From Royal to Red Light

October 15

I lost a strain of the story yesterday. We checked out around 11 and couldn’t get our new room until 3. That’s the time we spent on top of the mountain. I think it’s called the Butte du Montmartre.

My new room is on the same floor, but they upgraded me to a triple. The bathroom is bigger and has more towels.

Today we tried the Metro for the first time. We found a transportation map of Paris that’s easy to follow. The numbers of the trains are marked, for instance.

We took the No. 2 train one stop from Anvers to Pigalle, where we transferred to the 12, which took us to the Place de la Concorde, where the Communist Party of France was preparing a demonstration. There may have been several groups involved. Many demonstrators wore caps and shirts with “FO” on them, but in any event red and white were the colors of the day. Maybe O is a politician: FO!

The Louvre is closed on Tuesday, but the gardens are open every day. These are the Tuileries. This year is the 400th birthday of Andre Le Notre, the landscape designer. As I understand it, he was working under a commission from Catherine de Medici to redesign the palace gardens.

The Tuileries are a park overseen by the Louvre museum. The Champs Elysees were part of the original design, which was intended to look endless.

The gardens are decorated with 18th century neoclassical marbles and also a number of modern pieces, including one large bronze of a fallen tree.

Off to one side, there is a pile of shaped stone, each one with a code number. We got to see what the puzzle would make because nearby there was a completed arch. The carved sections in the pile and in the arch were identical.

I’m glad we got to see the Tuileries. They were all right, but if you need to skip something in Paris, this is a candidate. The flowers are colorful, but compared to Central Park or even the sculpture garden in Seattle, the Tuileries are nothing spectacular. The statues are fine 18th century renderings of ancient themes. the modern stuff is—I dunno—abstract and academic.

The buildings that surround the gardens are another story. Not just the Louvre, but the buildings everywhere are on a grand scale. The river is on one side and on the other bank are the government buildings. The north side of the park is lined with huge apartment houses on the Rue de Rivoli.

Everything is monumental. The Place de la Concorde has an Egyptian obelisk. I thought that Napoleon had stolen it when the Brits chased him out of Egypt, but according to the inscription, it was given to France by Egypt in 1830. Wasn’t Napoleon dead and packed into Les Invalides by then?

Maybe the Egyptians were happy that he wasn’t going to invade them again.

When we left the gardens, the Left was testing the sound system. Why does some guy always grab the mike and count to three? Is he working with somebody who has a hard time hearing him?

This guy added a wrinkle. He made some kind of popping sound. I don’t know whether it was vocal or if he was tapping the microphone. He kept doing it over and over. Maybe he thought it would fix something.

The Champs Elysees continues with a park, but this one is under the jurisdiction of the City of Paris. There is also an embassy row of sorts. Maybe called the street of ambassadors. No flags, so I guess no ambassadors are in residence now. Maybe this is the area that housed the representatives of foreign governments conniving in the French court.

Remember that thing about seeing everybody you know on the Champs Elysees? Maybe it’s “someone you know.” We were walking up the street, when Joanna recognized a couple we had said hello to at the restaurant the night before.

We stopped at a cafe called La Madrigal and shared a club sandwich and a glass of Bordeaux (Chateau de Brague, ’09) at one of the sidewalk tables.

There was a couple sitting inside that caught my eye. Actually it was the guy. It’s funny how you can look at someone and actually believe you know something about him. The guy was dressed and moving just like an actor who wants to portray a stiff: tight gray suit, maroon tie, short hair, dark rimmed glasses, no smile, very straight, and an economy of movement with the knife and fork.

Maybe this guy is a stiff, a focused, no-fooling lawyer, surgeon, or business executive who brought his wife with him on a business trip to Europe. But he could also be the author of some very funny plays in Czech or Albanian. He could be one of the world’s most successful button men, a dozen hits and not one indictment.

Or maybe the lady’s the button man, and he is her very discreet gigolo, trying to look like a stiff.

Life is wonderful. The possibilities are endless.

At the top of the Champs Elysees, we took the underpass to get onto the island with the Arc de Triomphe. We also paused at the Tomb of the Unknown.

The arch was built in the 19th century but is dedicated to the dead of the country’s 20th century wars, too, including its colonial wars in Asia and Africa. It is like Arlington in many ways, although only one veteran is buried at the Arc.

