So I visited her Web site. The basic idea was clear enough: Miss Lunch prepares rather elaborate six-course lunches (including paired wines, naturally) in her Paris apartment three days a week, and invites up to eight people to enjoy the meal for a suggested donation of 45 euros each. So it’s more or less an underground restaurant in the same vein as Hidden Kitchen (about which see my earlier post). That’s a familiar concept, but I was surprised that neither I nor my foodie blogger friends had heard of this place before—that gave me pause. Without any first-hand recommendations and with very little biographical information to go on, I had no idea what I’d be getting myself into.

But, after all, I’m here to have interesting experiences, so I decided to take a leap of faith. Morgen and I made reservations and had lunch in the loft this past Sunday.

A couple of days beforehand, Miss Lunch sent us directions to her place and a link to a review that had just been posted at Rosa Jackson’s Edible Adventures. I was very glad for the additional context, a good recommendation, and a photo to reassure me that I hadn’t signed up for something altogether crazy. But one comment in Rosa’s post troubled me: the conversation at the table when she’d visited had been entirely in French. Well, our French is still terrible (though we’re taking lessons now!), and even in English, small talk with strangers isn’t my forte. I emailed Miss Lunch to ask if there’d be any other English speakers, and she said yes, a Canadian couple would be there. So at least we’d have someone to talk to.

We arrived at the appointed time and were welcomed by Claude (“Miss Lunch”), who speaks excellent English and French, and her partner Eric, who spoke to us only in French. Their apartment is indeed a loft (unusual here in Paris), and the spacious room was filled with Claude’s paintings—some still in progress. (You can see some examples on her Web site.) We quickly made the acquaintance of the other guests, including Philippe and Alicia from Montréal and a couple of other bilingual expats, and, drinks in hand, settled down for the meal.

The food, which was served over a leisurely period of about three hours, was fantastic—every bit as good as I’d expect at a high-end restaurant. The dishes were creative, delicious, and beautifully presented. Naturally, the menu changes with the season, all the ingredients are fresh, and everything is made from scratch. As Rosa Jackson pointed out, what’s most amazing is that Claude manages to pull this off in a small, apartment-sized kitchen with almost no counter space.

One of the desserts was a baklava, and as there was a lot left over, Claude brought the pan to the table after lunch so that we could munch while we chatted. I ate entirely too much, but it was mighty fine baklava. (Well, I drank entirely too much too, but it was mighty fine wine.)

Claude told me that she’d only been doing this for six weeks (with lunches usually served every Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday) but that she plans to continue for at least a year. I’m sure we’ll be back to taste the menus of other seasons. My only disappointment is that I wasn’t able to spend more time talking to our hostess, since she was busy single-handedly making the food. Hopefully we’ll have other chances to chat in the future.

If you like good food and unusual experiences, Lunch in the Loft is well worth a visit. The food is top-notch, the atmosphere is inviting, and Claude and Eric are delightful people. The 45-euro price may seem expensive as lunches go, but it’s a bargain for what you get—not the least of which is the chance to meet interesting new people. But just one tip: unlike Hidden Kitchen, which tends to draw English-speaking people, Lunch in the Loft seems to be more oriented toward those comfortable speaking French. So your French skills (like mine) aren’t quite up to making polite random conversation for several hours, you might want to check with Claude to see if she can schedule you for a lunch when other English-speaking folk are likely to be there.

Interestingly, tonight was our second consecutive evening of trilingual entertainment. Last night we attended the “avant-premiere” of the film The Oxford Murders, featuring a question-and-answer session with star Elijah Wood and director Álex de la Iglesia. Elijah speaks only English, while Álex is Spanish and speaks just a bit of English (and no French). So there was a French translator, but sometimes the director couldn’t figure out how to say something in English and slipped automatically into Spanish. After asking for linguistic help from the audience, a young woman came down to translate from Spanish into French, but the result was a hilarious mixture of three languages (often in the same sentence) and lots of staggered laughter as various segments of the audience got the gist of some joke. The movie itself, I’m sorry to say, was merely so-so, but it was great to see Elijah Wood in person, and the overall event was tremendous fun.

