A tale of senses
Have you ever wondered why daisies smell so bad? The scent reminds me of stinky feet yet they are one of the loveliest flowers available; simple but sweet. We bought a mass bunch of "3 for $10" from the markets the other day thinking we'd brighten up our living room. But i made a vital mistake: buying flowers when you nose is bloked. Now we have vases and old jam jars overflowing with daises all throughout the house and in turn cannot close the windows for longer than a couple of hours. We could just throw them out, but i do like flowers and they're so ... pretty.
Maybe i could paint perfume on them?
When I visit Paris I stay in Les Halles ... central to all regions of the city, full of colourful people, littered with little galleries and of course fashion boutiques, but mostly, once home to an enormous variety of fresh produce markets. This is one of my favourite thing about paris; the foods. On my most recent visit I am dissapointed to find that my regulars have been replaced with stalls presenting kitschy christmas goods and those men selling jewellery from bali who i swear are following me around the world.
The cheese man who gave me hearty samples of his fromage to try is no longer, as is the bread lady with the pain that is perfectly crunchy on the outside and soft as air in the middle. The man who sells hams of all sorts and who looks oddly like a ham himself is no where to be found. Neither is the huge extended family who set themselves up in the heart of the markets with their giant iron vats making the cheesy potato dish i so cherish.
The Sketchers shop is still there and so is the pompidou (of course). The old prostitue who wears the smelly fur coat and beaded cocktail dress waits on the corner outside my hotel, eyes spilling sex, just as i left her three years before. She appears tireder and her coat looks slightly more bedraggled. I guess that's what happens after hookering the same "walk" for a decade or more. But i can't taste them. And we have them in Sydney.
This trip i pine for my food experiences of lasts; I miss eating the smelly cheese quickly after a deep breath and with my nose pinched shut because it smells so bad but tastes soooo good. I crave the scent of freshly made waffles and them burning my mouth when i greedily gobble them while still too hot. What is with these frozen waffles they are heating up? And why cannot i find the hole-in-the-wall cafe where I was sold the most devine (and possibly cheapest) meal of my life - a melt in your mouth quiche lorraine topped off with the silkiest of creme caramels? I thought it was turn left off the square, down this lane, then round that bend ... oh maybe it was right ... oh, never mind. To top it off, the bread is stale this time; i feed it to the ducks.
Oh! Hello! The Algerian man with his mobile crepe stall has not left! As i stand sticky and smeared in chocolate i am pleased to find that his nutella crepes are as good as i remember. At least i can take solace in my crepes.
But this time there is one difference: on my last night i am treated to a meal at a fine resturant a friend in paris has recommended as being superb - usually something out of bounds due to tight budgets. It is only a short walk from the hotel and is hidden down an alley behind dingy windows and ramshackle doors. From the outside it does not look much, but inside we are greeted with perfect art deco decor and waiters in white suits; it is glistening with old glamour. We order not just mains but entree and dessert. We select whatever we want and lots of it. We drink real french champagne. We talk, we laugh, we share, we flirt with the young waiters, we stay right until closing. We devour and enjoy every aspect of the night; every taste, smell, sight, sound, touch. And it is good.
Maybe i could paint perfume on them?
When I visit Paris I stay in Les Halles ... central to all regions of the city, full of colourful people, littered with little galleries and of course fashion boutiques, but mostly, once home to an enormous variety of fresh produce markets. This is one of my favourite thing about paris; the foods. On my most recent visit I am dissapointed to find that my regulars have been replaced with stalls presenting kitschy christmas goods and those men selling jewellery from bali who i swear are following me around the world.
The cheese man who gave me hearty samples of his fromage to try is no longer, as is the bread lady with the pain that is perfectly crunchy on the outside and soft as air in the middle. The man who sells hams of all sorts and who looks oddly like a ham himself is no where to be found. Neither is the huge extended family who set themselves up in the heart of the markets with their giant iron vats making the cheesy potato dish i so cherish.
The Sketchers shop is still there and so is the pompidou (of course). The old prostitue who wears the smelly fur coat and beaded cocktail dress waits on the corner outside my hotel, eyes spilling sex, just as i left her three years before. She appears tireder and her coat looks slightly more bedraggled. I guess that's what happens after hookering the same "walk" for a decade or more. But i can't taste them. And we have them in Sydney.
This trip i pine for my food experiences of lasts; I miss eating the smelly cheese quickly after a deep breath and with my nose pinched shut because it smells so bad but tastes soooo good. I crave the scent of freshly made waffles and them burning my mouth when i greedily gobble them while still too hot. What is with these frozen waffles they are heating up? And why cannot i find the hole-in-the-wall cafe where I was sold the most devine (and possibly cheapest) meal of my life - a melt in your mouth quiche lorraine topped off with the silkiest of creme caramels? I thought it was turn left off the square, down this lane, then round that bend ... oh maybe it was right ... oh, never mind. To top it off, the bread is stale this time; i feed it to the ducks.
Oh! Hello! The Algerian man with his mobile crepe stall has not left! As i stand sticky and smeared in chocolate i am pleased to find that his nutella crepes are as good as i remember. At least i can take solace in my crepes.
But this time there is one difference: on my last night i am treated to a meal at a fine resturant a friend in paris has recommended as being superb - usually something out of bounds due to tight budgets. It is only a short walk from the hotel and is hidden down an alley behind dingy windows and ramshackle doors. From the outside it does not look much, but inside we are greeted with perfect art deco decor and waiters in white suits; it is glistening with old glamour. We order not just mains but entree and dessert. We select whatever we want and lots of it. We drink real french champagne. We talk, we laugh, we share, we flirt with the young waiters, we stay right until closing. We devour and enjoy every aspect of the night; every taste, smell, sight, sound, touch. And it is good.
Paris, life would be so dull without you and your sense of food.
posted by ra girl @ 1:49 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home