love.life.eat
a relentless pursuit of the perfect home + dish
eating through paris, rome, tuscany + biarritz: a comprehensive round-up
Posted on May 4, 2013
Many of you have asked for a list of all the places where I chowed down, wept and snapped photos. Below are links to all my favorite {and approved for dining} spots. Feel free to also search the site for country + city keywords to find my choice picks in Cambodia, Chicago, Toronto, New York, Thailand, Provence, Denmark, California, Texas, and Bali.
Paris: (this list includes spots covered during my September trip, as well!): Sweet: Meert, Poilâne, La Cure Gourmade, Comme La Lisbonne, Carette, Breizh Cáfe (also savory), La Crêperie Bretonne, Maison Georges Larnicol, Maison Colette, Rose Bakery Tea Room (also savory), Chocolat Chapon, Pozzetto, Popelini, Sébastien Gaudard, Eric Kayser, L’ Eclair de Génie, Mamie Gâteaux (also savory), Patrick Roger, Odette, Le Loir Dans La Théière (also savory)
Savory: Le Chat Bossu, Bread and Roses, Le Petit Italien, La Briciola, Maria Luisa, Colorova (also sweet), Cafe Pinson (also sweet + vegan), Cafe Boboli
Food Spots + Markets: Rue Montorgueil-Les Halles, Batignolles Biologique Market | Coffee: Telescope, Ten Belles
Terrific Blogs I Adore (I searched the archives of these blogs over the past year, and they proved incredibly helpful in providing exciting places to eat in Paris): Paris in Four Months, Lost in Cheeseland, David Lebovitz, Little Pieces of Light, Paris by Mouth, and Expat Edna
Rome: Savory: di qua, Pierluigi, Ciampini (also sweet), RJ Numbs Campo De Fiori
Terrific Blogs I Adore: Arlene Gibbs and Erica Firpo
Florence: Sweet: La Carraria, Venchi, Coronas Cafe, Migone | Savory: Trattoria 4Leoni, Gusto Pizza, Trattoria Sostanza, Caffe Pitti, Botteghina, All’Antico Vinaio | Markets: Il Mercarto Dei Sapori
Tuscany/Cinque Terre: Savory: Barabba Bianca,
Biarritz: Sweet: Real Chocolate, Maison Adam, Le Secret des Pain, Miremont | Savory: Il Giardino, Al Dente, Taco Mex
a home not my own: lodgings in france + italy reviewed
Posted on May 2, 2013
To say that my holidays are researched would be a grand understatement. My investigations are on the level of a CIA operative. We’re talking Jason Bourne, a Harrison Ford or Richard Gere affair. I review pages of reviews, and then analyze (and over-analyze) the reviews. Often, I read other reviews the reviewers have written for context. I interrogate friends, colleagues and web-friends, and then proceed to fire off dozens of questions, drilling down to water temperatures and fluffiness quotients of pillows. Why the blinking? Is there something you’re not telling me? I feel like you’re withholding critical information, etc, etc.
My research is torturous, maddening, riddled with a constant fear that I’ll make the WRONG DECISION. I’ve been known to cancel reservations on a whim and re-engineer itineraries based on trusted counsel, so believe me when I say that planning an itinerary for a three-week European sojourn took MONTHS.
MONTHS, PEOPLE. Let that sink in.
And then AirBNB happened. Scores of my friends have used the service and have sung its praises. Rhapsodized over the easy check-ins, the well-appointed rooms and terrific locations. You’ll save hundreds, they cried. You can cook! In an actual kitchen! Imagine the money you’ll save! Yet all the while I was thinking that this was some sort of trickery, a ploy to dupe and kidnap deal-seekers. I’ve seen Hostel, Taken and Taken 2 (brief aside: the sequel was terrible) more times than I care to admit. Who just rents out their home to a stranger? More importantly, would I book a room and lose an organ?
I’m happy to confirm that all my organs are intact. Not only do I find the concept of AirBNB genius, I had two very exceptional experiences in Paris + Rome. Registration is a cinch, and the communication (email/text), flawless.
