooth fat with the strength of a citrus fruit. And then the crunch of the croutons contrasted them both. My dad was thrilled. I had scallops with carmelized cauliflower on top, in a sauce that I think tasted like mustard. This might have been my favorite course of the night. Especially after the scallops I ate in France, I completely appreciated how good these were. They weren’t chewy, these scallops were thin and light. Also the cauliflower on top was perfect. Cauliflower doesn’t have a strong taste on its own, in my opinion, and went really well with the scallops and the sauce.


After this interlude, the original menu was back on track. I call this course the cream course. My dad had asparagus in a creamy mushroom sauce, and I had young garlic soup with frog legs. FROG LEGS! I just… did it. These looked like a smaller version of fried chicken and I was told to eat with my hands, so they weren’t intimidating. And I was told to dip in the soup, so I wasn’t worried about not liking the taste. And you know what? Not so bad. Again, I wouldn’t have tried them anywhere else but I trust Jean Georges. And now I can attest to having tried the full French trifecta of snails, oysters and frog legs. I am the man.




Also- just because it’s Jean Georges- I was provided with a finger bowl after the frog legs to clean up. Not that I considered myself dirty at all! Having the aftertaste of Jean Georges frog legs and garlic soup is not the worst thing to have on your fingers. But the water was warm, with lemon and flower petals. Ahh… Beauty.


Next came the fish course, where my dad got black bass with caramelized radishes (really good) and I got turbot with Jean George’s famous sauce. The sauce was the winner; apparently, this sauce was the reason our waiter decided Jean Georges was all it’s famed to be. The sauce is 2/3 carrot, 1/3 celery and onion reduction with chicken broth and white wine. It was a complete accident! (A GREAT ACCIDENT) and for a while didn’t even have a real name because it was just… stumbled upon. But now it’s a Jean Georges classic, one of his most well known achievements. I soaked up every drop with my bread, and it was the part of the meal we talked about most after we left. I would try to make it at home, but I’ll never be able to.

When the waiter explained the sauce to us was the moment when I really appreciated the restaurant. The food came out so quickly and flawlessly, so it was easy to forget the work and love that goes into making everything. But when the waiter explained the process, I remembered the effort that goes into creating the dishes, preparing the dishes, presenting the dishes. These feats should be commended and revered.


I was already starting to get full but I had a long way to go. The lobsters arrived next- mine with lemongrass and fenugreek sauce, dad’s with herb ravioli and gruyere broth. We liked this course, but it wasn’t our favorites. Lobsters are intense, really meaty, and too much in the context of everything else we were eating.


Time for the main course! My dad had rack of lamb with fava bean puree, and I had squab. Embarrassingly, we had to ask what squab is; it’s pigeon. Pigeon is soft inside, and it tastes fatty. Eating it, you can’t forget you’re eating meat. The best part was the side dish: foie gras sitting atop a corn pancake. I love corn cakes. I love love love love corn cakes. I was happy. But full. And ready to explode.


Not that I would have even considered skipping dessert. We were running late for theatre at this point, so they offered us to leave and come back for dessert after the show. Ahh Jean Georges, so accommodating. But we wanted it… NOW. The way dessert works at Jean Georges is like this: you choose a category (our choices being winter, citrus, apple or chocolate) and then you are given tasting bites of four desserts in that category. I had chocolate, which meant: a warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream, chocolate gnocchi with nuts, aerated chocolate cake and a shot of chocolate egg cream. The best was the chocolate cake, which gooed warm chocolate fudge on the inside. My dad had the citrus selection, which I think wasn’t as good. It had: choclate poppy seed cake, noodles with tangerine and iced limonello, white chocolate yogurt lollipop, and a shot of blood orange sprizter.

But that’s not the best part. Dessert at Jean Georges ends with a selection of chocolates, gooey candies (lychee and blood orange), macaroons of different flavors and… marshmallows. Homemade, soft, delectable, and cut right in front of you so you know its fresh. We had lemon, vanilla and cinnamon varieties. The cinnamon blew me away. It was the perfect finish.



