My Parisian colleague had come three times in a week. She said that it was not expensive, real authentic and one of the best in the city. I got excited and booked a table for two. Texted B, "I'm leaving. early." He said, "On My Way." I did not now how he beat me, I worked closer than he. He ordered the tomato soup and I had escargot. I reminded him that once before we caught that Norwegian art house coming of age movie, we went to have dinner at Cafe Prague and I recalled that he ordered tomato soup as well. "You liked tomato soup. Very few people do." He seemed surprised. This was what I did best. I wrote down things in my blog. I put everything down so that I could remember later on. After losing a decade of memory, I went overboard about remembering everything. Why do you think I write Yelp reviews? i write to reflect, to remember. For the record, tomato soup here was creamier and yummier than Cafe Prague. It was good to get if you are in the mood for a vegetarian soup.
Escargot was soaked in basil and liquid butter. I told B when I sailed along the Yonne River in France, I rode the bike into town and went to the village where Bourgogne snails were raised and bought some. They were huge and exceptionally meaty. Here the snails were tender but small, like the ones you get in Paris. RN76 is the only place in town that occasionally had the Burgundy snails in, in case you are seeking for that very special snail. B ordered a glass of red wine. He seemed to either developed an interest in French things or he was already in the know and was trying to finally impress me with it. I was always intrigued when Francophiles citing rarely known fact about my adopted country. Sort of always take me back to happier days where I spent very much every waking moment doing nothing and thinking about how to waste a perfect day doing nothing: bike into town, stop by patisserie for a pain au chocolat, then to Sarl Charcuterie Guillien for a piece of today's terrine, a baguette at the boulangerie, and maybe some yogurt at the city Carefour.
I wanted to go on a trip with B, like the old days. He said, "I can go with you too. I can work remote for a coupe of days." I said, "Then come to France with me. For a few days. To work. To hang out. To do nothing."
This is what happens when you have good French food, or god enough to transport back to a different location. I leave for Munich on the 17th of July, B is headed to Amsterdam a day after me, for some academia conference. He then route his trip to Norway, where he once lived and I'd head to France and onto Greece. When you live in an increasing small world, you find food connects you from one country to another, and one continent to another. This is one such restaurant.
As our day dreamed about the possibilities of itinerary interceptions, we began silently dipping bread into the oil basil drippings of the escargot pan. I wondered what B was thinking about just as the mussels arrived. He had Cassoulet au Canard, Toulouse style and I had the moules soaked in white cream broth with double fried fries.
I was unable to finish. He helped himself with some fries.
B said that in his 20s, after he first moved to San Francisco, his first standard first date was going to Plouf where they sat outside and had mussels. I remembered once I had a dinner there and I met a boy and found that his European backpacking trip coincided with my not-so-backpacking trip of mine. At Plouf we arranged to meet up in Florence and then onto Venice. It turned out to be a lovely trip which yielded into an intense four months long relationship in Telegraph Hill, romantic enough of a story to render a few scribbles on my then online blog, hard coded in HTML.
Food like this often take us eaters through an emotional journey. Your personal life's looking glass through a long tunnel, and the older you get the longer you stay in the tunnel.
We polished every piece of bread and sauce at this restaurant as we traveled through time and caught up.
I fumbled with my coat until B took it from me and held it wide open until I put it on.
It started to rain as we left the restaurant. A spring time evening rain, unexpected and out of season, like our relationship.
Escargot was soaked in basil and liquid butter. I told B when I sailed along the Yonne River in France, I rode the bike into town and went to the village where Bourgogne snails were raised and bought some. They were huge and exceptionally meaty. Here the snails were tender but small, like the ones you get in Paris. RN76 is the only place in town that occasionally had the Burgundy snails in, in case you are seeking for that very special snail. B ordered a glass of red wine. He seemed to either developed an interest in French things or he was already in the know and was trying to finally impress me with it. I was always intrigued when Francophiles citing rarely known fact about my adopted country. Sort of always take me back to happier days where I spent very much every waking moment doing nothing and thinking about how to waste a perfect day doing nothing: bike into town, stop by patisserie for a pain au chocolat, then to Sarl Charcuterie Guillien for a piece of today's terrine, a baguette at the boulangerie, and maybe some yogurt at the city Carefour.
I wanted to go on a trip with B, like the old days. He said, "I can go with you too. I can work remote for a coupe of days." I said, "Then come to France with me. For a few days. To work. To hang out. To do nothing."
This is what happens when you have good French food, or god enough to transport back to a different location. I leave for Munich on the 17th of July, B is headed to Amsterdam a day after me, for some academia conference. He then route his trip to Norway, where he once lived and I'd head to France and onto Greece. When you live in an increasing small world, you find food connects you from one country to another, and one continent to another. This is one such restaurant.
As our day dreamed about the possibilities of itinerary interceptions, we began silently dipping bread into the oil basil drippings of the escargot pan. I wondered what B was thinking about just as the mussels arrived. He had Cassoulet au Canard, Toulouse style and I had the moules soaked in white cream broth with double fried fries.
I was unable to finish. He helped himself with some fries.
B said that in his 20s, after he first moved to San Francisco, his first standard first date was going to Plouf where they sat outside and had mussels. I remembered once I had a dinner there and I met a boy and found that his European backpacking trip coincided with my not-so-backpacking trip of mine. At Plouf we arranged to meet up in Florence and then onto Venice. It turned out to be a lovely trip which yielded into an intense four months long relationship in Telegraph Hill, romantic enough of a story to render a few scribbles on my then online blog, hard coded in HTML.
Food like this often take us eaters through an emotional journey. Your personal life's looking glass through a long tunnel, and the older you get the longer you stay in the tunnel.
We polished every piece of bread and sauce at this restaurant as we traveled through time and caught up.
I fumbled with my coat until B took it from me and held it wide open until I put it on.
It started to rain as we left the restaurant. A spring time evening rain, unexpected and out of season, like our relationship.
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