Bargain Bites with a Side of Anarchy

V is for Vegan!

It's pretty shameful; East Side Burgers has been open since September and only today, the first of May, did I actually pop in for a taste of Paris' best "New York Style" fast food. Not for lack of  desire, though; each previous attempt was thwarted by the ridiculously long line out the door. Today was no different; burger-hungry hipsters spilled out onto the sidewalk, but, thankfully, the line didn't enter deal-breaking territory.

After maybe 5 or 10 minutes' wait, we were standing at the register placing our orders. Two mushroom- burger specials: One vegan, one standard-issue. Frites--not the optional coleslaw (who chooses coleslaw over fries?!)--and a couple of cans of Oasis. That'll be 18 euro, s'il vous plait. What?! Cheaper even than our beloved Chettinadu? Woot! J'adore this place already.

Vegan quiche and non-vegan cheesecake consumed most of the space in the deli case.

I totally forgot to get one of those almond cookies. Damn!

Seating is extremely limited at East Side Burgers; there's a tiny subterranean dining room with roughly 5 tables, and two little two-seater set-ups out front. "You're in luck--someone's leaving downstairs," said the nice guy behind the counter. Turns out there's a little video camera in the dining room that beams images back up to kitchen staff. Good to know!

I liked the old-school wrapping. More so, the contents! 

I was surprised to see cheese on my vegan burger. M'expliquez, SVP. 

Down the spiral staircase we went, settling into our seats and waiting, eagerly, for our names to be called. When the blessed moment arrived, I sprinted upstairs and was met halfway by the guy from behind the counter, who handed me a faux-wood tray with our goodies nestled on top.

There were two distinct sizes of burgers: big and bigger. Opening them up, they both appeared to have cheese, so back upstairs I went to inquire whether the vegan burger was meant to have cheese. Mr. Cheerful assured me that it was indeed dairy-free fromage, and that my wrapper should have "VG" on it to indicate its veganness. Back down again I went, then the two of us spent the next 30 seconds mauling each burger to find the telltale scribble. Turns out mine was the bigger one. My bun was sort of whole-wheaty, while Jeff's was more traditional looking, with sesame seeds on top, even.

The burger was delish. I mean, really, really tasty, thanks in part to the caramelized onions and healthy squeeze of French's mustard, about which there is nothing remotely "French." I don't think they even sell yellow mustard anywhere in this country! I can't remember if the mushrooms were inside the burger or on top, but however they were integrated, they were integrated well.

Heading over by bike toward Stalingrad for a coffee date with Paris Paul, we got caught up in a May Day manifestation; International Workers Day is a traditional day of protest in France, and as the procession began, a well-mannered group of anarchists were among the first to march by.

Kill capitalism? OK. I'm pretty partial to Socialist values anyway, but can we please keep East Side Burgers?

The Cafe Pinson Experience

Steamy windows and all at Cafe Pinson.

The cafe's whitewashed back dining room.

Pinson means "finch" in French. I never did figure out the connection between the name of this new organic, vegetarian cafe in the too-cool north Marais and the petit oiseau, but it definitely doesn't have anything to do with "eating like a bird"; come here for Sunday bunch and you'll waddle out the door like an overstuffed penguin.

My friend Sophia and I tried to squeeze in the first week Cafe Pinson opened, but that was a futile experience. It was standing room only that Saturday, and so thick with hungry people that the big picture windows sported a curtain-like layer of opaque moisture. We thought it best to let the shiny veneer of novelty wear off before giving it another shot. A month later, with a noon reservation, Jeff and I arrived to find a much more relaxed, less damp and frenetic atmosphere inside.

A little inside-looking-out perspective.

The lady in the silver jacket slipped on a giant fur coat as she got up to leave. That's something I never thought I'd see in a vegetarian restaurant!

Right away, we noticed the professionalism of the staff. Smiling (in Paris! For real!) and attentive, we were seated within five seconds of giving our name to the bespectacled hostess. Our table for two in the back dining room where was already adorned with the entree pour deux: slices of soft, chewy bread and three little dishes of homemade tartine spreads: Banana-lime, chocolate hazelnut, and "butter" made from coconut and almond oil. (The chocolate was my favorite, followed by the butter. Neither of us really knew what to make of the banana spread.)