Midway through my holiday, I decided to nix the Bordeaux trip. Since the idea of paying $250+/night (if I was lucky) in Paris gave my heart pause, I made a last-minute booking at this lovely apartment in the Bastille district (photos 1-5) (4th Arrondissement) in Paris. From the rapid response to my urgent plea for a booking confirmation, to the spacious, quiet apartment, I was incredibly pleased with my choice. Although I never met my host (I’m told this is fairly common), her boyfriend was kind enough to greet me, show me around the apartment, and was helpful answering any questions I posed (there were many). From fast WIFI to a washer in the apartment (apparently, having a washer in your apartment is quite normal in Europe, while I’d have to sacrifice a spleen to afford one in NY) to great cable, a functioning shower, and a comfortable bed, I was impressed. My only gripe was that once I booked the apartment, the host’s responses to my questions (How do I turn on the heat? The stove?) lagged, and I did experience some noise at night from drunks spilling out of a nearby nightclub.
Rating: 4/5
I’ve written about my fondness for the quirky Hotel Original (photos 6-7), also located in the Bastille district. My love of Bastille is sentimental, the stuff of greeting cards. Over the past ten years I’ve always stayed in Bastille, and I don’t plan on breaking the trend. It’s a given that hotels in Europe tend to have smaller rooms, but this doesn’t bother me as a hotel functions as a place in which to sleep and edit photos and blog posts. Original is perfect as it’s a block from the Metro, and convenient to Place des Vosges and the Marais (two of my beloved spots in Paris). While the staff is attentive and genuinely warm, on two occasions during my trip I encountered issues with my shower and slow WIFI (constantly having to log-in is annoying). Also, I noticed that all of the cheeky accoutrements were missing from the rooms. Each room is themed — from concept to design and accessories — and I enjoyed learning about the origins of the room and leaving with a small souvenir. Minor, but I noticed a difference from my last visit in September.
Rating: 4/5
On advice from a very discerning Brit and former colleague, I decided to book a boutique hotel off of Tablet: Continentale, Florence (photos 8-9). The description was certainly seductive (as were the photos) — a sleek, Ferragamo-designed hotel within walking distance of the Uffizi and Ponte Vecchio. All of this is true: the location was perfection, the service courteous and expedient, but the accommodations were lackluster. On certain days I’d enter the hotel and there would be this smell, and the only word that comes to mind is mold. The rooms, while lovely and sound-proof, offered a leaking shower (This is just how it is, I was told by a non-plussed attendant), extreme temperature shifts (it was always too hot or cold) and a sleeping/living area that was disproportionally smaller than the bathroom. Odd. The breakfast was delicious, albeit expensive, and I found their list of recommended restaurants to be borderline touristy. Great location, great service, mediocre room.
Rating: 3.5/5
When I arrived in Rome, I had to deal with lost luggage, incompetent Alitalia + Lufthansa representatives, and a heartless United Airlines. I spent a few hundred dollars just to stock up on the essentials + clothes since I all I had were a carry-on and the clothes I’d been wearing during twelve hours of flying. Suffice it to say, my holiday got off to a shaky start. However, that shouldn’t diminish the greatness that is Matteo’s Trevi Fountain/Coliseum (photos 10-12) abode. Matteo was born for AirBNB. He greeted me with a book (WITH DIAGRAMS!) describing the apartment, replete with color photos and detailed instructions. The perfect host, he even left me with fresh fruit, snacks and Italian coffee. I practically burst into tears because he was an AirBNB-fearing, Type-A woman’s dream. Not only was his home historic (the building is over 400 years old), it had all the modern trappings (fast WIFI, washer, terrific shower, cable TV/DVD player with videos). Conveniently located near the Trevi and all the great spots, it was still quiet at night and made for an excellent way to start my holiday (if we forget about the HORROR that is United/Alitalia/Lufthansa).
Rating: 5/5
For those of you who have been following my exploits, Biarritz was nothing short of magical. Typing this in New York, I will remember Biarritz as the place where I composed short stories, read in front of the ocean and finally tiptoed into the dark, wondering where the next few days, months would take me. Biarritz is not the sort of place where you drop your bags and start ticking off landmarks, rather it’s a place where you lay your head down to rest. And Hotel Ocean, Biarritz (photo 13) was the perfect spot for my chrysalis. Located in the city center, Ocean is literally steps from the beach, and if you don’t start quivering over the thought of waking to the ocean, there’s no helping you. The hotel was simple, minimal. It’s not modern by any stretch of the imagination, however, Biarritz is the sort of place that doesn’t have a Starbucks and I was fine with the austerity. The room was comfortable and the staff was incredibly accommodating and kind. Ocean made for a nice respite after a long day of thinking about what I’ve got planned for the rest of my life.
Rating: 4/5
And there you have it. Two countries, many homes not my own, considered. Feel free to drop me any questions about AirBNB or the hotels in the comments!
au revoir, my sweet!