But back to my birthday…what truly made today magical was returning home to find that one of the two elevators in our building was suddenly back in service! Both of the elevators have been en panne for about three and a half weeks, and that has been a major drag since we live on the 10th floor (meaning, because of the way floors are numbered here, that we have to walk up/down 11 flights of stairs). When we saw a handwritten sign saying the one elevator was working, we were in shock. Our neighbor from across the hall happened to be arriving home at the same time and was equally surprised. I mentioned that today was my birthday, and he agreed that it was a fantastic birthday gift.

Not technically France-related, but pertinent to the title of our blog, is the news that an enormous white truffle was dug up in Tuscany last week. Weighing more than three pounds (almost 1.5 kg), this pungent monster may break the Guinness World Record for largest truffle. In a classy move, the folks who found it are planning to auction it off on Saturday, with the proceeds going to charity.

If you’ve never tasted Algerian pastries, I would highly recommend them. They are similar to pastries made in other North African countries (including Tunisia and Morocco) as well as the Middle East. The French refer to this whole category of sweets as patisserie orientale, and while there are basic similarities (they usually involve honey, nuts, and pastry, of course), there is a dizzying array of variations. I especially like ones involving pistachio and hazelnut, but also interesting combinations of flavors, like almond and citrus.

Before we moved here, I learned that perhaps the most famous of the Algerian pastry shops in Paris, La Bague de Kenza, was located on our new street. I couldn’t wait to try their celebrated sweets, and was not disappointed when I did. For those planning a visit to Paris at some point, I would definitely suggest a trip to La Bague de Kenza. For those who want to try some Algerian pastries, without the cost of airfare, you might be interested in Les Douceurs de Kenza, a cookbook created by the co-founders of the shop (available from Amazon in France and Canada). Or you could check out this Algerian cooking blog for more recipes.

HK is sort of a cross between an exclusive restaurant and a private dinner party. A young American couple prepares a 10-course meal in their Paris apartment every Sunday evening for up to a dozen guests. Anyone can come, but reservations are required and there’s about a two-month wait for a spot. (We made our reservation for this week in early August.) The location is secret, sent to guests a few days ahead of time by email. A donation of 60 € is suggested to cover the cost of the food and wine. Even though HK only started in June, it has already attained a sort of cult status here, especially among the many producers and consumers of Paris expat blogs. Guests have ranged from random tourists to cookbook authors and corporate execs in town on business.

I always enjoy trying a chef’s tasting menu, but this one was genuinely memorable. Each course, from the amuse bouche to the desserts and petits fours, was a work of art. I can’t come up with any criticisms whatsoever—the clever recipes, the presentation, the wines paired with each course, and the service were absolutely spot-on perfect. Given that all this was the work of just two people in a small Parisian kitchen, the effect was even more impressive. They pulled off culinary and logistical feats that put many fine restaurants to shame.

But what intrigued me most, I think, was the roster of guests. The 12 of us—mostly couples who’d never met each other—sat at a long table in the dining room for four hours and chatted away like old friends. It was uncanny how easily everyone got along, even introverts like us. I’m not sure what cosmic forces induced this particular group of people to select themselves to come together for an unusual dinner in Paris on this particular night, but the vibe in the room was just right. Everyone was smart, interesting, friendly, and polite—everything you could ask for in dinner companions.

After dinner, we stayed into the wee hours of the morning chatting with our hosts, Laura and Braden. They’re extremely nice people, very down-to-earth despite the unusual way they’ve chosen to spend a year or so of their lives. (Mac users too—we approve!) They told us that although the demographic of the crowd varies from one week to the next, nearly always, for unknown reasons, any given night’s guests tend to have a lot in common with each other. There’s usually a mixture of English-speaking expats and French diners, but conversation is generally in English. Nearly everyone seems to have some sort of blog connection, because that’s the main way information about HK has spread.

