Food Interlude!

Just gotta step away from the day-based logging of my comings and goings to celebrate the food that has nourished my vacation.  Below are pics and reflections on just some of the wonnderful meals or meal courses I have had.  

But first, in honor of  one of the meals I didn't take a picture of but really, really enjoyed, courtesy of Family'z, a quick food joint across from the music spot, Onze Bar:

Ode to Mediterranean Wraps

Oh Mediterranean Wrap, how you are made to order.

Your almost too-hotness is the flip side of

Your grilled ill-ité

Your char sets my heart ajar.

Oh wrap, how are you marry tasty bite-size meat,

grilled onions, lettuce and diced tomatoes to a

perfectly

balanced

sauce.

A most perfect union.

“With this pita bread thou art wed.”

Oh wrap, you contain multitudes

and so you may very well contradict yourself.

Oh well:

One, you are fast yet still food.

Two, you are seasoned sublimely and

could quote E-40 “Sprinkle Me” without

being salty.

(Mom would say, you're a little Pepper!)

Three, except for that small Seine of juice staining this notebook page,

you are juicy without being messy.

Have a word with Carl’s Jr., won’t you?

But I am not mad atcha –

the healthy, unempty calories you fill me with

also soak into these pages. 

So, Mediterranean wrap, you are the best-est!

Others can see you any way they want,

(except naked, of course, for you are ever swaddled in pita, haha)

but for me, your stain blob

on my notepad

is a Rorshach

of health and happiness.

                                                                *******

Bavette (Flank Steak)  

Two things: One, half the time I see bavette on the all French menu I'm like, I'll have that!  This happened to be my first meal.    Two, "Sometimes I rhyme slow, sometimes I rhyme quick."  That doubly true for my thinking as I progress in age, it seems.   So,I was seriously like, unironically, "Haha, I'm having french fries with like one of the tastiest steaks I've ever had."  Then I was like -- and sadly, this wasn't right away, like when you are about to step in crap but nimbly double-step with the off foot, averting shame -- "Ok, ok, the French just call them fries (frites)."
   

 Hamburger (Trust me)

Man, this bistro did so many things wrong and still, at the end of the meal I was like, W-T-F just happened?

First, I ordered a Jack and Coke, and this guy brings me a bottle of Coke, a small glass of 4 ice cubes, a stirring spoon, and maybe 2 - 2.5 ounces of bourbon. I'm supposed to mix my drink? Second, they say they have no frites (in France of all places!) so I choose a substitue spelled like maybe mashed is not the translation.  Third, as you can see, yeah, they were out of bun (probably brioche) so would the bread they use for croque monsieur be ok?  Sure.
Listen that's way too many mishaps for one meal, and yet, by the end, you could all it bliss..

 

Choix du fromage (Chevre)

I was completely like, "Huh?" when the lettuce and tomato wedge came with the chevre.  I'm not saying it was better than that tube I get at Trader Joe's to pair with roasted beets, but like the Rolling Stones said, "You can't always get..."

Decisions Were Made

Listen, I do not consider myself to be a vain person.  I don't like spending all that much time in the mirror.  I don't mind being well-nigh bald (denial!), but yeah, I'd prefer a say in the matter.  And if you know me, you can imagine I wouldn't mind being a little taller.*  

But what these croissants and baguettes have done to my belly? Ridiculous! Sacrableu!  Talk about inflation!  They're destroying in maybe 4 days what it took 4 months of Crossfit to build up.   I honestly only started doing Crossfit to improve my run time, but all the residual benefits does have me sometimes nodding at my reflection with approval.  

You got to understand something though, these croissants are great!  So basically, I've got to decide between the croissants and my ab game.   Like the Warriors singing on the team bus/plane two playoffs ago, "I'm in love with the croissant!"   Sacrableu! Ok, I guess I'll be doing another run through Luxembourg Gardens.

Ok, I haven't had this one yet.  It suggests a macaroon which, now that I've had a couple, yo lo compremendo totalmente. 

_____________
*Side note, once in our teens, 15 and 16 respectively) my cousin Derrick and I
were walking at the Woodbridge Mall when we passed two dudes who seemed related too, but much taller.  No words, we just looked at each other and laughed.  D managed to make it much closer to 6' than to 5'.  And I, well, am always tempted to be figurative (or lie) when asked specifically about my height:  I stand tall, lol.)

Day 2 - All Kinds of Conflicted - Part Deux

I felt a different sort of conflicted when I sat in on some live music later Friday in what I believe is the Republique neighborhood, just a stones throw from the Bataclan.  Now, don't you hate it when the performer on stage is like, "Wave your hands in the air!" and you're like, "Dude, you so have not earned my hand-waving, lighter-flicking, or response to your call."  But hey, what does it hurt to play along a bit, so you wave your hands like you kinda sorta just don't care.  And you say, "Awww yeah!" but you know, not really.  Well, I was faced with this dilemma of sorts.