A bronze plaque set into the walk has the text of De Gaulle’s radio speech announcing the formation of the military government in exile and asking French soldiers and officers to rally.

We took the 2 train to Pigalle, and went to see the Moulin Rouge. It was the place where gents went slumming in the old days. It’s now a clip joint where, if you want, you can spend 180 euro for dinner and a floor show that appears to be a cross between a Las Vegas review and the circus. The show and a half of champagne costs less, about 110 euro.

Pigalle is still a red light district. Stores sell DVDs, sex toys, lap dances, and leather lingerie. The Museum of Eroticism is also here.

When we got back to the hotel, the desk handed us a sheet of paper. The electric company, as part of the construction project in the street, will cut all power to the building tomorrow between 8:30 and 12:30. The management recommends coming to breakfast early and taking a shower in the evening.

I took one look at it and spoke American. “Fuck.”

Claude, the manager, who was working on some papers shot his head up. “Is anything wrong?”

I know it’s not his fault, but this place seems to be snake-bitten.

Joanna went for a rest, while I finished yesterday’s log and opened that bottle of Barathym. I went through about half of it, along with a macaron and a few grapes.

We went back to Sacre Coeur for the night view, which is much more interesting than the view by daylight. The lights of the city at night have a generally mild, warm glow.

The gold dome of Les Invalides is still one of the brightest points in the landscape.

We had dinner at L’Aristide on the Rue des Abbesses. We had a salade Nicoise that included anchovies and white rice, along with the usual mix of hard-boiled egg, tuna, greens, and tomatoes. There was also a hint of vanilla in the dressing.

We shared a leg of roast chicken with au gratin potatoes. The place was out of half the wines on its list. We had a Cotes du Rhone Cellier des Ducs, and a Bordeaux on which I have no details.

We decided to get up early in the morning and clear out before the hallways go black.

Right now, I’m sitting with my second cup of coffee at L’Atelier, a cafe a few blocks up Rue d’Orsel from the hotel.

It’s supposed to rain all afternoon, so we plan to spend it in the Louvre.

Be well, all.  

Mounts and Rues of Martyrs

October 14 (Monday)

We thought the neighborhood would cool down a bit on a week day, and it did, but not all the way. The pedestrian mall, which I think is Rue de Steinkerque, was still full of pedestrians in the morning. People were bringing kids to the carousel. We had to wait in line to get into the funicular.

This is a cable car that runs up the most part of the serious climb from Rue Gabrielle to the steps of Basilica of Sacre Coeur. The basilica, especially its dome, is the dominant landmark in this part of the city. From the steps you get an overview of three-quarters of Paris.

It’s fun, but in daylight at least, an overview of Paris is less interesting than looking out over Valencia, New York, or Prague. Paris is kind of beige all over, and most of it has to be seen up close in person to have any flavor. Sort of like a real painting by Van Gogh.

But it was fun to see a few things we could recognize from this distance. Joanna picked out the gold dome of Les Invalides. Once she found that, we knew approximately where to find the Eiffel Tower. We had to move to our left because that part of the view was obscured by some trees on our right.

Notre Dame gets completely lost. We found it only by looking at the crib sheet, a panorama the identifies various landmarks.

We sat inside the nave of Sacre Coeur for the end of a mass and saw the monstrance in the sanctuary that holds the perpetual adoration of the consecrated host.

The church is new by European standards. Construction started in the 1870s and the building was consecrated in 1919. The perpetual adoration began in 1885.

Around the sanctuary there is an inscription: S’mo cordi Jesu Gallia poenitens et devota et grata. My approximate understanding of that is: To the most sacred heart of Jesus France is penitent and devoted and grateful.

St. Therese of Lisieux is also associated with the basilica. I’m not exactly sure of the connection because the explanation was written in more French than I can understand. I believe there was a ceremony here in which her relics were exhibited. I don’t know if there is any other connection.

The neighborhood around the church is a mix of very upscale residential properties and streets full of hawkers. There are guys—one even in a straw hat—who come up to people sitting outside cafes and hound them to have a sketch made. Everywhere I’ve gone, there are large numbers of vendors selling tiny Eiffel Towers. Up here, too.

Joanna’s crepe and my croissant were far in the past, so we ordered moules frites at a small cafe near the church of St. Peter. The waiter brought a huge bowl of steamed mussels and a plate of fries. I can’t remember when I have eaten as many deep-fried potatoes as I have in the past 10 days. No wonder we call them French fries.