Breads and homemade spreads.

The chocolate-hazelnut spread was to-die-for yummy.

A dreadlocked server arrived within a minute of us sitting down and explained the brunch menu: Two courses--one salty, one sweet, both with vegan options--, all-you-can-drink coffee and tea at the front counter, and fresh-pressed juices for an additional six euro. Jeff went with regular ol' veggie (they serve eggs here, but no dairy), and I went the normal vegan route.

We filled our coffee mugs and immediately set to work stuffing our faces with the delicious bread (served in a little brown to-go box) and spreads. We got seconds, then thirds on the bread. It was that good. When our meals arrived, we gave it the skeptic's once-over; how was this bowl of daintily-proportioned goodness possibly going to sate us two gluttons?

Modestly proportioned and deceptively filling. 

The cooks' quarters.

The no-fuss brunch menu.

Where Jeff had a poached egg, my plate had a white-bean spread. Where two savory madeleines were tucked into his celery rave-parsnip puree, I had chia-sesame triangles. The most exciting thing on the plate, visually and otherwise, was the kale salad (KALE SALAD!!!) with fennel, carrot, and pumpkin seeds.

Kale up close!

Everything tasted pretty damn good. Simple, but good. And, as usual, there was no salt or pepper on the table, but it didn't really need anything. (Though we did talk about how, at home, we'd have doused everything with hot sauce, red pepper flakes, salt, pepper, and nutritional yeast. And that would've been just the start.)

Between courses, I introduced myself to the chef, who I recognized from Pousse Pousse, the raw vegan restaurant in the 9th where she worked until being wooed over to Pinson. She, in turn, introduced me to Agathe, the owner, who was dining at a nearby table. She was friendly enough.

Soy yogurt, house-made granola, and puree of ... ??

At last, our sweet course arrived. Mine, homemade granola atop soy yogurt. The granola was divine: crunchy, fresh, with lots of nuts and dried fruity-things inside. A fruit puree--apple? pear?--came along for the ride. Jeff got more madeleines--sweet ones, this time.

Madeleines: not vegan, sadly. 

This meal wasn't cheap--€50 for two, without wine!--but that's the going rate for brunch in the City of Light. It was filling, and tasty, and the service was really, really good. We got the feeling that we could have stayed all day and no one would have said a thing. We might have, too, if the coffee was better, but still, two hours was plenty. When this place ditches the eggs, it'll be perfect.

Worth every centime? Just about.

KALE, yes!

(You have to say it with a southern accent.)

There isn't much I miss about life in the United States, but kale is definitely one of them. Anyone within shouting distance has heard me lamenting the dearth of this beloved cruciferous green here in l'Hexagone. It's not like I haven't tried to source it, either. I've been to scads of markets and talked to oodles of vendors, half of whom had no idea what the hell I was talking about. "Kale? C'est quoi, ca?" or "Bah, non" were the consistent replies to my sad-eyed queries.

More than a year ago, my friend Nathalie suggested we go to an AMAP (Associations pour le Maintien d'une Agriculture Paysanne) event on Canal de l'Ourcq and talk to actual farmers to see if they'd be willing to consider growing it. One fellow expressed an interest, but only if we had enough people to make it worth his while. He needed a commitment of 30 people, which was about triple the number of people I actually new in the city. I gave up. I figured I could eat collard greens and gai lan--also known as Chinese kale--until I was back in the land of the red, white, and greens.

Back in June, on a trip to London, I picked up two bunches of kale (all I had room for) at a Whole Foods market and ferried them back home on the Eurostar. Reacquainting myself with this this old edible friend only amplified the longing for it; would it be reasonable to consider quitting France simply to gain better access to my beloved vegetable? The kale-obsessed quadrant of my brain said "oui."

Then, nearly without warning, un petit miracle: My friend and fellow expat Karin introduced me to Kristen, another kale-loving American. The difference between my love of kale and Kristen's is that this girl didn't just whinge about the no-kale situation; she actually embarked on a no-stopping-until-success mission she dubbed The Kale Project to bring the damn stuff to France. In September, her efforts made so many wishful thinkers' dreams come true: She got the farmers to grow it, and now it's being sold at a few outdoor markets in gay, gay Paree. Hallelujah! Praise Kristen!