It all started out promising, with the sounds of a crisp horn and funky strings pulling me away from my guide-book recommended haunt and across the street to the Fat Cat Bar.   Turns out a hip-hop/funk band was playing.   The horn player was multi-instrumental, taking turns of the clarinet, flute and saxophone.  It's too much to say, "He was a revelation" or such loftiness, but he was making good music.  They dropped a loop of "Float On" and he worked it out.  The bass guitarist player was decent, workmanlike. 

So you see, this was the problem. The vocalist was nothing special; his style imitated funk hip-ness, but who am I to judge when 90% of hip hop artists are just as guilty.   Fake it till you make it, maybe?  He was aight, and I clapped supportively, not just for the band but for the idea of live music.  You know, kinda philosophically. 

Now see, if this were are a bigger space or if I was not already introduced to the band during the break between sets, when the DJ played Grand Puba, Tribe and DP's "It's Bigger Than Hip-Hop," I could have slunk away a little bemused but without obligation.   But see, well, I had just been told, eagerly, if you like P-Funk you're gonna really like the next set.  Call your friends. Really?  Many cues told me my American black presence suggested to them my bona fides.  For better or ill (you really just have to see how it plays out in the instance). ****  I shouldv'e known it wasn't going to turn out well.    

In the second set they invite one of the friends of the band.  It guess he thought we was at least a reincarnation of KC from KC and the Sunshine Band, but when he started riffing, "Fat booty, fat booty, awww, FAT BOOTY!" I was like, "Huh? What?"    He'd shout it high, he'd growl it low.  Then he'd be a little manic, riffing at 78 when maybe 45 was appropriate.  I wasn't into it, but I hadn't yet made a decision on whether dude was, well, garbage.  But then he started a call and response; as far as I could tell, English was a distant second language for the 3 or 4 people I had spoken too. 

"Do you feel like moving that booty y'all?  Say, hell yeah"  The audience, sans Stamper of Approval Kevin responds, "Hell yeah." 

There was some dynamics beyond nationality and language that I don't want to go into here, even if it would provide helpful context.  But I found myself not just not enjoying myself, but in a non-P Funk state of funkiness.

So, "Hell, no," I thought.  And continue to think as the audience obediently responded, "Hellll yeah,"  "Fat booty." or "Big, fat booty" among less memorable touts. Under the circumstances, no co-sign from me.  You gets no props.
On the other hand, is it possible I was being too harsh?  Not everything is a morality play, right?  Or about race, no?  And, oh yeah, also, did the francophone audience even know what they were saying, I mean, even if they did understand the words?

I think this is my bottom line: I couldn't sing along, not because, ahem, I don't approve of fat booties (like you know, "shake what you mama gave you").   Ironically, on this front, hip hop has so devolved, from Wrex-n-Effects to Juvenile to the Ying Yang Twins/the East Side Boyz/Lil John to this, that well, in an odd way, the bar is really high for low, trifling, ish.  

And I'll be honest and say under certain circumstances, I could sing along to folks "with it" enough to strike a certain tone.  Folks like Q-tip, De La and Mos have certainly done so.  And hell, he may not all that funky, but KC  would've got props.

___________
****While definitely not always the case, in my travels I've often been the only black American male, and the comments and questions of the welcoming folks who befriend me make clear that, at least per music and movement, my black skin (and, a necessary complement for some, my nationality) make me the arbiter of cool.  Is he nodding his head?  I've been told conspiratorially by maybe the one real athlete on a coed team, hey, you be the wide receiver, I'm gonna get the ball to you, but they have no idea I can get open but it's 50-50 whether I catch the damn ball.  Let me state for the record, though, that basketball is different.  I usually defy heigt-based expectations.  At least for a half.  

Paris Day 2 - All Kinds of Conflicted - Part I

On my second day in Paris, I felt all kinds of conflicted. En serio. (I like the Spanish translation of "for real").   I think it's one of the signature aspects of the human condition, we being bodies and spirit, creatures of sensation and reflection.  I mean, every time you roll in your gas guzzler rather than walk or bike, every time you make some consumption choice that has zero-sum implications, heck every time you have that eat way more of pint of ice cream in one sitting (and some of y'all eat the whole pint) in the beginning, middle and/or end of the experience you might very well be like, should be glad or mad. 