I was shocked to learn that neither of the chefs had attended culinary school, though Braden had worked in a restaurant for a while. Even more surprising was the fact that they weren’t looking to turn this into a career (though I certainly understand not wanting to open a restaurant, regardless of how much one likes to cook). These folks have both a talent and a love for fine cooking as well as for bringing interesting people together, and Hidden Kitchen is a marvelous way to combine those passions.

Before we moved to Paris I had a list of places I wanted to visit when we got here, and La Grande Épicerie was very close to the top of the list. I had read about this food emporium, part of Le Bon Marché department store, on various Paris-based blogs, and was eager to see it for myself, especially since after reading these posts, and checking out its official Web site, I still wasn’t sure what to expect once I actually got there. In the absence of first-hand information, I imagined it to be similar to the Food Hall in the London department store Harrods, which we’d visited a few years ago and thoroughly enjoyed.

The Food Hall consisted of a series of elaborate rooms showcasing various pricey and delicious foodstuffs. It reminded me somewhat of the British Museum (also visited on the trip) in that it contained all sorts of treasures brought from the ends of the earth. I felt as if I were visiting a museum too, as we admired bright exotic fruits like they were the Crown Jewels. It was a fascinating experience, but I never imagined that mere mortals like us would make a regular habit of buying groceries there if we happened to live in the neighborhood.

I expected La Grande Épicerie to be the same—a boutique of fascinating foods that one might nibble on daintily, not a place to satisfy one’s appetite. I couldn’t have been more wrong. In fact, we found La Grande Épicerie to be the exact opposite of the gosh-that-jar-of-olives-costs-more-than-our-monthly-food-budget type of place; compared to our local supermarket, the prices ranged from the same to dramatically lower. Of course, it does sell designer concoctions from high-brow producers like Fauchon and Hédiard, but on the next shelf over from those, you can find much humbler fare, like mini marshmallows that would not be out of place in a middle American supermarket. Yes, these were in the “American” section, and cost more than they would have in the US, but it warmed our hearts that haute cuisine could co-exist with comfort foods. Like our own, the store’s tastes ran from gourmet to granola.

We became giddy looking at all the products we had been unable to locate in other stores over the previous month. Swiffer! Irish oatmeal! Baking soda! It was worth the trip just to find these curiously rare items. I had been gathering ingredients to make pancakes since we arrived in Paris, and had everything (including the maple syrup) except baking powder. I found it at La Grande Épicerie. However, lest you think that we are reverting back to North American ways and ignoring the delights of French cuisine, I can attest to our even greater excitement when confronted with the array of traditional French foods available to us.

Just the sight of a case full of cheese in various states of decomposition made me swoon (maybe it was the fumes). Who knew that cheese could come in such vivid colors? Joe became transfixed by the selection of milk products on display; I’ve heard they even sell horse milk although we didn’t see it at the time. Bread, sausage, olives, herbs, chocolate—we hadn’t seen such a wide variety of all these in a long time. And the best part, at least for me, was that we could browse to our heart’s content without coming under the watchful eye of the staff, as we’d experienced in smaller stores all too often. Perhaps this was what was so appealing, that we could have access to traditional French artisan products in the familiar setting of a supermarket. Maybe some day when our French improves, it won’t be so daunting to carry on a five-minute conversation with the local baker about what he or she might recommend, but for now it was lovely just to look, and to imagine all the culinary adventures ahead of us.

A note on the photo: This is the side view of the building that houses La Grande Épicerie. We were amused to see that fellow Paris blogger Polly Vous Francais? posted a very similar photo on her blog today.

It’s amazing sometimes how a small thing can turn into a big thing when there is a language barrier to navigate. Case in point: last week Joe and I went into a small grocery store we’d never been in before, and all went smoothly until we got up to the checkout. The cashier was ringing up our items when suddenly he picked up two Granny Smith apples from our pile and started waving them at me and saying something I couldn’t understand. A multitude of thoughts went through my brain: did we need to bag them, was he asking me how much they cost, was apple-buying prohibited on a Wednesday? Finally in exasperation he handed off the apples to a neighboring cashier who dropped them on the scale beside her (she was next to the produce section), and then printed out a little sticker that she stuck to one of them. Handing them back to me, I could see the price on the sticker and finally realized our unforgivable error. Our usual grocery store never required us to self-price our produce items, but we’ll keep a much better eye out for this kind of thing when we visit strange stores in the future.