Posted on April 30, 2013
Maison Georges Larnicol (Images 1-5) – Who wouldn’t fawn over self-serve chocolate? I felt very much like a kid in a candy store…oh, wait. | Stohrer (Images 6-9) – a Parisian institution that won my heart during my last visit, so much so that I had to go back for an eclair. | Maison Colette (Image 10) – their pastries are so darling, their meringues so pink and light that you will wait, willingly, on the long lines for a taste.
rose bakery tea room at le bon marché, paris
Posted on April 29, 2013
She was calm and quiet now with knowing what she had always known, what neither her parents nor Aunt Claire nor Frank nor anyone else had ever had to teach her: that if you wanted something to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone. ― Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road
In the end, all cities bleed back to New York. All cities are a great, sweeping metropolis where the motley lot stack horizontal in subway cars and pretend to ignore the downtrodden who’ve taken shelter in makeshift homes constructed of cardboard boxes on the sidewalk. They sleep with pets or in pairs, but mostly alone. We’re told not to give, to report, to move right along, and whether we know it or not, we’ve become expert editors, excising all that is not beautiful out of the frame. The uncomfortable, the unsightly, never stays in the picture.
In the city, we wait on an endless succession of lines. We’re told to complete forms, bring identification, and you’ll notice we’re closed nearly twenty-four hours a day. We wake up, we work, we complain about work (and sometimes explore our options, but never really deviating too far), we work out and get drunk and go to sleep. We travel in packs; rarely do we drift from our spheres of influence unless it’s strategic. We’re card-players without ever having learned the rules of the game. But we play, and we sometimes win (dumb luck) or blame others for a bum hand (what the fuck?). In the city, we ridicule other cities and treat them like they’re quaint and provincial specks on a map should we ever visit. The country is for sleeping and the ocean is for taking pictures of our feet. Our constant struggle is the weather, and how, like the porridge, it’s never just right. We subscribe to dozens of newsletters, follow and befriend the right people, so that we’re constantly informed, always connected. Interesting how we’re vociferous about our left leanings, but keep close to the class that binds us.
There are no accidents. Arbitrary is a word that doesn’t exist in our vocabulary. This is the formula, the regimen to which we’ve subscribed, and the days become photocopies of themselves with minor variation.
But I swore Paris was not like this. It somehow escaped the drone of mobile phone alarm clocks and a rain that chills you to down to bone. PARIS! NOT PARIS!
I’ve spent the greater part of the past decade writing an ode to Paris. From the peonies painted pink to clusters of blush roses, to steamy baguettes wilting paper sacks and pink skies settling on the Seine, from cobalt blue doors and balconies for which arias were written, to manicured gardens and trains that hurtle into the countryside — it’s easy to romanticize Paris. It’s new, all talcum powder on the body and cut grass. We’ve yet to develop our blinders; we haven’t lived in the home that refuses to heat. We haven’t dragged four pieces of luggage through the underground metro system in the middle of rush hour.
Last fall, I gave serious thought to leaving a job that was slowly killing me. In three years I went from a person who created, who thrived off of the relationships I’d cultivated with others, to a person who sent all-cap emails that read, CASH MONEY. To a person who worked all hours, rescheduled, cancelled and spent months ordering take-out. In September, in Paris, I wondered about the woman I had become. Who am I? This realization was terrifying, it implied major alterations had to be made, and it was a reality of which I wasn’t ready to confront. Instead, I created this bombastic love affair with Paris. Much like April in Revolutionary Road — making Paris bigger than it is, so much so that she gets crushed by the enormity of her hope and the inevitability of her heartbreak — this affair was a cringe-worthy hot mess, replete with French lessons and culinary school research.
It took me ten years to realize that the luggage comes along for the ride no matter how beautiful the scenery.
While Paris is remarkable, magical even, it’s still a city that demands one live in it with eyes open. Part of me wishes that I would’ve taken that trip to Bordeaux, kept the romance alive for a little while longer. Stretch out the dream, slip into it, face full of childish sleep and wild hair. But I’m awake, band-aids ripped off and the bright lights flicked on. I leave Paris tomorrow for New York, ready to leave but not quite ready to go home.
Stop asking, stop checking. I don’t know. {emphatically} Start being there. Start accepting the in-betweens. {emphatically} I want to find my way back to myself. I want something sweeping, unsettling and great.