Kale had its coming-out party at Verjus, a lovely little restaurant owned by a pair of (yep, you guessed it) expat Americans. The restaurant is the current darling of the Parisian "modern French" dining scene, and I'd wanted to check it out ever since discovering they'll do a vegan menu with a bit of advance warning. I gave absolutely no advance warning when I showed up asking for something kale-ish and vegan. (If you assumed, wrongly, as I did, that a kale menu implied there would already be something vegan, you would have been, as I was, saddened to discover otherwise.) The good news was that the wonderful chef busted out an impromptu kale gaspacho that totally exceeded my taste-bud's expectations. You really can't go wrong when you mix kale with heirloom tomatoes, smoked almonds, fennel, and onions.

A freelance reporter for the New York Times turned up for the event, as did a lot of pretty, blonde young things who look like they'd gone a long time without eating kale--or any other kind of food. But the star of the show was definitely Kristen, the kale messiah of the vegetable-loving Parisian masses. Where will I be this Sunday? At "church," otherwise known as the outdoor market, giving thanks for kale.

Joyce Maynard's Hair

What I knew about Joyce Maynard before going to see her speak at the American Library in Paris, was, frankly, not a whole lot. I knew she was a writer, and I vaguely remembered reading something about her living in Keene, New Hampshire--not far from where I once lived during 6th, 7th, and 8th grade. I'd also read that, back in the '70s, she was the teenage paramour of J.D. Salinger, and it was that titillating tidbit that wrenched me out of my warm apartment and across town to the 7e on a brisk Paris evening.

The book that catapulted Maynard into the spotlight at 17. J'adore that bob

Miss Maynard charmed me immediately. She has an unassuming je ne sais quoi about her; a combination, I think, of a pixieish face that belies her 50-some-odd years, a slightly nervous energy (one that I understand from experience), and a seemingly natural talent for engaging storytelling. She mesmerized the audience--an attentive room-full of plastic-wine-cup-clutching bibliophiles wedged into sturdy Danish Modern chairs--with a riveting recount of the day's drama at the Musee d'Orsay. There, beside a bridge linking the left bank to the right, a team of gypsy pickpockets relieved her of her wallet using that Oh-Here's-The-Ring-You-Dropped scam. The combination of pity, anger, and laughter that her story provoked totally won me over.

The remainder of the evening was no less confessional, and equally spellbinding; with disarming earnestness, Maynard shared intimate details of her topsy-turvy life with us strangers. This was an oral autobiography punctuated with dramatic bullet points--alcoholic parents, an affair with a famous (and bitter, and controlling) old man--and  equally interesting but more mundane details about her development as a writer, parenting, collapsing relationships, and travel. We had a bit in common, I thought.

I left the event empty handed (the book I was most interested in had sold out already), but felt full with that warm-and-fuzzy feeling you get when you realize you're not alone in the universe--that there are kindred spirits within our own orbit who share similar experiences and express those similarities with vivid language.

What was I thinking? A yearlong experiment in blondness that lasted roughly 364 days longer than it should have

Since then, I've followed Mlle. Maynard through the usual social networks, which is where I came upon her most recent piece, this published in the New York Times on April 9 titled "The Kindest Cut." It's about hair. Most of us have at least a little bit of the stuff, and some of us struggle with it on a daily basis: Taming unruly cowlicks, dominating subordinate gray strands with "natural" hair dye, and aiming for a style that doesn't look like you tried too hard or cared too little. It's exhausting work, and has been an all-consuming preoccupation more than a few times in my life.

Right now, I'm preoccupied with whether or not to whack my hair off. I've been growing it long for about two years now, and it hits my upper back right about at bra-strap level. I think I thought that having long hair again would make me feel pretty. I realize I've never felt pretty, long hair or short, so that's not really a valid reason to schlep around a tangled mess of boring brown tresses. Perhaps, subconsciously, I also harbor a fear that men will no longer find me attractive if I snip of a few inches.