Seeing these posters in the Métro was a daily reminder of what we had to look forward to, but as a lover of word play, I also found the posters themselves entertaining. They featured the main character, Rémy, in one panel, and his slightly clueless brother, Émile, in the other. Over Émile’s head ran the phrase “Rat d’Égout” (“Sewer Rat”), and over Rémy it said “Rat de Goût” (“Rat with taste”).

After enduring nearly a month of waiting, it was with great anticipation that we went to see Ratatouille on its opening night. The theater was packed, and I wondered how all the native Parisians around me would react to seeing their city up on the big screen in animated form. The difference between seeing the movie in the US and France was apparent immediately. The first few scenes involved someone speaking French, and we presumed in the US version there were English subtitles, but what we saw were French subtitles of the French dialogue! And what was even more strange, the text and the movie dialogue were quite different.

I don’t want to spoil the movie for those who haven’t seen it, but I’ll just say that it more than lived up to its promise, and it’s a movie I would see again and again. It was especially fun for us when we could recognize a certain part of the city, and in one particular scene, both of us gasped in amazement at how true to life the movie was. Only a few days prior to seeing the movie, we had run across a most unusual window display in the Les Halles district of central Paris, and this exact window display showed up in the movie!

Les Halles was formerly the site of an enormous food market, once known as the “stomach of Paris,” and it naturally drew not only hungry humans, but non-human visitors as well. Maison Aurouze, a long-established extermination company that once trapped the rats in the market district, now displays their mummified corpses in its front window, along with other stuffed creatures in various creepy poses. It definitely made an impression on us when we first saw it, and it was strange to see it suddenly appear in the middle of the movie.

A few years ago, I wrote about absinthe on Interesting Thing of the Day. To summarize: while living in Canada, I became quite fond of this concoction of distilled herbs, legendary as the muse of writers and painters and equally legendary for its alleged contributions to insanity and violence. But as it’s still (mostly) illegal in the U.S., I hadn’t been able to obtain any in some time; I’d made do with its wormwood-free successor, pastis, which is perfectly fine in and of itself but Just Not The Same Thing. I also said:

On my next trip to Europe, however, I’ll make a point of sampling as many varieties as I can—in the name of research, of course. If my writing suddenly becomes much more poetic or prolific, you’ll know why.

I want to confirm that I’m a man of my word. Since arriving in France a month ago, I’ve already sampled three varieties of absinthe, and have a bottle of a fourth that I haven’t opened yet. I have also written an unusually large number of words, even for me (including, perhaps, a few words bordering on poetic), about quite a few different subjects, and though I can’t prove any causal connection, the correlation is worth noting.

Last year, David Lebovitz had a wonderful post on his blog about Vert d’Absinthe, a little shop here in Paris that sells only absinthe and absinthe accessories (spoons, glasses, water pitchers, prints, and so on). Naturally, we had to pay a visit.

The proprietor, Luc-Santiago Rodriguez, was kind, generous with his time, and forgiving of our inadequate French. We discussed absinthe for quite some time, and sampled a few varieties that demonstrated a surprising range of flavors and aromas. We asked which of the dozens of brands he stocked was closest to the original Pernod Brothers’ formula, and he pointed to a bottle of L’Absinthe P.F. 1901, made by the Distillerie Combier in Saumur, France. So we left with a bottle of that, as well as a bottle of Verte de Fougerolles, which we’d sampled in the store and which Luc said was one of his favorites. I expect we’ll return numerous times; there are many more absinthes to try.