But first, a day of solitude. Of quiet. Of sitting uncomfortably in one’s thoughts. Inspired by infectious energy and beautiful photography on Paris in Four Months, Carin inspired me to take a trip to Rose Bakery, located on the second floor of Le Bon Marché. I spent the morning reading, eating muesli, scones, and banana chocolate loaves in a delightful tea room cloaked in effulgent light. While the tea room is decidedly expensive ($6 for a cappuccino?), it was a gift to myself, a lovely quiet morning before the impending storm.
pizza in paris: la briciola + maria luisa
Posted on April 25, 2013
After spending nearly a week in Biarritz, it occurs to me how much anxiety I felt in Paris. Manic, I found myself racing from place to place. The days were an endless repetition of prayers (Will I be humiliated again for my imperfect French? Please no), eating (Is it possible to be so full you’re hungry again?), photographs (And the dread you fear editing 200+ photos come evening) and forward motion (Battery is dying) — with little variation.
Why is that enforced solitude allows for all the things we’re desperate to un-see to glow gleaming and white?
It wasn’t until yesterday when I fully came to terms with the maelstrom that was my life before the trip, and how I will manage the hours after I land in JFK. A sobering thought, but one I think {read: hope} I’m finally ready to tackle.
It also occurs to me that while I have so many notes from Paris, I have very few here in Basque country, but I’ve managed to read two books and write two stories in under a week. Funny how that is.
But back to the pizza, if I may. I’ll confess that I actually don’t adore French food. While pastry will always win over my cold, dead heart, French fare doesn’t inspire me the way that I wish it would. So often you’ll find me ferreting out non-traditional spots, focusing more on the desserts and less on obscure fish.
While these two pies are identical looking in nature, I assure you that they are their own special children in taste. I had the pleasure of visiting La Briciola (in the Marais Nord) and Maria Luisa (in the 10th), and both were exceptional in terms of the overall environ and a chewy crust.
At Briciola, you’ll find pizzas topped with ham shavings, heaping French cheeses and verdant salads, and at Maria Luisa you’ll drizzle hot oil on your pie from a smart selection that is swiftly brought to your table. Both pizzas will be achingly satisfying, so much so that you’ll inevitably regret the salad you ordered and wish you had room for another pie.
the finest chocolate mousse you will ever have: chapon, paris
Posted on April 24, 2013
I’m still dreaming about Chapon’s luxurious mousse. So much so, that when considering whether I should remain in Biarritz instead of hauling my luggage to Paris, Chapon’s mousse continues to be the singular hold-out.
the sweet life in paris {2}
Posted on April 23, 2013
Indulge sweetly at: Carette (1-3) | Pozzetto (4) | Popelini (5) | Sébastien Gaudard (6-13) | Eric Kayser (14-18)
colorova, paris + the comedy that is paris transport
Posted on April 22, 2013
Merci, said by no one, ever, at Montparnasse Station in Paris. First, you will struggle with the seemingly endless array of steps it takes you to travel from Bastille to Montparnasse (count: 2 metro lines, 10 stations, four shoves and six glares). Part of you suspects this is some form of trickery, a way of which Parisians will do anything to keep its denizens confined to city limits, whilst mocking luggage-strapped New Yorkers. At said station, countless men will jockey for position on the steps and gleefully shove you out of the way. You will have dropped your bags four times to rest before you make it to the faux escalator Parisians call effortless commuting. There is nothing effortless about navigating rail stations in Paris, only a subterranean torture chamber that makes Dante’s Inferno look like Paradise. You consider the fact that if you collapsed on the ground, at this very moment, people will probably step over your still-warm body.
You have yet to board the train at this point, or even locate the ticket booths. The comedy on the level of the absurd that you will soon endure is nothing short of priceless. Since there are no signs directing you to the TGV ticket booth (Why should there be signs? one images a Parisian official stomping his little feet. One should just know!), you make several feeble attempts to make inquiries in your abysmal French. In response, people pretend to think you’re speaking a language that could not possibly be French. There are several eye squints, frowns, and looks of feigned confusion. Side conversations ensue regarding this confusion. One guard even retorts whether you know how to speak French. Sweaty, frustrated and burdened with bags that are the weight of several small children, you say, You’re an asshole, and walk away.
The guard will follow you, apologize, and offer to help. Ten minutes later, you will locate a slew of ticket booths that are out of service. After queuing on the one line filled with people who clearly have never used a machine in their natural born life, your tickets spit out, along with an ominous message flashing in red: You must have your ticket stamped before boarding!
