Thursday, September 30, 2010

Ay Caramba!


"Looking for a cook in our Mexican restaurant.  No knowledge of mexican cuisine is necessary . . . "

This explains so much about the Mexican food in Paris.

Update:  Just read exciting news on Adrian Moore's blog about a new taqueria in Paris.  Can't wait to try it!

Update2:  I just walked by a new casual Mexican restaurant at 127 rue Mouffetard, 75005.  It's called BocaMexa.  It's not quite an authentic taqueria, more like a little Baja Fresh.  I'll have to give it a try and report back.


We tried BocaMexa, all I can say is that it was very average.  It tasted good, it just wasn't nearly as good as a burrito we could get back in California - or to be fair, it did not taste like what I am used to.  I will go back though.  The staff was super friendly and excited about the concept.  Plus, takes less than 10 minutes for me to walk there.  Those two points count for something.  Although, I am willing to trek to El Nopal near Canal St. Martin if it really is authentic. 

Update3: I also want to check out Casa Palenque over by Montparnasse. It looks like it could be good.

I'm just hoping none of these restaurants posted the ad on craigslist.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

One Way Street (heading in their direction)

The French are infamous for keeping their private lives private and for becoming uncomfortable if you ask if they have children or if they’re married or where they live or what they do for a living or blah, blah, blah.  I’m finding that this is not a two-way street. It seems that having an accent gives them free license to ask me whatever they feel like.  There is a pattern, but I’ll give the two examples fresh in my mind because they happened yesterday and today.  Yesterday, I was asked if I owned or rented my apartment by a complete stranger.  Today, while waiting for the elevator a neighbor whom I never met arrived in the lobby.  I asked him if I should hold the elevator.  He said no as he was taking the stairs. Then he asked me if I was Madame So-and-so’s babysitter on the first floor.  I said no, I live here.  Then he said “oh, because I called her house the other day and a woman with the same accent answered the phone – an accent from, from, from . . . .”  I let him stutter for a few moments before I offered: "American?"  Then he asked from which state.  When I said California, he asked if I was from Palo Alto. Because even though he couldn’t identify my country of orgin, he thought he'd nail the city.  No, I answered and provided the city.  Then he skipped away happy; his file on me complete.  I seriously wouldn’t care if they didn’t have such attitude about being private and accusing Americans of being prying.  I still don’t know his name, what floor he lives on, or why he cares where I’m from.  Maybe I'm jaded.  Maybe he was just trying to be neighborly.  But had the roles been reversed, I'm sure he wouldn't have been so jolly.  

Tuesday, September 07, 2010

If you can't beat them . . .

The other day on my way to a wine shop a woman stopped me and asked me where she could find a certain street. I said I didn't know. Presumably because of my accent, she interpreted it to mean that I couldn't understand and walked off in a huff for having wasted her time on me. When I arrived at the wine shop, I posed my question in French. The vendor responded in (bad) English and told me that he did not have what I was looking for. At the second wine shop, I again posed my question in French and the vendor responded in French, but corrected my grammar (I used the wrong gender).  I did get my revenge on my way home, however, when a Red Cross worker asked me for a donation and I responded "Sorry, I don't speak French."  Petty, I know, but it did make me feel better.