Among the many interesting things we learned that day is that despite the FDA’s prohibition against the sale of anything containing thujone, there’s apparently a loophole that has permitted limited legal importation of absinthe. According to Luc, most of the absinthes he sells have such a low concentration of thujone (as required by EU law) that the U.S. Customs equipment can’t detect it. So if any of it were actually to be tested, it wouldn’t register as containing an illegal substance and would be let into the country. For that matter, even the absinthes with the highest amounts of thujone have so little of it (something on the order of 10 parts per million, I believe, for the French brands anyway) that they’re almost certainly no more psychoactive than run-of-the-mill pastis. (Update 07-Aug-2007: I’ve just discovered at least one brand of genuine absinthe that is now being legally manufactured in the U.S., apparently by virtue of having near-indetectible quantities of thujone: Lucid.)

On the other hand, I find that drinking absinthe is up to 27 percent more pleasurable than drinking pastis—for whatever reasons, real or imagined. That’s good enough for me.

During one of our first shopping trips to a local supermarket we were somewhat surprised to find that a lot of breakfast cereals here feature chocolate. While it may be normal in North America for chocolate to be part of sugary cereals, usually marketed to kids, here chocolate is even included in so-called “healthier” cereals. An extreme case is the cereal All-Bran, arguably the most austere and health-conscious mainstream cereal on North American supermarket shelves, which can be purchased here in a “Choco-Flakes” version. Chocolate-covered bran flakes? Just another reason we love this place.

Before we came to Paris I had read about the Picard chain of food stores and was eager to visit one for myself. These stores are devoted to frozen foods (with only a few non-frozen items to be found) and have many locations around the city, as well as throughout the rest of the country. Once I knew to look for its distinctive snowflake logo, I started seeing Picards everywhere (not unlike certain Star Trek episodes).

To our delight, there is a Picard store about six blocks from our apartment, which makes it possible for us to get the stuff home before it melts even a little bit. A few weeks ago we made our first major shopping trip to this store, confining ourselves to buying only the basics, although we were sorely tempted by the vast array of frozen pastries and luxury items likes foie gras and escargots. It tickled us that we could buy a frozen quiche lorraine, or ratatouille, or canard a l’orange; it was like a culinary tour of France in a freezer case. Although we are looking forward to experiencing all the regional specialties of France in their natural state, it doesn’t hurt to have a few frozen goodies on hand when dinner time comes around.

Before we moved here, I spent a lot of time looking at Web sites about Paris. I did this partly to keep me motivated through the sometimes difficult visa process, but mostly to get ideas about what we would do and see (and eat of course) once we arrived. I’ll admit that I have an obsession with learning as much as I can about a place before traveling (or in this case, moving) there, an obsession that is not shared by my dear husband. Joe usually has ideas beforehand about what he’d like to see, but he is much more laid-back about it. He is perfectly happy to experience things as they come up, whereas I have a tendency to make grand lists of “must-sees” that can sometimes get in the way of having a relaxing vacation. This tendency of mine is one reason I’m so excited to be able to live in Paris, rather than just visiting. I can see all the things I want to see at a leisurely pace, and can even visit the Louvre as many times as I like!

Knowing my weakness for overzealous planning, most of the time Joe is very amenable to letting me set the schedule of what we will see and do. On the negative side, there have been many times during our travels when my pre-planning has gone horribly awry, but there have also been many times of triumph in which I’ve led us to some place that Joe turned out to absolutely enjoy. One major example is the trip we took for my 30th birthday a few years ago; I was set on going to Patagonia, and even though Joe hadn’t ever given much thought to traveling in Argentina, I think he loved it at least as much as I did. More appropriate to our current situation, it was through my urging that we visited Paris the first time we were in France, and we know how that turned out!

So last week, when we decided we would take a break from work and hiding out in our apartment, I once again determined the plan for the day. There were a bunch of places I wanted to visit that were all in the same neighborhood, the Marais district, and it made sense to check them all off the list at once. We’d start by taking the Métro to the St. Paul station in the 4th arrondissement, and go from there. I first wanted to visit a shop that sells absinthe and accessories for serving absinthe, called Vert d’Absinthe. Then, I wanted to walk by an American-style diner to see what it was like, before heading to a falafel restaurant I’d heard a lot about. After picking up our meal, we would walk over to the Place des Vosges to have a picnic on the grass.