The Church of St. Peter dates back to the 1140s (or maybe the 1410s) and was an abbey church until late in the 17th century. It bills itself as the parish church of Montmartre.

In our wanderings we passed another artists’ cafe, Le Consulat. One of the artists who hung out there, in addition to Picasso, was Maurice Utrillo, who was born in Montmartre. I have seen prints of Utrillo paintings of streets in Paris with people going about their lives and the come of Sacre Coeur in the background rising above everything.

The picture of the day is Harry Gets Artsy Again.

This is the view from the street by Le Consulat. Sorry. Couldn’t pass it up.

The capitals of some of the columns have worn in time. That gave it a feeling of kinship with St. Bartholomew the Great by the Smithfield Market in London. If I remember right, that one started in the 1100s too.  There was one curious statue, which looked at first like a bishop with very bad posture, maybe an old one bent with age and a calcium deficiency. When we got up close, I saw what it was.

This part of town is called Montmartre because, according to tradition, St. Denis, the patron of present-day France was beheaded here about the year 250. Diocletian was a boy then, so I don’t know whose persecution this one was.

The bishop of the statue was St. Denis. He was shown standing, with his head held before him in his hands. According to his legend, which I just looked up, after he was beheaded, he picked up his head and walked six miles while preaching a sermon.

On the way down the hill, we ran into a group of guys that Thomas had warned us about. Apparently they put a string on your finger and try to keep you there while they talk to you. About what I don’t care. I don’t do restraints symbolic or otherwise.

Just above the park where the carousel is, an African guy tried to put a colored string on my hand. No.

Why are you afraid?

I’m not afraid. Nothing gets tied to me.

During our late-afternoon rest stop at the hotel, I opened the bottle of Petit Pont. I had expected something rough, maybe a cross between Gallo hearty burgundy and vinegar. But no, it wasn’t bad at all. Not as good as many of the wines I’ve been drinking here, but certainly worth drinking slowly. So I finished the bottle.

We set out to find dinner at a restaurant called Mon Oncle, also on the hotel’s hit list. Much of the route to the place, according to Google Maps, follows Rue des Abbesses. All right, we were there last night. What we hadn’t seen the night before is that there are 2 (deux!) Rues des Abbesses. We took the wrong one and never did find My Uncle.

Instead, on the way back we went up the Rue Des Martyrs to La Cave Gourmand, which was serving boeuf Bourguignon.

We started with bone marrow and rare terrine with Armagnac. The marrow, served with a dish of sea salt and some toast, was in a bone split lengthwise. It was much too big to be human, so it was OK to eat.

I looked up “terrine” the other day in the Collins translating dictionary, and it is translated as “earthenware pot,” which is what I remembered. It can also mean “potted meat,” which is what this was. Think high-class French Spam. It had little chunks of something in it, possibly soft nuts. It was OK.

Joanna and I both preferred the bone marrow, though. It was as good on the bread as on the toast. A sprinkle of sea salt brought out the flavor.

Boeuf Bourguignon is a comfort food. It is made from a cut of beef that probably would break your jaw, and maybe your knife, if it wasn’t simmered for hours in a sauce heavy with wine. But it is cooked that way, and it’s wonderful. It is much like American beef stew, in that it is slow-cooked tough beef with carrots and onions, but I also detect a bitter mixed with the fat and the sweet that not only gives it character, but also makes it a great dish to go with red wine.

We had a couple of Bordeaux: St. Emilion Petit Fourney 2010, and Chateau Latery (I think) ’09.

The owner was covering the tables and assured us that he used local ingredients whenever possible and always as close to home as possible. I think there are fewer cows walking around the Montmartre tonight.

We tried to find that wine shop again, but couldn’t. We walked the length of the Rue des Abbesses and Rue d’Orsel, but it wasn’t there. Now wonder a cheap wine was so good, the store that sold it was supernatural.

And so another day of indulgence ends in the Ile de France.

Happy days, all.

Harry

October 15

Charlie!

Did you read that?

Bone marrow!

And he found it without even looking.

In case you didn't know, Harry, Charles and I are big bone marrow enthusiasts. I spent quite a bit of time and energy looking for it in Budapest. The truth is, however, the best I ever had was in Paris, served as you described. My guess is it was broiled, and looked like a dish Fred Flintstone would eat.

