One of my moms hates Paris. She says that it is too perfect, what with their old ladies walking arm in arm smoking out of cigarette holders and mid-aged men striding home with an unsheathed baguette for breakfast and the old man is sitting on his micro-sized balcony having a morning black coffee and someone, somewhere is kissing. Always.
And it’s too clean, she says. Why would a boy be sweeping the sidewalk? Why would the subways not stink? Just: why? She likes the New York grit. The realness to the city. I can’t say that I hated Paris. The large boulevards and small winding streets. The runs that take you past architectural history. The dulled colors, and vibrant energy. The food.
The food is something of a mystery to me, seeing as it is simple, but takes about twenty steps to truly accomplish. And really, the dining scene there is all over the place. Awful bistro next to a wonderful market. Beautiful restaurant situated in what looks like a home next to the worst hole in the wall restaurant ever. A man yelling on the street that he has the best falafel in the world, and it’s true. Paris is anything but perfect, but I have to admit that it is inspiring sometimes, even when living in the artist capital of the world: Brooklyn.
So I fancied it time to get a little Paris into my life. A Supper in my home. Unconventional seating, just like in that bedroom-turned-dining room restaurant in the 3rd. Three emails sent. Twenty people confirmed and the menu has just been written on the inside of a Trader Joe’s bag.