At our first stop, the absinthe shop, we had a great time browsing and tasting the wares. I’ll leave the details for Joe to write about in another post, but I’ll just say we left the store happier than when we went in, and only slightly worse for wear. The next place I wanted to visit was a restaurant called Breakfast in America that purported to serve real American-style breakfasts and diner food on their Web site. As we walked by, I liked what I saw, and thought I’d most likely be back once the craving for pancakes, waffles, or other hearty breakfast foods kicks in. But still wanting to taste and experience new things, we continued on to L’As du Fallafel (their spelling of falafel) at 34, rue des Rosiers, to grab an early supper.

There are numerous recommendations for L’As du Fallafel online and in guidebooks, and I was eager to see if the food would live up to the hype. I had eaten falafel at popular places in San Francisco and liked it immensely (for example, at Ali Baba’s Cave on Haight Street) and I wondered how L’As would measure up. I had one concern though; everyone recommended the falafel special, a sandwich that contained many items Joe usually won’t eat (tomatoes, eggplant, and onion) and I wondered if this would be another pre-planning fiasco. With all the glowing praise of the food to back me up, I decided to take the risk anyway.

I had thought we would simply buy our sandwiches à emporter (for take-out), but when we got near the restaurant we were warmly, if a little forcefully, encouraged to enter the restaurant to eat. We knew it would likely be more expensive, but in our happy mood we didn’t mind the change in plans. The inside of the restaurant was fairly basic but pleasant, and we didn’t have to wait long before being served our falafel specials.

The first thing I noticed as I was handed the heaping full sandwich was the smell and texture of the pita bread it was composed of. The bread seemed incredibly fresh and almost pillowy, and completely unlike most other pita bread I’ve eaten. I wasn’t disappointed by the contents of the pita either; balls of golden falafel, crisp cabbage, creamy eggplant, and a knockout tahini/hummous sauce made me want to eat it all in one gulp. I was especially struck by how light and fresh everything tasted, not greasy at all, which was surprising considering it did contain fried items. I was so busy enjoying my sandwich that I was shocked when I looked up to see that Joe had almost finished his. I couldn’t believe he had eaten the whole thing without taking out any offending items, and he even professed that it was probably the best falafel he had ever eaten. I had triumphed this time! He really liked it.

When we left the restaurant we noted that we could have gotten our specials for €4.50 at the take-away counter, but we were happy with the €6.50 sandwiches we had eaten inside. We also noted that L’As is closed from Friday evening through Sunday morning in observance of the Jewish Sabbath, so we’d have to plan our return trips accordingly. And I know there will be plenty more of them. I’ve already decided that L’As would be a great place to take visiting friends and family, especially the vegetarians among them (our sandwiches were entirely veggie).

With pleasantly full stomachs, we walked over to the Place des Vosges for a stroll around its arcades, and happened across the Hôtel de Sully on the way. This justly famous mansion now houses the offices of the Centre des Monuments Nationaux (Center for National Monuments) but it is also open to the public to view its gorgeous facade and courtyards.

Heading back to the Métro, we made one last stop for a chocolate bonbon apiece before taking the train home. It was a lovely day, all the lovelier since we could do it again tomorrow if we wished!

Ah, the humble baguette. This particular specimen was procured about half a dozen doors down from our building for € 0.80 (a bit over a dollar). We could have chosen at least three other bakeries within two blocks of here, had we been in the mood for a slightly different texture or aroma. And every single one of them would put to shame the vast majority of baguettes available anywhere in the United States. (Hint: if it’s still edible more than 4 hours after it comes out of the oven, it’s not a real baguette.) Yes, life is good here.

(Update 10-Aug-2007: for more on baguettes in Paris, see The baguette problem on The Geeky Gourmet.)