And if you're interested, Harry. There's a place in Singapore that makes a dish from lamb bones. Not broiled, but cooked in a radioactive-looking red hot sauce. You suck out the marrow with straws. Messy but good.

I still prefer the broiled cow bones, myself, but the stewed lamb's bones might be interesting.

Larry

Paris Encore

Oct. 13, 2013

Took the train back to Gare de Lyon and a cab to the Hotel Bellevue. It seems that Sunday is pedestrian mall day and half the side streets are blocked off. The driver tried a few ways to from the boulevard to Rue d’Orsel, and finally bypassed a no-entry sign and ran up the block.

 The hotel is clean. That’s all I can say for it so far. The street in front is ripped up by the electric utility, but that’s not the hotel’s fault.

We arrived a little after one. The room wasn’t ready. We could leave our bags, but not anything containing computers, because the hotel wouldn’t take responsibility for them. We had to sign a waiver and put our bags in the breakfast room along with a dozen others. We had to lug our carry-ons.

We went for a walk. The neighborhood is colorful as hell. We’re a block down from the park at the foot of the Sacre Coeur hill. The funicular is a short stroll from the Bellevue. One of those blocked-off streets was so crowded that I didn’t want to attempt it with the bags.

I asked Joanna what she’d like to do. “I need to eat something right away,” she said.We headed for a couple of cafes up the street. On the way we passed a confusing store with high-heeled shoes and weird-looking toys in the window. Maybe they couldn’t decide what line of business to be in.

We went to L’Anvers du Decor. You can tell it’s a decent cafe because it has an awning. Joanna had soupe l’oignon. I’m really working hard to get that out in French. I had cassolette de pocreau (maybe) chevre. On the English-language menu that’s leek and goat cheese bake. It was a baked omelette with goat cheese and leek. Very good.

The ripped-up street isn’t the hotel’s fault, but the dysfunctional bathroom, on the other hand, is. The hinges on the toilet seat are broken. The seat slides off.

The receptionist tells me that she was unaware of the problem and will call someone on Monday to fix it. There is no guarantee that it can be fixed on Monday. One red flag.

We can change rooms. OK. Let me see if there is a room open.

A half hour later the phone rings. There is no open room today, we can change tomorrow. Two red flags.

We have to be out by noon, so the hotel can have the room free. Six red flags.

I was starting to get suspicious. Maybe the room has been this way for months and they keep giving people the same runaround. You move in; you put up with it or you move the next day. Like they say in “Star Wars,” I have a bad feeling about this, Luke.

We hung around the hotel late in the afternoon. Joanna’s nephew Thomas, who was transferred to Paris by his company two months ago, was planning to meet us at the hotel. So Joanna phoned him to warn about the disrupted traffic and the obstruction at the entrance. She put me on the line to make arrangements because she believes I have a better picture of the area than she does.

Well, I did in fact know the name of the nearest Metro station, Anvers. Thomas knew it too. He said he and Barrett would be at the hotel sometime shortly before six.

I was hoping Thomas might suggest we meet somewhere else because I was mildly embarrassed that I had brought Joanna to this hotel.

I finished the previous e-mail message and sent it, then headed out for an ATM. After that, I decided to look for the Anvers station.

This must be the Anvers neighborhood because everything along Boulevard Rochechouart seems to be called Anvers. The station is on the island in the middle of the boulevard not far from the hotel. We may try a trip underground. It is a straight run to L’Etoile and one transfer to the Louvre, where we hope to go at least once more this trip.

When I got back to the hotel Thomas and Barrett were in the lobby, but hadn’t called Joanna yet.

The hotel has a list of six or seven restaurants that it recommends. We decided to head in the direction of the first one on the list, La Villa des Abbesses, on the Rue Des Abbesses.

But first we went up the tourist street to see the chocolate museum. Not a museum in the conventional sense, it’s a chocolate store with extremely fancy products and some extraordinary specimens under glass, like a chocolate rigged ship and an entire replica of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. I didn’t see a chocolate Quasimodo, but maybe he was grabbing a rope in the other tower.

We passed a display of elaborate chocolate figures, some with a Halloween theme, and also chocolate high-heeled shoes that you could fill with chocolate bon-bons. The window we passed earlier suddenly made sense. If you’re making stuff out of chocolate, you can do any damned thing you want.

We checked menus at this place and that, and actually wound up after all at La Villa des Abbesses. We all had snails and entrecote with frites.

