Andy Wahloo: Le Relookage

Um....this is embarrassing, but Andy? Your new look? Yeah. Not so much. I'll give you your scrumptious cocktails and well-endowed serveuses, but what the heck got in to you? Why did you replace the much-beloved bric-and-brac of your former self with a plastic dance floor? Yes, you read me correctly— a brown plastic dance floor. Is someone having a wedding anytime soon?

The relooking of Andy Wahloo makes no sense to me, at all. From a commercial standpoint, with the addition of the dance floor, they've taken away tables (i.e clients). From a social standpoint, the new layout might be referred to (by minds very uncouth) as a "cock block." The tables are arranged in a horrific horseshoe that means that you are required to stare at an empty dance floor from every vantage point in the bar. Empty dance floors are depressing! Did the owners never go to a high school dance for God's sake? Plus, they are dangerous, and require a lot of courage. And things that require courage require a lot of alcohol-—ah ha! I get it! They installed a plastic dance floor to get people to drink!

Touché, Andy Wahloo. But I still liked you better before.

Photo credit: Gordon Youl on Flickr

Brasserie La Fidelité

This restaurant used to be known as Les Zingots, and embarrassingly enough, that's what I set out looking for when I arrived in front of the cloaked doors of La Fidelité. And yes, I do mean cloaked- the doors and all the windows were covered with heavy red velvet, not so much to keep out the draft as the peering eyes of the uninitiated. At first, I thought I'd fallen upon an outpost of Dans le Noir, the curious eatery that opened in Paris in 2004 where you eat in pitch darkness and are served by blind waiters. Moving forward.

We checked out the menu- a somewhat safe but tasty looking entrée-plat ou plat-desert for 26 euros- why not? And in we went to the oasis of beauty and priviledge that is La Fidelité.

Part Viennese coffee shop, part massive train station, La Fidelité boasts massive ceilings, tasteful booths and absolutely perfect lighting. If you want to feel coddled and snuggled by all that is lovely, I would head here, even for a drink because the people watching is just as good as the food.

Here's the thing though, this world remains accessible to those without the It-bag and the It-bangs and the boy accessory. Although tout paris was present, the mood remained quite gay, with lots of smiles, clumsy waiters and frankly, a vibe that was refreshingly down to earth for a place with such caché.

Here's another thing: the food was actually good. Maybe even better than good. And the wine, although pricey, was decadent and memorable. And the french fries--- my goodness-- the neighboring table insisted we order them and I'm glad we did.

La Fidelité has only been open for 4 weeks, and because French people are (I'm sorry!) inherently lazy, food bloggers don't really exist so you can be happy that you read about it here. I think you'll be reading about it partout by the end of the winter. Bon app!

Bistro find! Alert! Alert!

When you've lived in Paris long enough, you know how to recognize a life-changing bistro. You don't necessarily need to be told about it beforehand, or rely on word-of-mouth before trying it out. And you certainly don't need to have read about it first. Sometimes, you go for a walk in any old particular direction, as one tends to do in Paris, and there it is, just waiting for you. Your perfect bistro, sitting off in a corner in the most improbable place.

My perfect bistro is Le Petit Sud-Ouest on the humdrum Rue Duban. I just spotted it today. Sometimes you can tell by the build-up of stickers from serious guides and defunct magazines. Sometimes you can tell from the wear and tear of the tiled floors, or the patina of the tables. Other times, it's the menu that pulls you in, that tempts you toward a table. In this case, it was all of the above, although I have to admit that any place serving a terrine de creme caramel has got to be quite serious. This restaurant is Basque, so that means lots of duck, terrines, foie gras, outrageously unhealthy salads and lots of serious meat cooked with sheer reverence. Although main dishes range from 19 euros to 35 euros, they advertise a prix fixe menu for 26 euros (including a digestif!), which certainly sounds like a steal. I will check back and report once I find out if it is.

