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rue-madame's Diaryland Diary


Vendredi soir

Friday night was pretty slow. Tried out the new pizzeria in the neighborhood, and it wasn’t very good. I figured with a greasy Tony Soprano loitering in the doorway it *ought* to be authentic Italian, but no, the pizza she was undercooked with bland sauce and giant sheets of ham. Ick. And the cheese was not completely melted! I am thinking about giving the place a second chance (!) which, if you knew me, you would realize was completely unthinkable and out-of-character, BUT someone has to support the small pizzerias of Paris. If it still sucks the second time, then Tony Soprano is going to lose a customer and PizzaHut will gain one. . . ha! There is another pizzeria around the corner on the rue des Canettes. I haven’t been there yet because I don’t like that street (it’s usually filled with beer-swillin’ yahoos) but I’m willing to brave the street for a decent pie.

In case you’re wondering, pizza is not my fetish food. If I could conjure any food on the planet right now, it would be Mexican. They sell tortillas in most Parisian grocery stores (due to the craze for “TexMex” which, frankly, is neither) so I could conceivably make myself a quesadilla or even a taco. But that would require a little more effort on my part, and I don’t want to cook.

Anyway, on Friday, just as I was thinking about doing some hand wash, Fred calls and suggests drinks. He comes by in his funny little Suzuki, magically finds parking, then we head to Les Deux Magots. That cafe is really amazing, and I’m not just talking about its history as the watering hole of every significant left bank intellectual, artist, writer, philosopher of the 19th and 20th centuries. No, it is amazing because eventhough these days it attracts a ton of tourists, there is still a scattering of Parisians at the sidewalk tables, drinking and eating and watching the parade go by. Friday night there were a lot of older French women with bad blonde dye jobs and plastic surgery—thick collagen lips, tight skin uber-tanned, gold jewelry—and their preening reminded me of “Brazil.”

Fred had just come back from Barcelona on a stressful flight and was hungry. So he asks the waiter how the foie gras thing was, and the waiter deadpanned, “C’est deguelasse” meaning it’s disgusting. We just laughed and laughed at his candor, and Fred ordered a tarte tatin with creme fraiche instead. It was pretty good, I have to admit.

7:42 p.m. - 2001-07-02



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