Entrecote is a tough, fatty, and therefore very satisfying cut of beef. Don’t know what part of the beef, but very good.

For some reason—maybe because she doesn’t drink—Joanna never orders wine. So in my usual role of bad influence, I ordered a Saint Emilion for her. I had a decent Bordeaux, followed by a Cotes du Rhone. (Forgot to take notes and so didn’t get the origin.)

Thomas and Barrett are great guys, full of fun, smart, and downright good company. I had met them briefly at their wedding reception in New York summer before last. Joanna and a guest were invited.

We talked about that. I don’t know how many people were there, but like all events of that sort, the hosts didn’t get a chance to do anything but talk to the guests. They fed us, but didn’t get to have any dinner. 

On reflection, I am amazed that Thomas recognized me when I came into the hotel and saw him.

After dinner, when we strolled back to the hotel, I had the sudden urge to buy wine. I ducked into a store that was a real surprise. I bought one bottle that was less than 4 euro: Le Petit Pont, reserve 2012, a Pays D’Oc, “mise en bouteille a F34450 par les domaines Robert Vic - Vias- France.” The other wine is more upscale, about 5.70 euro. The label says Barathym 2012, de la Garrigue d’Aumelas, from Langue d’Oc.

I’m putting all this detail in because I have no idea what it signifies, but if I poison myself, Larry may suggest an antidote.

Bon soir, tout.

Oct. 14

Dear Grasshopper.

The wine sounds safe enough—both are estate bottled and from the Languedoc in southwest France, a mixed bag source of sometimes interesting wines at value prices. My My guess is, unless they are varietal bottlings, they're probably made from local grapes in blends similar to what you were drinking in the Rhone. 

And, just in case you're curious, St. Emilion is also a Bordeaux.

I'm more concerned about what kind of parasites you might pick up at that hotel! Perhaps a haz-mat suit for when you're in the bathroom? Have you put the health department on speed dial yet?

Have fun!

Larry

Oct. 15

To my great relief and unbelief, the hotel is very clean.

The city is going to cut the electricity tomorrow from 8:30 to 12:30, so I'm clearing out early tomorrow. perhaps I'll go back to the Louvre for the day.

Harry

La Grande Armee

Oct. 12

The French were out in force today.

Not right away, mind you, because it seems Saturday starts out slow here. We went this way, that way on some little streets to get to Les Halles, the city market. The streets at 11 a.m. were pretty empty.

We stopped for breakfast around that time at a place really called Joke & Co., a small cafe with a long list of crepe choices and a dining room upstairs. We had the place to ourselves and sat by a window. Some people walked by, but not many.

Joanna had crepes with a chestnut topping. I had mine with Calvados.

I also finally got to have wine with breakfast, a glass of a white that the proprietors said came from Aix-en-Provence. I had asked for a white Cotes du Rhone, but they didn’t have one. Maybe that was one of the jokes.

No complaints, though. The wine had some flavor and went down reasonably well.

The Les Halles market is newer, smaller, and less gritty than the markets in Valencia and Barcelona, but well worth a stop. There are wine sellers, bars, lots of places that will shuck a plate of oysters for you. We didn’t stop for oysters because Joanna doesn’t eat raw fish, and we had just eaten crepes. But damn, they looked good.

One thing on the fish counter that I had not seen before is aile de raie. It reminded Joanna of shark fin. I think the name refers to the fin of a ray or a skate.

We picked up some very expensive macarons for fun and some very cheap fruit for breakfast because we are going to leave the hotel relatively early Sunday morning to get a 10:14 train back to Paris.

In our wanderings on the way back to the hotel, we found a 13th century synagogue next to Place de Jerusalem in what was during the Middle Ages was the ghetto of Avignon. I believe the synagogue is still used for marriages and possibly for regular sabbath services, but am not sure.

The first big surprise of the day came around our lunch time, which was in the middle of the afternoon. We went to the Place de l’Horloge for some wine and cheese.

There were some tents set up in the square, one with an exhibit about insects, another with a clown show, a couple of others. An acrobat disguised as a giant red bug of some kind had huge stilts that resembled lobster claws on his legs and arms and lumbered around the crowd. At one point, he trapped a lady inside his four limbs.

We sat in the sun in front of one cafe that ignored us. We went next door and got a white Cotes du Rhone and a cheese plate.