My hair last week. It doesn't look too bad when freshly washed, but it's still time for a change

"Men don't like short hair," a friend tells Maynard knowingly in "The Kindest Cut."  Maynard isn't deterred. "Should my hairstyle be dictated by the desire to please men or myself?" she asks herself in response. Now, I have to ask myself that same question. I hope I'll be brave enough to heed the desire to please myself, and not feel resigned to sporting a head of hair that's boring and unflattering. 


On our way to Copenhagen a couple of weeks ago, I made a pre-flight pit-stop at the Relay store at Charles de Gaulle. Quickly rifling through the magazines, I spotted a fashion feature showing magazine editors (aka "real people") wearing the latest designer duds. The clothes weren't nearly as compelling as one of the editor's hairdos. I hadn't seen anything so fun and interesting in a long time. Her slightly messy, long bob hit about shoulder length, with eye-grazing blond-and-brown bangs funking it up in a mod way. I loved it, and thought, "I wish I could have hair like that."
So, why not? 

Culinary Confessions

I have a sad little confession to make. I miss San Francisco.

I don't miss the ubiquitous stark-raving lunatics, the beyond-scary bad drivers, or the hideously overpriced glasses of Bordeaux. And I certainly never, never pine for the fog-infused gales that somehow qualify as "summer breezes" in my old hometown. But when I crave comfort in an edible form, I miss San Francisco for the one thing it has over Paris: Mexican food.

A few years ago, there were only a couple of Mexican food places in Paris. Today there are a lot more. But are they any good? Not really. They're either too expensive, not veg-friendly enough, or so trendy that you have to wait an hour to share a cramped table with noisy American tourists. (Ugh!) And don't get me started on the Tex-Mex thing; whoever coined that culinary combination deserves a swift kick in the pantalones.

A few weeks ago I had some time to kill between rendezvous, and decided to stop for lunch at the original Tien Hiang, over in my old neighborhood in the 11e. When I got there, I received two shocks. First was the sign on the door announcing their imminent closure (at the end of March 2012). The second was the minimum amount you have to spend to charge a meal to your carte bleue. Since I was short on cash, I set off in search of a distributeur. What I found instead was La Taqueria.



The place is cozy--just a handful of tables, and decorated in a sort-of Mexican-ish way (there's a masked wrestler thing going on, design-wise)--with a distinct French vibe (chalk-board menu, extensive wine list). Besides the fact that it serves Mexican food, another thing that sets La Taqueria apart from other Paris eateries is its New World wine list. There are no French or European wines on the menu, but I discovered all kinds of Australian, American, and yes, even Mexican wines I never knew existed.

The nice young fellow who took my order was a little confused by my vegan-oriented questions ("Well, we can make you a fish taco ... Oh, you don't eat fish? How about a quesadilla?"), but after a gentle tutorial, we reached a mutual understanding. I'd start with a nopales tostada and a glass of white wine from Baja, Mexico. Both were scrumptious, though the nopales were slippery and difficult to navigate from my fork into my mouth. And they were tangy. By the time I finished with my entree, I felt I'd definitely consumed my lifetime share of pickled cactus. The massive chunk of aguacate sitting atop the pile of cool veggies helped temper the tang.

The main course was to be the ultimate comfort food: tacos. These were mixed-vegetable numbers, made with soft corn tortillas. Mushroom, potato, and bell peppers presided over the melange, and a modest garnish of tomatoes and cilantro completed the taco triptych. The first bite was tasty, and the second one was, too, but by the third taco, I was getting bored with the mushroom-potato-pepper story. I was grateful for the two small bowls of salsa--both spicy, but not too--that helped reanimate the flavor. Also making an appearance on the plate was a non-vegan creamy sauce that I didn't try, and which the server apologized for as he delivered the dish.

That dollop of guacamole should have been about 10 times bigger

When I asked if the tortillas were house-made, the server made a confession of his own: they were shipped in from Mexico.

"If you're interested in ordering some, we can arrange that," he said. Never have I been so excited about a mass-produced product shipped in from overseas.

For dessert? Well, there was no dessert, but that was OK. Getting to eat warm corn tortillas--and not the bland, white, preservative-filled kind you find at Carrefour--and spicy salsa without having to venture back to the New World was sweet enough for me.

Faking it

It was exciting to discover this new meat analog at what's sadly becoming a favorite hangout: Carrefour. While we haven't really been eating much in the way of fake foods since arriving on French soil nearly six months ago, the novelty of faux ground beef was too enticing to pass up.

