I went out to dinner with Emilie last week. Hmm, pasta and something in a wine sauce. Sure, we'll take two of those. Thirty minutes later, the waiter served us…something brown—with a red sheen—rubbery, and tossed onto our plates like too many deformed tubes. Sometime between the second and third bite, I gave up and committed to the little bowl of pasta, brainstorming on how to conduct a legal escape from offending and the offensive. Emilie valiantly crunched and chewed her way through half of hers before we excused ourselves to catch our train. After waiting the night for our food to pass the regurgitation stage, I checked the unknown word from the menu; cow kidney.


Today, I spent the afternoon with an old friend from home. After wearing out our brains staring into the shallow depths of modern painting at Beaubourg, we walked towards Notre Dame, stopping at a café for lunch. I chose an incomprehensible description just below the Risotto, which was Ryan's sensible choice. Why not be a little adventurous? In short time, the waiter brought a modest mound of golden risotto and a pretty plate of greens, cheese, and…meat? As I hesitated, Ryan bent over his plate and commented through a mouth of satisfaction, "I think that's foie gras." I pretended not to be convinced but when we left, a large portion remained behind.

***there are no photos of these events because my camera was not working. HOWEVER, when I carelessly pushed the power button tonight, it fully responded to my hopeless wishes.

Back in business.