My meal started with quail egg and ended with cinnamon marshmallows. I was literally on a journey. The meal built up, crescendo-ed and denouement-ed just like a beautifully composed symphony. Except this was for my tongue, which I appreciated more.

Other French things, mostly carbs.

Just so everyone can enjoy a few extra photos I had lying around...

This is how the French do breakfast: This is how the French do street food:

My crepe had chevre cheese that melted so much it spilled out of every corner, staining my pants. Not that I cared at all. It also had tomatoes, walnuts and oregano. It was called the crepe francaise. I guess if that's what they put in the crepe named after their country, I am definitely ok with that country.

Step 1

Step 2

Et Voila! My fabulous crepe, ready to eat as I walk...

Only The Best: ROBUCHON.

I think the best way to divide the food I ate in France is into two categories: experience and quality. I’m not really sure which one is more memorable, and I’m not sure it really matters. The experiences were great, don’t get me wrong. Trying snails and oysters for the first time definitely was a landmark of my life, and prompted a whole essay you can find below. But what I do know is that I had one meal that blew me away, and I will definitely never forget it, and that’s what I’m going to focus on now.

Wikipedia, the source of all sources, tells me that Joel Robuchon has the most Michelin stars of any chef of all time. I BELIEVE IT. When my mom and I entered L'Atelier, we knew we were in for a huge treat, but we didn't know just how huge. This meal was... well, you'll see.

The sanctuary itself...

We did not know what to order. L'Atelier proposes a tasting menu, which my mom quickly decided on, since variety is key when all the food is mind blowing. I was then left with just too many choices and very poor French to help through. The waiter basically chose for me- good service is key at restaurants like this one- and I put all my trust into whatever he put in front of me. I had no need to be worried.

French bread. But also- just look at the place settings! Done Just Right.

Two things before I delve in:

1. Each item we ordered came on a different plate, perfect for what it was. Enjoying the aesthetic value of the plate was almost as good as the food itself. Especially since you couldn't see the whole plate until the food was gone. A sort of gastronomical "Where's Waldo", if you will. The French also have so many different forms of cutlery. I got stressed out by the cutlery a lot. And I was left at the end with an extra knife, which makes me think I messed up.

2. The French developed the perfect verb for their language: "saucer". It means, literally, to sop up the sauce with bread. This meal took "saucer" to a new level. There wasn't even a bit of sauce left on the plates, we didn't want to miss even a single drop of Robuchon's expertise. I thought I had eaten healthily until I realized I probably consumed an entire loaf on my own through my saucer-ing. Not that it mattered, it was debatably the best part of each course. Maybe I just like sauce a little too much.

My mom and I shared everything so my meal vs. her meal is sort of a non-issue, but for organization's sake I'm going to run through my menu first. I started with the green asparagus, which are just becoming of season now. The white asparagus were everywhere around the open air markets of Paris, but the green ones are treasures in the early days of spring. They were thick and huge, so I was surprised I got five, but really I was lucky I got five. They were never chewy, like asparagus can sometimes be, and I'm going to give credit to the chef for that one. I don't want to give credit to the butter covering the entirety of my plate, although that probably helped. In the little dish was mousseline sauce, which is basically a whipped hollandaise. It was fluffy, perfect for either a light dab or a full dunk.

Next came the langoustine ravioli. Langoustine isn't translatable, but it's sort of a lesser lobster. The ravioli wasn't stuffed with shredded langoustine, it was crammed with BIG, FULL pieces of the shell fish. Basically it was pieces of the fish lightly wrapped in ravioli. And if you're wondering what that black stuff is on top-- it's truffles. Shaved truffles. Only the most expensive mushroom in the world. And that's exactly what it tastes like- expensive.
Every plate looked like this one when I was done with them

My main course was scallops. I thought two was a little shabby for a main course, but I was wrong. I also thought they should have given me a fish knife, but I was wrong again. Scallops are thick! I needed a real knife, and each one of those scallops provided me with at least 5 (YES, 5!) big bites of goodness before they were gone. Not to mention the butter-lemon-olive oil sauce with a little chili powder being perfect for the power of the saucer.

