Why Paris Let me Down

I wrote my final university exams and weighed a summer in Paris against launching my career – whatever that might be. The choice was clear: I raided my mom’s silk scarves, filled half my suitcase with high heels and glided onto French soil a week before convocation. I’d grapple with real life later; this was Paris(!) after all.

I went to French classes in the mornings and learned enough to argue with Parisian taxi drivers and banter with bartenders. I resumed a smoking habit and drank too much. Those were the good parts. I sipped bottles of rosé after class and blew smoke across restaurant tables and NOBODY was outraged. It was great.

That summer was unseasonably damp. Old cities washed in warm rain are gross (I know, smoking is gross too). Centuries of grime splashed over my feet as I walked to the language school. I put my heels on a bookshelf and wore closed-toe flats instead. The Metro smelled of metal, sewage and sweat, ripened with rain and overcrowding. The train carried me swiftly around the city so I tolerated the smell for convenience.

I walked a lot and scanned passing silhouettes for the celebrated Paris street fashion. Only I couldn’t find any. Running shoes, t-shirts and jeans were standard. I asked a saleswoman where the fashionable French were and she said, “culture Américain” with an exasperated shrug. America was ruining the world, one cotton t-shirt at a time (typical). Maybe I’d just buy a French Vogue.

Aside from updating my fashion notes, I planned to eat fabulous French cuisine. I ate meals at restaurants, cafes and boulangeries and not one lived up to Paris’ reputation for outstanding food. Some restaurants were financially prohibitive and there was no Yelp app, so maybe I got unlucky. Maybe not. On occasions when the sun did shine, I preferred a picnic with cheese, saucisson, baguette and an inexpensive Côtes du Rhône.

I went to Lyon for a vacation from my vacation and all the food was excellent. I said this to my French teacher in Paris who said, “Yes, of course. The food in Paris is not good”. She turned down her mouth and stuck out her tongue in disdain. The best meal I ate in Paris was a falafel plate with braised cabbage, roasted eggplant and hummus in the Marais district. It really was fantastic.

By August I had visited the Sacre Couer and the Musee d’Orsay – both impressive – but the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre were still on my ‘must-see’ list. I walked to the base of the Eiffel Tower three times but the lines were either outrageous or the views obscured by fog. I gave it up as a bad job. But I wouldn’t leave Paris without seeing The Louvre.

The pleasure of art, for me, comes from the emotion and thought it conjures. It’s personal. The Louvre was too immense for intimacy. I got lost. I wandered in circles, peering over throngs of tourists at art I wanted to enjoy. I chucked my floor map and headed outside and into lashing rain. Rain streamed down the Metro stairs, which quickly filled with people. I walked home. Still dripping, I called Air Canada to move up my flight home.

I know Paris can’t be blamed for my lack of direction or the weather. There were sunny days where the grass at Tuileries garden was so green against ancient buildings. And I saw the fabled rooftops of Paris from the Ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde. I also met some great people. But Paris has flaws – many of which are more serious than the ones mentioned here – so I can’t understand how every account of Paris I’ve heard has been, “Fabulous!” Is it because that’s what you’re supposed to say? Or did I just not get it? Here’s what I say: the emperor has no clothes and his royal feast is falafel.

Ottolenghi’s Falafel

Just in case that made you hungry, here is Ottolenghi’s recipe for falafel from Jerusalem. Served with braised or pickled cabbage, zhoug, roasted eggplant, hummus and mint yogurt sauce, this plate is a flavour mecca. 

I oven fried these at 475° on two baking sheets lined with 4-5 tbsp of neutral oil. Heat pans with oil for a few minutes then cook falafel for 4.5 minutes then flip and cook for another 4.5 minutes. Still delicious but if you want the real deal, you gotta deep fry. The original recipe is below. 

1 1/4 cups dried chickpeas
1/2 medium onion, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, crushed
1 tbsp finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
2 tbsp finely chopped cilantro
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/4 tsp ground cardamom
1/2 tsp baking powder
3 tbsp water
1 1/2 tbsp all purpose flour
about 3 cups sunflower oil for frying
1/2 tsp sesame seeds for coating
salt

Soak chickpeas overnight, covering them with water at least twice their volume.

The next day, drain chickpeas well and combine them with the onion garlic, parsley and cilantro. Blitz the mix in batches in a food processor, pulsing each for 30-40 seconds, until finely chopped but not mushy and holds together.

Once processed, add the spices, baking powder, 3/4 tsp salt, flour and water. Mix well by hand until smooth and uniform. Cover mixture and leave in fridge for at least one hour.

Fill deep, heavy-bottomed saucepan with enough oil to come 2 3/4 inches up the sides of the pan. Heat the oil to 350°F. With wet hands, press one Tbsp of mixture in the palm of your hand to form a patty or ball the size of a small walnut.

Sprinkle the balls with sesame seeds and deep-fry in batches for 4 minutes, until well browned and cooked through. Drain on paper towels and serve at once.