Home Cooked Lunch & Other Food Stories
(Part 10)
By: Edna Weisser
It is long and white with a red stripe, it is aerodynamically-built, it runs about 300 kilometers per hour, and I used to resent it.
I’m talking about the Deutsche Bahn’s ICE train, that handsome invention that can take you places fast. It has priority over all other trains. While my 7:02 morning commuter train waits in Neustadt, the ICE lords it over the railways grandly, relegating the rest of us non-ICE train commuters to passengers of a lesser train. When the ICE runs late, the domino principle kicks in: all trains will wait and all trains will run late. When this happens, my S-Bahn train finds a little side railway to park, away from the speed that would barrel through.
Inside the ICE train, it is all space and comfort. You won’t even feel the 300 km/hour speed. It runs smooth, like soft butter. There is a Bord Restaurant, and in the case of first class travel, breakfast, lunch or dinner is served, depending on the length and time of your travel.
As I’ve said, the ICE train can take you to places and cities at such speed that it beats flying. Hans and I have taken the ICE to major cities like Düsseldorf,
Dresden, Frankfurt, Munich, Salzburg and Vienna and to quaint little towns like Würzburg and Bamberg. Visiting family and friends from the Philippines and the United States have used the ICE from the airport to get to Mannheim where I meet them. They take the same ICE train to catch their return flights from Frankfurt.
Early last month, I chose the ICE train over the plane to go to Paris to do some work. The trip took 2.5 hours from Kaiserslautern, with two short stops near the former German-French border.
When we got to Paris Est, we confidently stood by the taxi curb in front of the train station, only to realize that the taxi line snaked around half of the building.
We arrived in the midst of a taxi strike. Waiting time for a taxi was 20 minutes. I did the math: at the rate it was slowing down, it would take us more than two hours to get to our hotel.
We checked the Metro maps. Going to Boulevard Saint Jacques would require sixteen stops with a change of the Metro at Denfert Rochereau. We took the chance. Subways speak international languages. In Paris, we need not speak French to get around with the Metro.
THE LUNCH.
One of the guys in our team was born in Paris, so not only was he fluent in French, he also knew Paris in and out, top and underground. The last time I was in Paris was in 1988; our hotel at that time was near the Eiffel Tower. This time, our hotel (Marriott) was on the southern side of the city, away from the sightseeing destinations.
We listened to this guy’s (I’ll call him Benedict) discourse on Paris’ non-tourist spots to visit and off-mainstream places to eat.
For lunch, and without reservation (gutsy!), we walked to a little corner restaurant with a yellow awning at the entrance. It is owned by a lady cook who once appeared in France’s TV cook show “Top Chef.”
The restaurant was tiny, for 30 guests that sit tightly in tiny tables. This tiny-ness has an effect of looking full and overbooked which in turn gives the impression that if people huddle together to eat their meals, then the dishes must be smoking hot and good.
For a fixed price of 24.50 euros, guests get an appetizer, an entree and a dessert. The fee does not include wine and drinks. The chef sent amuse bouche to our table consisting of red radish, butter and salt.
I chose oysters on a bed of crushed ice for my appetizer. The oysters were fresh, clear and briny. Memories of the Oyster Bar in New York’s Grand Central Station came to my mind. Another place to get excellent oyster in New York is at the restaurant of the Pennsylvannia Hotel at Seventh and 34th. The next time you’re in the Big Apple, try the latter. But hey, I’m in Paris. Why think NY?
My entree was cod fish in a coconut-creme faiche sauce garnished with green asparagus tips and seaweeds. The sweetness of the coconut clashed with the brineness of the seaweeds, polarizing my taste buds in different directions. The
white wine (very dry) that I ordered somehow pulled the sweet and the salty in the middle, reconciling both flavors, easing the palate, cleansing the taste buds.
My other companions ordered steak and duck but Benedict ordered a thick
sausage the contents of which, he would not talk about. I asked him twice: “Is that like the Scottish hagis?” He smiled. He gave me a slice to taste. Coming from a country that appreciates dishes like dinuguan, sisig, pinapaitan, and bopis, I was not at all shocked by the unfashionable animal parts that found their ways into Benedict’s lunch. In it were liver, lungs, kidneys, tongue, heart, ears and other cow or pig body parts. The French can be discreet. This animal
body parts dish is supposed to be a secret French specialty.
For dessert, I chose a kind of a Madeleine that is so buttery and spongy, it aborbed the rum and honey glaze it was served on.
THE CATACOMBS.
To somehow get the digestive system going after a very rich and ritzy lunch, Benedict suggested going into the catacombs. The catacombs are deep in the underground, about one kilometer long with twisting alleys, hanging stalactites, bumpy ground, and thousands of skulls and bones artfully arranged in a place where you would least expect an art display. The catacombs are well-lit and personnel are available to answer questions (also to take the fear away in case you don’t feel at ease surrounded by thousands of human remains).
This is a cemetery, I kept saying to myself. I probably should say a prayer and not just walk by. Surprisingly, the catacomb’s exit was in a residential building, five blocks from our hotel. The catacomb is not only a maze. It is amazing. It is not for everyone.
THE DINNER.
Benedict was once more the perpetrator. And I knew that we would walk again to get to the restaurant on the other side of the Seine so I got ready and wore flats instead of boots to dinner.
Benedict in his earlier e-mail said that the dinner would be unforgettable. He asked the men to wear coat and tie, and the ladies, to dress in frocks. To get to
the restaurant, Benedict led us to streets and alleys that only insider Parisians would know. This is a recap of my speedy Parisian tour: while crossing the bridge over the Seine to go to Notre Dame, Benedict told us to look left to see the lighted tip of the Eiffel Tower. Inside the Notre Dame, I had enough time to get near the altar, say prayers, and light a candle before we were herded together so we could make it to our 7:00 PM dinner reservation. We passed by the side of the Louvre and I glimpsed longingly at the windows where I caught sight of some paintings displayed on the first floor. We passed by little shops with names like Hermes, Chanel and Longchamp. I was starting to resent going to this dinner. Given a choice between eating and shopping, the men would end up loading up on food, and the women loading up on goods.
The restaurant is called Cercle de l’Union Interalliee. It is inside a palatial building with rococo, gold-gilded architecture. Everything looked dated, regal and historical. At the foyer were framed pictures of numerous dignitaries who have dined there. At a glance the names Churchill, Eisenhower and Thatcher caught my attention.
Benedict tells us that the restaurant is not open to the public. It is for members only and their guests. So who was the member in our party?
In the restaurant, I was still engrossed in the sights that we passed by that to be honest with you dear readers, I cannot recall what I ordered for appetizers. I think it was some soup. My entree was another fish dish, this time in a fresh tomato sauce with risotto. For dessert, a cart full of cakes, tarts, cheeses, and sliced fruit was wheeled in by the servers. I chose two thin slices of cakes, one dark chocolate, the other one had glazed fruits on top of it. The whole evening, my mind wasn’t on the dinner. I was thinking Louvre, Versailles, Champs Elysees, Arc de Triomphe, and all the other mainstream tourist spots that I missed during this trip.
Back in Germany, when the ICE passes my commuter train every morning, I no longer resent it. In 2.5 hours, that train would be in Paris, the city of the arts, excellent food and very stylish people.
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A happy and a blessed Christmas celebration to you and to your families. Let’s hope that 2012 will bring good news and renewed hope for everyone. Cheers!
Copyright © Edna Weisser
27 November 2011.
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