Sitting on real shells... so classic.
Yeah, the scallop is sitting on real rock salt. Talk about presentation.

And now on to my mom's menu. Starting with the formal "amuse bouche" of cold potato soup, with a real potato chip on top just for kicks. Each bite tasted of a little olive oil and vinegar, the perfect simple way to get your palette roaring for more. Did I mention it was good?

Next was crab and radishes. It was cold and wet, and every bite made more of a mess. But I wouldn't call it a mess, I'd call it an explosion of yum. Not to be colloquial or anything, but that's what it was. It was sweet too, which was surprising but I welcomed it because I trust Joel Robuchon. When he wants his crab sweet, he can make it sweet.
Next was scallop soup, in the most delicate broth imaginable. It was almost like the broth didn't exist, except that it did, and it's flavors made sure you knew it. Inside the soup was a scallop wonton, complete with the coral. That's when you know you're in a good restaurant, when the coral is just as precious as the food itself.

This next dish may have been the winner for me, but really, there was no clear favorite. This was gnocchi with black truffle sauce. More truffles for the wallet's loss and the mouth's gain. These truffles were not only shaved, but also cut, allowing for the full truffle experience. You could eat them with the gnocchi or without, your preference rules on this dish. The gnocchi was sticky, and thank god- the longer its stuck in my teeth the better really.

Truffles in the morning, truffles in the evening, truffles at supper time...

Ahhh... Foie gras. A French staple if I've ever known one. You can literally buy buckets of this fattened duck liver on the street in Paris, and we did. A whole jar of it. But when it's warmed, like this one, it's really special. The fatty fatty fatty greatness (not just goodness- greatness) of the duck liver literally melted in my mouth. And the flavor was crazy: it's sitting atop apricot and pear jam, but seasoned with shallots on top. My tongue was confused, but oh so happy!

I want to put in my two cents here about French food. It all just... melts. In your mouth. No chewing required. I have a theory that if it weren't for the hard, crunchy, on-the-verge-of-being-stale, give-your-jaw-a-work-out-with-every-bite, French bread that is just so quintessentially French, I truly believe that the French would just drink their food. Talk about taking "liquid diet" do a new level. If being on a diet meant this much melted butter and cream. But seriously, the food is so good because its all so soft.

Last of the pre main course delights was the St. Pierre. I liked this white fish because it still retained its fish flavor without making you feel like you're sitting on a boat. Not to mention the pesto butter sauce. Anything with pesto makes my heart flutter.
My mom ordered lamb. I was mad. But this lamb... gave me hope for lamb eaters everywhere. Also, her mash potatoes were fluffly clouds on a plate. Like I said before, the French drink their food.

eww lamb.

I know everyone has been wondering where the French cheese has been. Well here it is: the biggest piece of brie you can possibly imagine. It smelled so strongly my eyes watered a little. My throat burned. It was the only thing I couldn't finish the whole time I was at the restaurant. But not to say it wasn't good, it was just too much. It also came with raisin toast, which I thought was a nice touch. Raisin toast is a nice way to make cheese that you can feed to your five year old. Or your twenty year old.

That's a whole hunk o cheese.

Dessert time! My mom's dinner came with two: an orange ensemble with caramel delicacy, and a hazelnut thing. I don't like hazelnut, it's the only food in the world that makes me sick. I know I'm missing out on Nutella but I don't care. And I'm not a huge orange lover. But my dessert was sensational. Aptly called the "chocolate sensation", each spoonful was an adventure. At first I thought it was vanilla ice cream in chocolate mousse with oreo sprinkles (although it probably wasn't oreo. But it was, just fancier.) I was still impressed when I thought that was all, especially because it came with a chocolate oval cap. But as I got to the bottom, I realized that there was also chocolate fudge sauce lining the bowl. I praised Robuchon's genius at hiding such a surprise, when all of a sudden, little chocolate rice balls of crunch! It was like waking up and getting all your presents, and then having more arrive as the day goes on. Except these presents are chocolate, which is the best present of all.