This order should be a good bet in France, because there are the three things the French really pride themselves on: wine, cheese, and bread. I think French restaurateurs are transported to the Netherlands, where they have to eat the food for two years, if they fuck up one of those things.

Before we had polished off the cheese, we heard drums. It seems there is a local festival this weekend involving several hundred medieval reenactors. In the States, we have Civil War reenactments, Revolutionary War, and my brother-in-law Mark goes back as far as the French and Indian Wars. I believe some Americans also belong to a Society for Creative Anachronism, but they are largely confined to Renaissance Faires.

But over here, they have knights in mail and yeoman with crossbows.

They had drums and bagpipes, hunting horns, and banners. The guys bringing up the rear were in white with red crosses on their tunics. And they were really into it. I think they were supposed to be the Templars, kind of the Marine Corps of the Crusades. The Templars were scary in real life and these guys had their game faces on to uphold the tradition.

The procession also included camp followers, at least one jester, a couple of bishops, a cardinal, and maybe a pope impersonator.

The whole group marched through the Place of the Clock and went up to the plaza outside the papal palace, where they clowned around for an hour or so. Some were chanting marching songs, or maybe bawdy songs.

We watched a duel between two knights with a third acting as referee. Whenever one tried a low blow or some other infraction of the rules, the ref hit him with the flat of his sword.

A thief grabbed a woman’s pocketbook, and the guards grabbed him, and then they all had a photo taken together. We saw the Wife of Bath using a video camera.

After a while, the reenactors formed up and marched back. Their route took them past the site of the old Templar commandery of the city.

There is a sign there that I found the other day. It’s right across the street from St. Agricol, which is the name of that very old church named for the even older bishop.

We wandered around looking for a restaurant in the evening. For all I know, there is no bad food in Avignon, but we stayed away from the Place d’Horloge, because if there is substandard food, it will be in a tourism navel like that.

Most of the menus offer five or six choices of entree, generally something beef, something salmon, duck, and tartare.

We wound up at a place on Rue Bonneterie called Chez Rippert.

We got a bottle of red Cotes du Rhone called Terres de Galets from a company or person named Gabriel . Meffre (yes, with a point in the middle). It was good, but nowhere near as flavorful as the wine we had last night.

The Galets had a mild fragrance and was reasonably fruity with a little bite going down. After four or five sips it started to grow on me and the aroma seemed to get stronger.

The flavor improved significantly once the snails came. They were plump and garlicky. Escargots is one of the few dishes that I enjoy with a strong garlic scent and flavor.

When we were choosing the main course, I came across one with “pulpeaux.” I couldn’t remember what pulpeaux. Was it a vegetable? Or meat without a backbone? Then I remembered.

I confirmed with the waiter, who spoke some English, that pulpeaux is octopus. With an X on the end, it probably referred to more than one, but I was not being punctilious. As long as it was dead, I would eat it.

The dish turned out to be a brown broth with carrots, potatoes, and little octopuses. It wasn’t exactly the comfort food that we have been eating for days, probably because it wasn’t as fatty. But it was very good.

Back at the hotel, we polished off the bottle from Gabriel . Meffre with some of the macarons we bought at Les Halles.

I arranged a wake-up call for 6:30 to make that 10:14 train without having to rush, and thus assured of my schedule, slept the sleep of the mildly buzzed.

Back in Paris on Sunday afternoon, staying in the Montmartre.

Be well, all.

Oct. 23

Larry,

According to your Grasshopper, my walking Google, the people in Paris are very serious about their wine, cheese, and bread. Whoever screws up those three will be sent to Holland and eat Dutch food for two years.

Fact or did he make that up?

Joanna

Oct. 23

Joanna,

When I saw he wrote that in one of his e-mails, I was quite impressed.

The concept is so excellent, who cares whether it's true or not?

Although I have seen a few lost-looking souls wandering around Amsterdam muttering in French as they scoured the streets for a decent loaf of bread and a drinkable bottle of wine (cheese isn't a problem — while the Netherlands might not have the variety France does, quality is hardly an issue), I don't know if their situation was self-imposed or by judicial directive.

Unfortunately, some of these guys became cooks at some of Amsterdam's most popular restaurants.

Who am I to argue with an older and wiser man whose travel mileage is quickly catching up to mine?

We should discuss this further over a bowl of laksa or hokkien mei in Singapore.

See you then!

Best,

Larry