Stamped WHERE? Indonesia, perhaps. As of this moment, that seems logical.
After queueing on another line to make inquiries about this ominous stamp situation, and to perhaps catch an earlier train, you hear the phrase so often uttered by Parisians, It’s not possible. Another variation: It’s impossible. Yet another variation: How can this be possible?
In a waiting room where an internet connection fails every thirty minutes, a woman pushes the doors open and shouts, Does anyone, ANYONE, speak English? You feel this woman’s pain acutely, and help her the four times she asks you about printing out a ticket. Because this was you, thirty minutes ago.
The internet connection expires, along with your patience. You remind yourself that violence is not the answer. But you do wonder what would happen if you screamed, BACK THE FUCK OFF. You imagine the motley lot sniffing and striding past. A giggle lodges in their throat and emerges into a full-blown cackle.
As you board the train, you sincerely believe that the comedy that was your life the past four hours has now come to a close. Curtain calls, roses and all that jazz, but there are more stairs, more cars, more station attendants who laugh at your feeble attempts to speak French, and at one point you just collapse against the door of the train. Your bags fall to the floor.
Then a French woman bends down and picks up my bags and places them in the luggage compartment. One by one. Startled, I rush over and commence with my usual round of désolés, when she says, in English, Why didn’t you ask anyone for help? I give her the Cliff Notes version of my story, when she interrupts, Why didn’t you plainly say, my bags are heavy, I’m lost, can you help me? The train doors close and I say, I don’t know. She touches the fabric on my jacket and says, You see, the world isn’t such a bad place. Here is a stranger who helped you with your luggage, even though you never asked. I thank her, and realize she’s right. Even though I always assume people should know when to help, sometimes I just need to stop someone and speak plainly. Ask for help.
Then I fall into my seat and eat a pastry from Colorova that somehow has survived the whole of this fiasco, in-tact. Remembering an exquisite brunch and a conversation I had with my waitress, who marveled over the fact that I was going to Biarritz, she said, Biarritz’s so very different than Paris.
As I ride up to the sea in Biarritz, speaking a mixture of Spanish, English and French to a jubilant taxi driver, I realize I know exactly what she meant.
strong coffee: telescope, paris
Posted on April 22, 2013
Who knew a coffee joint could accrue such mass adoration? That a single cup of brew could send the motley lot singing? Enter Telescope, the very revered coffee shop that has managed to elevate Paris’ once-tepid coffee game. Once you enter, you have your pick from a slim menu of espresso, filter coffee, noisette or white coffee, and watch as your coffee is ground to order using a Kalita Wave filter in concert with an Über Boiler. Pull up a chair and chat with the owners or friendly barista, who won’t admonish you for your appalling French, and fawn over the miniature cakes and a filtered coffee experience that feels borderline luxurious.
vegan, virtuous + delightful: cafe pinson, paris
Posted on April 21, 2013
As you can imagine, I blame Gwyneth Paltrow for most things: the existence of $800 orange shorts, wooden bracelets that cost nearly a third of my rent, and an overall obsession with everything-free cooking and baking. In Gwyneth’s rarified world, we’re running through blades of grass, pulling stalks as we go, and our dinner is foraged on our very expensive (read: private to you plebeians) land. However, I can’t deny the fact that the recipes I tested before my European sojourn were the real thing. That, coupled with my doctor’s voice in my head (less refined flour! less sugar!), had me searching for a more virtuous shop in Paris. Does such shop exist?
My friends, it does. Enter Cafe Pinson.
There was a moment when I felt transplanted back to Brooklyn. A maniacal obsession with coffee, a shaggy-haired barista, and accessible WIFI were all signs of Williamsburg, except for the fact that everyone speaks French. A light, airy atmosphere in the Northern Marais district (home to a lot of virtuous and on-trend spots, I’ve learned), Pinson serves up organic + vegetarian cuisine, with a mostly vegan lunch menu. Scores of my friends swear by its lunch fare, which is inventive and tasty, but on one particular morning, I settled into a sunken chair and sipped on my almond-milk cappuccino (rare, even in New York!), freshly-squeezed juice, and a rather moist and yummy banana loaf. Not only was my breakfast delicious, the atmosphere was welcoming, quiet and the place you’d want to go if you were seeking a little quiet.
In retrospect, maybe I should’ve rolled in and opted for a lentil salad, etc, instead of a loaf, considering my attempt at a carb-free day. No such luck.