Little did I know what was on the bottom...

And to finish, coffee. But even this was served in a classier, cleaner, cooler way than any coffee I've ever had. Really a great finish.


The whole meal was great, superb really, as I'm sure you can tell. But the real kicker was that it was LUNCH, not dinner. We then had all day to talk about the food, walk around with the food in our bellies, reminding us of our great meal of happiness. It wasn't like a big dinner, where you just want to curl up in bed with your fullness and wallow. This was lunch, just a nice reminder int he middle of a Parisian day that it's nice to be alive.

My First Oyster- The Full Story.

I grew up in a nest of Francophiles. My mother taught me from the age of four that blue cheese is not moldy cheese; it’s a delicacy, the smellier the better. And when you eat that delicacy, you will enjoy it, and never put it on a baguette without butter.

It’s been almost five years since my last Parisian sojourn, and this time I was ready to truly understand what all the fuss is about. I wanted to walk the Seine and see the Monets and drink wine outside until 3 am debating existentialism. And I wanted to do all of this smoking a cigarette. But mostly, I wanted to eat. I wanted to eat more than I’ve ever eaten before, and not gain a single pound, just like the French do. I didn’t know how to begin, with what to begin, where to begin. Completely at a loss, I turned to the best person I knew for the job: my fabulously gay, snobbishly cultured, Parisian to a fault, uncle Richard.

Richard took it upon himself to “expose me”. When Richard decides to “expose” you, it means that a) you are a savage and the recovery must begin as soon as possible, but also that b) you are worth saving. There’s a compliment hidden in his mockery. Richard is tough- I can’t decide whether he’s gay and on top of that, he’s French or whether he’s French and on top of that, he’s gay- but I did NOT want him to know just how lost in this world of cuisine I really was. I tried my best to cover up my ignorance, but didn’t start out on a good foot.

“Are you familiar with Robuchon?” he asked me, with his eyes fixed on mine, so there was no chance of lying.

“The cheese.” I answered quickly and confidently.

“No, dear. That’s Roblochon.” He said the name of the cheese knowingly and with an accent that made him feel untouchable. Damn. French mess up number one. He continued with my education, “Joel Robuchon is only the most important contributor to contemporary cooking as we know it. That’s where we will go tomorrow, to his restaurant.”

Now that’s something I could wrap my head around. I’ve only been once before to a restaurant centered around its chef: Jean Georges in New York. It’s the best meal I’ve ever eaten. I wanted to get up and go to Robuchon’s restaurant right then and there. “Great! Tomorrow?”

It turns out that L’Atelier was full. “Of course it’s full, it’s L’Atelier”, Richard said with just a touch of disappointment in his snobbery. “But that’s all right, we’ll begin your education elsewhere. What kind of food do you want to eat?”

“French?” I responded. I shouldn’t have said it like that, I thought to myself. I should have said French. Or French! But not French? He’ll think I’m a Philistine.

“Yes, I know French, darling. But what does that mean to you?”

I quickly flipped through the images I had of French cuisine. Most of the classics made my stomach turn, but I didn’t want to say that out loud. I compromised, “just… no frog’s legs.”

“Oh, but frog’s legs are simply divine.” Does Richard know that he’s a French cliché? I guess if you embody the cliché, it’s just who you are. “But I understand. What about snails?”

“I’ve never had them.”

“Never had snails? What about oysters?”

“Nope.”

“You’ve never had oysters! How can you possibly have never had oysters?” (This seemed to be a shock to every French person I met. I don’t know where they think I come from, but oysters don’t just grow on trees in the good ol’ US of A. Even my 85 year old Polish immigrant great aunt was appalled when she discovered my inadequacy. I didn’t want to remind her that when she was twenty she hadn’t ever eaten oysters either. But then again, she was in a ghetto, and I’m supposed to be the one with all the privilege.)

“Well that’s where we’ll start then. I’ll make a reservation. Oh, you’re just going to love them, if you can get past your fears.” He said it like a challenge, and one I definitely wasn’t going to lose. Not that I wasn’t scared of oysters, but just that I wasn’t going to let a little slime stand in the way of my pride.