Mamma Mil'a

It's amazing how Christmas really gets you in the spirit of wanting. The brightly lit windows, the sparkling trees, the hustle and bustle and strangers in their finery- you walk around the city to the rythym of "I want, I want, I want!" This place is going on my to-do list. Apparently, it opened this summer and specializes in southwestern French cooking, which could or could not mean "Basque". They organize degustations on Wednesday nights of lesser-known vintages from Languedoc, Bourgogne and Gascogne, accompanied with tapas. I usually hate tapas, I find the concept sort of annyoing- but this place looks darling enough to make me reconsider.

The best pasta in Paris

Yes, their prices have gone up (like everyone else's), yes, the waiters are all unnervingly handsome, and yes, it's always (always) crowded- but with pasta cooked so perfectly and such an attractive clientele, who the hell cares?

Little Italy Caffé has been one of my favorite addresses in Paris for five years now, and I haven't had a bad dish, yet. In order for me to forgive the fact that they're selling a 4 euro bottle of Lambrusco for 22 euros, the food better be pretty damn good- and trust me, it is. Don't attempt to get in with more than four people and be prepared to wait in front of the bathroom- the only place in the rectangular-shaped restaurant where you won't be in the way. Order anything tomato based with speck in it- to die for. The tiramisu is delish as well. I've never ordered anything besides pasta, and none of my friends have, either. The pasta is hearty enough to be a main meal, and most of the dishes cost between 10 and 14 euros. Dress cute and come hungry. Ciao.

Basque in good food

You know that wondrous feeling when you try a new restaurant, and after a few well-proportioned plates go whizzing by on the upturned palms of a charming waitstaff, you know you're in for a treat? Well that happened for us today at La Cantine du Troquet. Affordable, intimate, and well worth the occasional wait- the exquisitely prepared dishes were a well-deserved vacation from the humdrum gray of Paris that sometimes translates into uninventive food. Reliable, comforting- but uninteresting nonetheless- such is the case at La Coupole, a former gastronomic institution that has been sitting on its laurels for over a decade serving food that tastes like it was purchased frozen from Picard.

Whoops- I digress. Let me tell you what I had. I started with a terrine of boudin with a delicate dollop of homemade pesto. Boudin is a blood sausage, and although a terrine of blood sausage might sound overwhelming, it was delicate and refined and served with massive chunks of fresh country bread. Cornichons and spicy green peppers were served a volonté, as was the soup- a scrumptious velouté of root vegetables served with chunks of chorizo. Next up, I had sardines a la plancha, accompanied with an unforgettable homemade ragout. This is a place that really knows how to use tomatoes- no watery wastes of well-intentioned sauces at La Cantine.

I went for lunch, and walked out delighted for less than 20 euros. Friends say it's packed from nine o'clock on, so I say have a big lunch, drink a lot of wine, and pretend that it's night. It's so gray here, you won't notice the difference.

The chef, by the way, is Christian Etchebest- and La Cantine is a more affordable offshoot of his restaurant Le Troquet- referred to by French foodies as a temple of "bistronomique" cooking.

Grow, seedling, grow

Siberian Kale, Japanese pickling eggplants, the hottest red chilies, fingerling potatoes and heirloom black Russian tomatoes....just to name a few. From her second-story perch in the little red house, Beaver looks out at the first rain of Spring, as roots stretch and yawn, and shake out the kinks. Will the little planted seeds grown into something wonderful? Or will her lack of a little green claw dash out all hopes of a harvest? She chews on sweet birch and watches the rain. Pour que ça marche, pour que ça pousse!

Got guilt?

In this world,
We walk on the roof of hell
Gazing at flowers.
-Issa

In a time where mediocrity is championed and ignorance is, quite literally, bliss, it is comforting to discover the existence of an underground movement to take back our minds and our taste buds. For those of you who purchase food without thinking, whether for lack of time, lack of cash flow, or simple lack of interest, Beaver heartily recommends that you chomp your way through Michael Pollen's "The Omnivore's Dilema". If you can't make it through the first, admittedly protracted chapter on corn, take thirty minutes to execute a simple Internet search on the current polemic over raw milk.