Opening the package, I wasn't expecting this Hache Vegetal to bear such a startling resemblance to the Play-Doh of my youth. The best hope I had was that it would taste marginally better than the Play-Doh of my youth.

Even 20+ years ago when I still ate animals, I wasn't really into hamburger. Coming up with a way to prepare this mystery meat took a bit of effort, but I finally decided on meatballs, which I'd plop on top of that evening's spaghetti.

OK: so they aren't the prettiest meatballs ever. And why does my French stovetop (otherwise known as le hotplate) look so devastatingly mucky? Ack!

The finished product looks somewhat more appetizing than phases one, two and three. The taste: better than expected, and definitely much better than Play-Doh. The ingredients list printed on the Hache Vegetal packaging was relatively short--soy, tomato, onion, salt--and that's what I tasted. But maybe that was the sauce. In any case, when washed down with a glass of Bordeaux, everything--even Play-Doh inspired meat analogs--tastes divine.

Sweet (Tooth) Denial

I've always claimed to be that rarest of human specimens: she who does not possess a sweet tooth.

"I can totally live without dessert for the rest of my life," I'd boast to anyone who'd care to listen. "Just don't try to take my salted nuts or potato chips away. That's the stuff that makes life worth living." (OK: that and the wine.)

Well, turns out that I'm full of baloney.

While it's true I've never had a thing for marshmallows, Gummi Bears or Jujyfruits, I must admit to having a thing for chocolate, and for anything that's sort of simultaneously sweet and salty, like peanut-butter cups or salted caramels--both of which are rarely-to-never vegan.

Yesterday, with an hour to kill between dog-walking assignments, I decided to wander into Carrefour, deep in the heart of the bourgeois and ever-so-boring 16e.

The place is deceptively ginormous; moving through the chocolate aisle alone took 20 minutes. As I trolled the aisles, eyes bulging at the sheer quantity of choices in every food category, I proceeded to fill my basket with all kinds of goodies: bags of salty corn-nuts from the "Middle East" aisle, hefty bunches of those delectable Muscat grapes I've become addicted to, and giant jars of yummy lupini beans I first fell in love with in Italy last summer.

Finally, toward the end of my shopping excursion, I found the "bio" aisle, dedicated to all things organic. Here, I discovered something that made my heart skip a beat: dairy-free chocolate with, of all things, caramelized quinoa inside. Sold! (And what is it with the French and quinoa? They even sell quinoa milk at Naturalia.)

When I got home, I decided to study the packaging one last time before tearing into it. Definitely no milk, butter, eggs, or meat. But what I didn't see the first time was that this chocolate I so desperately wanted to sink my teeth into does contain decidedly non-vegan honey. Dammit!

I nibbled a square anyway, the buzz of a million stunned and dying honeybees providing the background noise inside my head. It was dark and delicious, but not worth the psychic discomfort.

While I continue exploring the mysterious world of French chocolate bars, my sweet tooth can safely indulge in two predictable favorites, hazelnuttylicious Chocolinette, and cheapo brand Belle France Caramel Popcorn. (The latter of which tastes divine when mixed with salted peanuts.)

My Magic Purple Friend (or Not)

My first thought upon waking yesterday morning was (Jen, if you're reading this, close your eyes now) "Let's listen to some Prince."

No, I have no idea why.

So, I put some Prince on the stereo (aka my computer) and proceeded to get in a really good mood. (Try listening to "America" and not feeling all pepped up. Except you, Jen.)

For our morning walk, Fanny and I headed out the door in the direction of Tom and Nathalie's place on Boulevard Richard Lenoir, to feed the fish and water the pretty flowers on the balcony with the fabulous view of Sacre Coeur. As we rounded the corner onto Voltaire, there he was! Prince! Who may or may not be vegan! OK, so it was only a poster on a news-agent's kiosk, but still.

Another block down the street, I passed a typical Parisian boulangerie, albeit one with outdoor seating, where a handful of people were enjoying their petit dejeuner of coffee and croissants. I looked up, and there on the awning it read, "Les Delices du Prince" (The delights of the prince).

Hmm. Coincidence or .... ??