The next day, I met up with a terrifying jury of four for my oyster initiation. The two most Francophile people I know- my mother and my friend Andrew, who is studying in Paris for the semester and has clearly already tried oysters and told me he loves them- along with Richard and his boyfriend. The restaurant was called “Le Bar a Huitres”, literally, the oyster bar. Just in case I didn’t already know what I was getting myself into. As I walked in, I noticed that each table situated itself around a large tray of ice, piled high with oysters and mussles and shrimp, and other “fruits de la mer”. There it was, shining high at each table center. Talk about putting food on a pedestal.

Between those four experienced oyster lovers, a raging debate ensued as to the perfect first oyster for me. They ended up ordering three types, not that I know what any of the species really means, or that I cared at that point. I was zoning out, watching everyone else eat their oysters. Was I supposed to sip or gulp? Was chewing even part of the picture? How did everyone else get to be such connoisseurs, while I’m stuck at the novice end of the table with this silly little pick fork and a whole unexplained stick of butter?

The demons arrived, and everyone turned to watch me. I started with the smallest and apparently, “easiest one to swallow”. Now let me tell you, holding your first oyster in your hand while two French gay men watch you with judgmental anticipation takes “biting the bullet” to a new level. If bullets were slimy and chewy, and if biting was actually a “please let me swallow this without gagging” kind of maneuver.

Here’s how you eat an oyster, so that those of you who have yet to experience this rare form of French hazing will be slightly more prepared than I was: first, you detach the muscle from the shell using your conveniently sized pick. You are technically allowed to sprinkle some lemon juice onto the oyster, but such a decision may deem you “unappreciative of the true flavor”, depending on your audience. Proceed as you wish. Then you tip the shell into your mouth, so that the pure sea water lubricates all your insides and lets the oyster slide gently into your throat. Chew, chew, chew, and voila! You’re done. And I hope you enjoyed it, because everyone expects you to.

Despite all my complaining, and skeptical hesitation, it really wasn’t all that bad. Each variation was a little different depending on size, chewiness, saltiness, but each one gave me the same overall feeling of freshness. I wouldn’t have believed that mechanically chomping down on an ocean-bottom slug would make me feel refreshed, but the salty sea water was so real that just sipping it made me feel like I was in the sun. The taste of the sea was the main presence in the oyster’s flavor, so that even if I was eating oysters, at least I knew I was eating OYSTERS. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

“So? What do you think?”

“I feel like I’m on Cape Cod.” I didn’t know if that was the right answer, but at least I told him that my taste buds were awakened and trying to place themselves with this novel stimulation.

“You taste the sea?” he asked.

“Isn’t that the point?”

Richard smiled. I think my answer aged me a few years in his eyes, in a good way. I had turned the tables on him, removing the spotlight from me, the eater, and placing it where it was supposed to be for all true food lovers: on the food itself, on the oysters.

He relaxed a little, leaned back and swallowed his own oyster (with lemon juice, I may add). He beckoned the table to begin with the simple command, "enjoy."

Paris, The Food Capital of the World

I won't be able to upload photos until I get home, and French keyboards are all disordered so typing actually takes centuries, so Everywhere Eating must take a momentary hiatus. However- here are some little Parisian food thoughts that I've been having:

1. If food this good exists, why does anyone eat any other way? (I figured I had to turn on the snob in me to really thrive in this place)
2. The more crumbly the bread, the better
3. Dessert comes before coffee and don't you dare expect it any other way
4. Foie gras, duck liver, is just served on the street. Open for sampling. But it's also good hot, melting on some mashed potatoes (photos to follow.)
5. Knowing tea is just as much an art as knowing wine
6. Nothing brings out good conversation like good food and good wine. And then long dinner ensue. But in my opinion, the food would be just as good in silence.

More to come. Tonight I try oysters for the first time... bring on the slime.

