When in Rome....Well, Maybe Not

I'm going to start this post with a warning, or rather a caveat. This may be my last travel-related post for some time. It is the height of summer right now, but another school year breathes hot and heavy on the back of my neck. This fall begins 11th grade, which for many Americans is the start of the college admissions scrum: SAT/ACT prep classes; tutors in math and science; extracurricular activities; and the dreaded college tour circuit. In short, next year will be spent in the car, traveling from one small college town to the next, with dinner at the local Applebees and nights at the Motel 6. For entertainment, I will listen to earnest 20-year old college students talk about empowerment whilst walking backyards and staring at us with stretch-plastic smiles. Joy. 

So, needless to say, my recent trip to London and Paris had a bittersweet quality to it—something shore leave before the war. 

* * *

From a culinary perspective, London is a victim of its reputation, while Paris is a victim of its success. The English can't cook. The French, especially the Parisians, are fabulous cooks. One of my favorite jokes riffs on these stereotypes, as well as a few others. 

In Heaven:

The French are in charge of cooking.
The English are in charge of running the government.
The Germans are in charge of the military.
The Italians are in charge of lovemaking.

In Hell:

The French are in charge of the military.
The English are in charge of cooking.
The Germans are in charge of lovemaking
The Italians are in charge of running the government. 

So, let me mix this up a bit. 

My favorite French meal on my recent trip to London and Paris was....[dramatic pause]....in....London!

During our last full day in London, a mild and sunny, cloudless Friday in late June, we had lunch at Bibendum Oyster Bar in Chelsea. It is a classic French brasserie located in the old U.K. headquarters of the French tire company, Michelin. I could have been having lunch on the Boulevard St. Germain. 

But what's up with the name you ask? 

Bibendum is the official name of "The Michelin Man." You know, the one that looks like the Stay-Put Marshmallow man from Ghostbusters. His name is based on the latin phrase:  nunc est bibendum, which translates to "drink up!" It is taken from Horace's Odes. Only the French could come up with a classy phrase to say: "Let's get ripped dudes!"

In case you were wondering, I had a couple of Negronis (vacation!) and the moules et frites. Both were delicious. 

Ok, so London is more than fish and chips. Now, it's off to Paris!

* * *

Paris was hot. And Parisians have a near religious aversion to AC. Maybe it was the heat, but classic Parisian bistro food (which I love) just wasn't working for us. It didn't seem right. We sought alternatives. We were surprised.

The first surprise was a small pan-Asian restaurant, named Baosian, in the 9th Arrondissement, with maybe six or eight tables that face, open air, onto the rue du Faubourg Montmartre. It is mostly take-away, and there must have been half a dozen Uber Eats guys running in and out and speeding off on their phlegmatic Vespa scooters. As I sat there eating some damn good noodles, around the corner of a classic 19th Century Parisian church, with scooters racing up and down the street, I surprised myself when I realized that Paris is more than just Paris.

But the biggest surprise spoke Italian: Ristorante lo Spaghettino, with a menu in only two languages: Italian and English. Like Baosian, this restaurant is small—maybe eight tables. It is run by a husband and wife team. She, the vivacious one, owns the front of the house. He, the shy one, cooks in an elevated kitchen in full disclosure. The food is classic and simple (not simplistic) and cooked to perfection. 

We have a good-natured argument over whether pasta carbonara should use butter or olive oil. Those who know me, know where I stand.

* * * 

And so we've arrived at the end our journey dear reader. I started off with a rant about how this may be my last vacation for a while because I need to focus on educating the next generation, or least buy an insurance policy so they don't end up in my basement. But perhaps I was the one who got an education. 

I've always been scornful of English cooking. I've put French cuisine on a pedestal it didn't always deserve. At the very least, I'm guilty of forgetting the cuisines every great city can offer. It's odd, but I don't think this way about New York or most American cities, even the ones in those maligned fly-over states. For some reason, however, I've adopted as holy writ that you can only get German food in Munich; English food in London; Spanish food in Madrid; Italian food in Rome; and French food in Paris.  It took me too long to discover that good food is a restless traveler. I guess education late is better than education never at all.  

So maybe my kids will figure all this out sooner than their old man, but only when I find a college—any college— that will take them! 

After that, I'm back on the travel circuit baby!