You might be interested to learn that grass fed milk, a.k.a unpasteurized, contains natural antibiotic properties that can help prevent tooth decay, encourage calcium absorption, prevent joint stiffness, flu, pneumonia, and other common illnesses, as well as protect its proponents from asthma and from skin allergies commonly seen in drinkers of pasteurized milk. Alas, the place of healing food in the United States is a portentous place indeed. Healing, nutritious raw milk is the Jason Bourne of American food. Why should we heal ourselves with the food we eat when we can shell out millions for sub-average health insurance, and keep getting sick?

Before knocking raw milk into the cedar-scented sauna of trustafarian fads and "green" trends, do a little research. You might start to wonder just what, exactly, is lurking in your latte.

Organic panic

Why does Beaver subscribe to Domino Magazine? This publication irks her, it is a consumer's wet dream, and yet, she intakes a little sip of air when she sees it in her post box. Oh, yippee! It's arrived! The worst part is the section where they document the day in the life of some fussy green princess. Rarely is the person profiled a regular Old Joey, he or she is a designer, the owner of a (green! very green!) cosmetic company, a fair trade coffee bean shop, or some long limbed activist who makes recycled sneakers on the side.

Where are the waiters, the waitresses, the unemployed cartoonists and the struggling freelancers who are trying their best to live a responsible life, with what they can afford? Don't these people ever get caught without their eco-friendly tote bag? This month's issue features a "former model" whose daily conundrums include waking up from a nap at 12:44 "in a panic" to realize that she "neglected to offset (her) carbon emissions for the flight!" Oh, yuck. Help me pay my mortgage.

On another note, we have come across the best short story of the year and it's in this month's New Yorker. Check out "Free Radicals" by Alice Munro. If you like her, you'll love Antonya Nelson, another favorite writer.

Grapes and Gripes

Why is it impossible to buy a bottle of wine under $12 that doesn’t taste like reinforced Manishevitz? Is anyone else sick to death of the headache inducing combo of Petit Syrah and Grenache? Is there any economical red that doesn’t taste “jammy”?!

Case in point. Last night, we tried the Cycles Gladiator 2005 Central Coast Merlot because it won a number of awards, including one in France, a country we considered relatively immune to the Cheapo Shiraz virus. Et beh, non! Welcome to the wino-cherry of the elephant millennium. Even diluted, it was undrinkable. Even an hour after receiving a letter that we owe massive back taxes for 2006, it was still undrinkable. Now that’s a bad wine.

Got good vino recs for a limited cash flow? Please write in.

Last gripe of the morning- unwatchable Netflix DVDs. Every movie we’ve been getting recently has been a stuttering disaster. Step it up a notch, Netshitz. Beaver knows she’s not the only one to rent “This Film is Not Yet Rated”, but a lot of people have crumbs in their machines. It’s time to replace your achy-breaky copies!

A long-awaited outing into the Berkshire night

One can’t help but wonder why copper casseroles have become the de facto image for French restaurants in America. Domo is skeptical, but Beaver has faith; tonight they will sample the best French restaurant in the Berkshires. The wine list is impressive, the occasion is a birthday, and the Maitre d' has outdone herself with the jubilatory scamperings behind the celebration. But the bistro is named a somewhat perfunctory “Chez Nous”, and they’ve elected those damn casseroles for their tawdry signage. It awaits to be seen what they can do on the stove.

Monster de gateaux

This astonishing piece of shocking gastronomy just in: Domo is up to one packet of cookies a day. After discovering a delectable hamlet in North Lee where his very favorite cookies are sold at a discount, the little animal has become an unstoppable mangeur de gateaux. Beaver doesn't have the heart to hide them, as the benefits of this most American treat seem to outweigh their potential hazard. A cookie a day keeps the doctor away. Six cookies a day? She'll have to keep him on a strict diet of winter wood chopping.

Ode to the sandwich

The deliciousness of childhood, lathered on with a spoon. The sweet, sparkled tang of simplicity. It is happiness itself, accompanied with a cool drink of something chocolate. Everything else seems snobbish in comparison. Alongside the fennel, the codfish, the frown-inducing rhubarb risotto, it lies on certain menus as a planted flag of Life as it Should Be. It is peanut butter. It is jelly.
The greatest love story America has told.