For Kira

I just want it to be known, I was not hungry. But food has a nostalgic power, and if there's any food in the world that brings back memories for me, it's a bowl of soup and noodles at Wagamama. Wagamama is the restaurant that my best friend, Kira, and I went to in the 8th grade when we both lived in London. It's the kind of restaurant that puts all its emphasis on the food: the tables are just long wooden strips, where you have to sit next to whomever they put you next to. Your orders are just numbers that the waiters write down on your placemat so you can't forget. It comes when it's ready, not necessarily in order.

And it's good. It's so good that I went soooo far out of my way to sit by myself at those long tables, to stuff my poor hungover stomach with spices, and to enjoy every bite.

The specialties are noodle and rice dishes, specifically noodle-soup bowls of yum. When I was in 8th grade, I always ordered chicken ramen. But now, due to a more sophisticated palette, I decided to up the ante. I ordered the "chicken kore lomen"
The coconut soup was stained red from all the chili paste. The chili paste that made my nose run and got all over my face. The chili paste that was so worth it. The rest of the dish was ramen noodles, grilled chicken, bean sprouts, cucumber and lots of coriander, ginger and galangal. The whole thing was an explosion of flavor, and I could never decide which bites I liked best. I think the chicken was the most perfect part, but I also heaped myself spoonfulls of just bean sprouts sometimes. That's when you know a good meal- when everything is good on its own and as a complement to the rest.

To add insult to injury, I ordered the "ebi gyoza" shrimp dumplings. Sometimes I pretend that I like steamed gyoza, but really, I like my dumplings FRIED. Fried Fried Fried. Fried so the first bite crunches and the middle oozes. Fried so that the sauce seeps in to the shell and softens the whole bite. Fried so that you know you're killing your body for the love of food.

These fried babies were filled with black tiger prawns, water chestnuts and spinach. And the sauce was citrus ponzu sauce. I didn't want them to end.
So, in conclusion, after paying 30 dollars for a sheer indulgence... Kira, when can we go back?

The Irish Experience

Since I was only planning on staying in Belfast, Ireland for less than 24 hours, I knew I had to work hard to get the Irish staples into my belly. I literally stepped off the plane and within an hour was sitting at a fish and chips dive , ready to be filled with greasy goodness. But I did not expect just how greasy fish and chips really , really, really are. The cod was fried so that the fried was an separate part of the meal itself. I could take the fish out of the fried, no problem. Not that I wanted to, the fried was the best part. But the fish itself was also soft and hot and just what I wanted it to be. I covered the whole plate with salt and vinegar just like I was supposed to, but also ended up dipping in the typical "H&P Brown Sauce". I guess fish and chips doesn't really have too much taste on its own. It's all in the fried.
The chips were thick and potatoey. Just like they should be. Ireland is a country of potatoes.
And what would an Irish night be without Guinness? I have literally never seen so many posters for a singular beer as I did last night. Every wall is covered in Guinness posters, slogans, lights.

The Guinness could have been a meal in itself. It was, by far, the thickest beer I have ever tasted. But it wasn't hard to get down- the frothy lager just cruised down my throat like it was supposed to. Thank God! I never would have been able to drink it on such a stomach full of fish and chips if it hadn't just slinked its way down on its own. Ahhhh the beauty of Guinness, the drinking is practially done for you.

I like Guinness. It had a nutty aftertaste, which my friend told me was almond. I didn't feel like I was drinking beer. It was a different taste all together. Apparently, the taste gets better the closer you get to Dublin, and the Guinness in America isn't the real Guinness at all. All I know is- I liked it.
I couldn't keep up the pace though. Too much fried- thick- heavy- goodness for my 5'2 frame. So I switched to cider beer- which is just what it sounds like. It tasted like cider. Dangerous, for those who are prone to forget they're drinking alcohol if it doesn't burn with every sip. Cider is... genius.

I wanted to wake up and have an Irish breakfast before getting on my plane to London, but I woke up a little late due to... last night's adventures. But I think Irish breakfast is usually meat and beans, and there is NO CHANCE I could have stomached that this morning. So, whatever. I did Ireland justice.