Month: December 2015

I have been helping a friend find an apartment. It means a lot of visits to rather dismal places. I define that as no shower, no storage, bad light and tiny, useless kitchens. 

Many people have commented on these tiny kitchens, marveling at the great meals that emerge from them. Well, yeah, the writers are typically guests at a dinner party. Of course the food will be good. The question is, what are those people eating every day?

That depends on the person. All those skinny French women you see? They love the tiny kitchen because they don’t eat. They don’t cook and they don’t eat. It’s espresso for breakfast, hold the croissant. Lunch is a green salad, hold the dressing, and still water; sparkling water causes bloat. Dinner? Grissini, or grissino, as they will put on weight if they eat more than one, and carrot sticks with green tea. Size 2 is not a job. It’s a calling.

I wasn’t in France for the era of family lunches and dinners, every single day. My housing search tells me that older family-size apartments have decent kitchens, so the kitchen quandary is a nonissue anyway. 

From what I used to see on the tiny kitchen front, ordinary humans would make a one-dish meal on Sunday and maybe Wednesday, then try to make it last. Then microwaves came in and everyone went to Picard, the store that sells nothing that is not frozen. The quality is better than you might expect but still not exactly quality. I couldn’t deal with Picard, with its rows of coffin shaped freezer cases. I kept thinking I would wheel my cart past the mythical cryogenically preserved head of Walt Disney or the fictional body of Laura Palmer, maybe both. Then I’d just freak out and run away screaming. As an ex used to say, I have a rich inner life. I guess that’s nicer than saying I’m weird.

And now? That bag in the photo? It housed a to-go container. My kitchen is okay, thanks, but there I was at Le Petit Retro, staring at a half-finished dish. I couldn’t let the last few bites of amazing Iberian pork go down the drain, not with Jacques waiting at home. Notice that the bag advertises a delivery service. There are a few now; I am just snobbish enough to prefer the literary reference/pun of Toqueville. So really, these days, if your kitchen holds a wine rack and a telephone, you’re good to go.

Restaurant food, eaten with your feet up while binge-watching Better Call Saul. Who could ask for more? Maybe I don’t need a kitchen after all.

So Jacques and I were walking down the Avenue Breteuil, minding our own business, when we came upon this, a herd of sheep, not more than a football field away from the Invalides. Look behind you and you see a gilded dome. Look to the right and left and you see fancy shops, apartments and Jacques’ vet’s office. Look ahead and, appropriately enough, you see a monument to Louis Pasteur. So maybe a herd of sheep grazing right there in the middle is not so out of place, after all.

Honestly, I have my doubts about the ecological value of managing the grass with sheep. Does it really take less gas to truck these guys in than to run a lawnmower? Out at the house, though, I would love to find a service like this. I’d actually get a sheep or three but I probably would not be around enough to take proper care of them. 

So we looked on, I with envy and Jacques with curiosity, as the sheep slowly munched their way over to get a look at the little white furry critter who was looking back; I was of no interest to them at all. Then we moved on. Another day in Paris.