Submitted by Julia Scott the 2024 Spring program in Paris, France…
The months leading up to my departure, I told many, many people where I was going. Friends, family, teachers, coworkers, my psychiatrist, random baristas, a cardboard cut out I mistook for my mom, they all got the message: I was going to Paris for four months. There was one thread that linked their reactions, which was how much I would like the food. I knew when I had to make the decision between the London program and this one that I would rather go somewhere that I did not know the language than eat beans on toast. This decision has paid for its weight in gold – the food here is excellent and the culture surrounding it is an insane departure from the quick, cheap, and carcinogenic that my I-95 corridor was known for. The beauty of Paris is that they take their time. You see it in everything they do – walking leisurely, smoke breaks, and most restaurants will close between what they decide to be “eating times”. Parisians take long, chatty lunches and eat multiple courses over hours, enjoying wine, bread, cheese, and all things delicious. Something you will come to discover if you’re here long enough is that the best food in Paris is never Parisian. Maybe it’s the payback for all the colonization, but when I ate a bahn-mi for the first time here I knew the subtlety of French cuisine is not superior to what was formed through cultural diffusion. Think past week alone I have tried foods from three countries I never have before: Vietnamese, Afghani, and Lebanese cuisine. I tried Afghani food first – one afternoon after our morning classes my friends and I decided to try the restaurant that we share a wall with, Restaurant Kootchi. I hadn’t recognized anything on the menu, but I chose a lunch special of one appetizer, one entree, and one dessert. The entree I asked for she sadly did not have any more of, but she promised that the substitute, written on a note card tucked into the laminate menu, was just as good. I am by no means a picky eater, so I trusted her wholeheartedly. The food used spices in a way that was just…correct. I love bold flavors, but the dishes within the meal had dialogue with itself. The cool, crunchy, aromatic salad complimented the warm and subtle sweet flavors of venison in what I think was a sort of sauteed onion chutney. It has been the magnum opus of my food experience, and it’s so close we share an address. The Lebanese food came second, by happenstance. I had planned to try the Afghani food the first day I arrived, however the restaurant my friend and I wandered into had no idea what the country of origin was. The walls had colorful decals of rocky cliffs overlooking crystal blue waters and a language that did not share the same alphabet as mine. The storefront was a deli for the Lebanese sandwiches, which was the original goal, but in not knowing the same language as the waiter we were ushered to the back where we sat and were given a different dinner menu. The waiter greeted us, and the three of us gave up on French. He did not speak much English, and even when he could his accent was so thick that when we told him we wanted to split a meal he said something, we nodded, and then he disappeared for a few moments before returning with dishes to spread all over the table. Dips and chutneys, all colors and flavors you could want and a healthy basket of pitas to scoop with. I’m ashamed to say I only recognized hummus, however God knows I tried and loved them all. He brought out another plate of warm little fried things to eat, two by two like Noah’s Ark. I thought we could finish it all, but family style was making me feel like maybe this was a three person task. When our waiter returned, we chatted for a bit and he told me he was born in Lebanon, and I asked him why he came to Paris. He explained that of course Lebanon is not the safest country and is often under duress, and as he drew my sympathy he said, “Do you even know where Lebanon is?” Ah, there’s the French. And guess what? I didn’t know! French people can be blunt, but they are rarely wrong. To finish the meal, we shared some baklava and he brought out a very special coffee and cup, and gave careful instructions on the proper way to drink it. I liked everything about the meal, and that coffee was strong because I was awake until about four in the morning: highly recommended. That same day, I had left my final class of the day and at around 8pm my friends and I needed some cheap food before our quest to get biblically drunk. The only place open near us that wasn’t fast food was this tiny Vietnamese place a few blocks from the apartment. Room for two tables and a bar, we sat at the bar and ordered banh-mis. I got beef, carrots, cilantro, greens, and the satay sauce served on a baguette. French-Vietnamese culture diffusion led to this beautiful sandwich. I am not a sandwich person, it’s the last thing I’ll want on a menu. But this? I will get and get again. No notes, a perfect pre-drinking meal. Any cultural appreciation was besmirched later, when the only mixer left for the vodka was oat milk. One of my friends said, “No, don’t! It will curdle!” I don’t think oats can curdle, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t adequate. (Submitted on February 6, 2024)