I guess it mustn't have been "or ... " because I kept looking for more magic purple Prince symbols, but didn't see any.

The view from Tom and Nathalie's balcony

The Big Question

Whenever I leave my camera at home, there is, inevitably, a moment I happen upon that will never, ever be repeated, and one that I would really have liked to capture in digital form for future amusement and memory recall. Like today, for instance.

As I moseyed up rue de la Roquette, a police van with siren blaring blasted up the skinny one-way street, stopping suddenly on the corner just a half-block ahead. Walking closer to the van, I could see through the tinted windows a man in a crisp, button-down shirt handcuffed in the back, three officers sitting across from and beside him. Just then, another officer came running out of the boulangerie on the corner bearing a siren-worthy baguette, a sheath of paper twisted around the middle. All that fuss for a stick of bread? Honestly! Or how about the woman at Starbucks (I returned again today; I hope this doesn’t become habit), awkwardly eating her chocolate-chip muffin with a spoon? Just shove the damn thing in your mouth, lady. That’s the way we do it in America! And hey: Starbucks sells pancakes—yes, regular old flapjacks—in little stacks, right alongside the muffins and scones in the glass case at the counter. What’s that all about?

Yesterday, coming home from the Bibliotheque Parmentier, I walked toward the Mairie de l’Onzieme, lured by the sound of live music—drums and tambourine, mostly. As I rounded the corner to the square in front of the Mairie, I saw it was another wedding taking place (each arrondissement has its own town hall, which is a popular place to get married, just like San Francisco’s City Hall). This time, the nuptials were of the North African variety. Four men in red tunics, matching pants, and pillbox hats pounded on their drums and shook their tambourines, while a crowd of smiling men and women formed a dancing circle around the bride and groom, who were each dressed in traditional western wedding wear. Women in hijabs took turns ululating, and the men held their hands above their heads, snapping their fingers. It was a beautiful scene that prompted spontaneous tears--joyful ones. Today as I passed the same spot, I noticed butterfly-sized confetti shaped like hearts littering the square like leaves from a fairytale arbre d’amour. It warmed my heart. Maybe love is the answer, but, then, what is the question?

Far From the 8th

One of my favorite films, Paris, Je T'Aime, is comprised of 18 different stories, one of which is particularly poignant; it's titled "Loin du 16e" ("Far from the 16th") and tells the story of a young spanish-speaking immigrant woman who leaves her working-class apartment -- and her infant daughter, to whom she sings a sad little lullaby before depositing her in daycare -- in the gray Paris suburbs and takes a gruelingly long train ride to her job in the ritzy, bourgeois 16th arrondissement. There, in the home of a wealthy family, she cares for their infant daughter, to whom she sings sad little lullabies. I relate to this story whenever I report for work in the chi-chi 8th to care for Junior (aka "Junes" or "Joonynoots"), the spoiled springer spaniel whose young, soft-spoken and extremely goodlooking Greek dad is clearly a millionaire, and then some.

While I walk this friendly, old (he's 12) beast up the Champs Elysee and around the grassy park areas sandwiching the Seine, trying to yank him away from every dead pigeon, dirty napkin, random fish head, and pile of human excrement (he loves the stuff) he drags the two of us toward, my terrificly well-behaved little Fanny sits home in her tiny, temporary 11th arrondissement abode, dreaming of the Snausages and Pupperonis she rarely-to-never gets to eat (she's supposed to be vegan, too). Well, I make up for the neglect with praise when I get home, telling her what a good girl she is for not being equipped with coprophagic tendencies, and for not nearly yanking my arm off whenever she smells something tasty hiding in the bushes.

Saturday is my last day caring for Junes. His regular dog walker comes back from vacation then. I think I'll be ready for a vacation of my own come Saturday. (Or at least a massage for my over-yanked shoulder. There are lots of Chinese massage places in Paris, so I think I might have to spring for one, since I'll have the cash in hand to indulge.)

One Really Great Thing About Paris

Would you look at that price tag? Mind you, this is the big jar. That's less than half the price -- even with the euro-to-dollars conversion -- that I'd pay at Rainbow. I think this might be the only thing that's less expensive in France than the US (besides fresh fruit and vegetables), but if it had to be something, I'm glad it's Marmite.