So, this is how I felt about the Chateau de Versailles, which was first built in 1623 but came into its current form in the late 17th C upon the direction of Louis XIV.  It is was to showcase "all the glories of France."  It's massive.  It's grand. And, my senses tell me that it is quite glorious indeed.  The wall sized paintings, ornate interior decoration (dang, antique rugs as "wallpaper"?), and gold everywhere puts Jay's "all black everything" in perspective.   The Hall of Mirrors is breathtaking.  Ditto the "gardens."** 

But, as I thought about how grand this all is, I couldn't help but think, also, about the backstory, the inevitable cost.  Let's be real, and think back to the conditions that make settled, complex societies possible.  The existence of a Versailles is nothing if not the definition of surplus, Pluto*** if subsistence characterizes most societies of plant Earth. 


And, yet in Versailles a candid acknowledgment of the basis of its glories are the several rooms dedicated to depicting Frances's many battles (victorious) and the fallen heroes whose sacrifice, well, you know.   Though he died after they were hung, the four largest paintings were commissioned by Napolean.  Did all that war and conquest enrich the French state?  Mainly.  Did it raise the sea level of prosperity for the common Frenchman or Frenchwoman?  Maybe?  And what of the vanquished?  If that be another European or major state, don't cry for me Argentina. 

But if the vanquished were the equivalent of the schoolyard bully's violence, that is, the enslaved, the colonized and so on, then what?  And being in the skin I'm in, how should I really feel about this whole thing?  Reminds me of a famous black figure, I can't remember who, maybe Malcolm or JB, who said his world changed when he realized that in the real world he and his people were the Indians he was rooting against in the Hollywood westerns.

And something not quite a sidenote, as America is just like France back then, we with our super subsidized gas and have it exactly your way every day Starbucks lattes have to be honest about the ramifications of an American retreat from, to put it gently, being active (or most euphemistically, energetic) on the world stage.

But again, my senses shouted, Wow!

 

 

***



________________________________________

 * Something earlier shoulda been footnoted instead of included in the main body. I forget.

**This summer I planned to work on my "garden."    Hmm, I feel like language constable is about to knock on my door and say, "Yer garden?  This world ain't big enough for Versailles and your backyard to both be called gardens."  Sigh. 

*** Or Jupiter if you want to take 1) the grandeur literally and 2) account for Pluto's dethronement as a planet, the end of the ancien regime you might say.

Paris - Day 1

Three places besides the Yay Area I'd like to live for a year: Maui, Kobe, and now very much in the running, Pari, France.  I haven't even been here 36 hours yet and it's already begun to take hold. 

 I'm staying in St. Germain de Pres  in the sixth arrondisment. It's one of the more upscale parts of town. Heck, the apartment building of my Airbnb studio has TWO courtyards.    And half a block up the main drag is littered with shops like Cartier, Montblanc, Hermés and Patrick Rogers Chocolatier (If that dude came bragging to my high school reunion I'd be like, "Slow your roll dude, it's just chocolate!")  (5 seconds later: "Oh snap, Wait a minute! I know this bright, funny, beautiful, woman, OMG  ;-) who loves chocolate...!  Vous avez une carte de visite?"). Lol.  

(By the way, this is all iPhone voice dictation because my HP netbook I brought with me for more convenient Internet browsing email etc. is a piece of crap. So you don't know how hard it is to edit myself when I'm just talking. But then I think does anyone really want to read aaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllll this?)

(Note to self: whenever I think something should be put in parentheses I probably should reconsider whether to include it at all. Help needed but not wanted: an Editor). 

Anyway, that said I had my first experience of this is what they say, but this is how it really is that traveling affords. It's funny that the guidebooks suggested that Le Marais in the fourth and   Saint German in the sixth were the only places to stay, and well good luck keeping all your money (or limbs) if you were to venture to Montmartre. I went there today after the Black Paris tour led by Ricki Stevenson and Miguel Overton Guerra,  and I got to say it's just a leafy, vibrant place. Sacred Heart (Sacre Coeur) and terraced lawns below it  attract a large number of people, tourists and local folks, it seems, to just lounge  and enjoy the open space. 

Sure, men whose origins are equatorial and southerly hawked bootlegged Heinekens and frozen bottle water. (My French studies have utterly  failed me;  for all I know the two euros I paid for a Cristaline that was 3/4 iceberg  was €1.5 too many; for all I know I could've bought a Heineken instead.).  So maybe these guys  might not have such free reign in the 4th or 6th but here in the 18th they sell freely.  

And a word on being ripped off:  these would be economic(?) existential (?) cousins of the three-card Monty guys who were run off in the New York Times Square face lift, but someone tell me how  all those "upscale" shops on Rue de Rennes hawking $20 chocolate bonbons to carry in $500 handbags aren't  in fact a bigger rip? Is it the bright lights, air conditioning and starched shirts that misdirect? 

Anyway, maybe Montmartre and the 18th are The Mission (SF) or Oakland. ( Oakland of now or Oakland when it was a byword and a crinkled nose,  it's all still oakland)   My main point is it is highly habitable; you don't have to stay half a block off Union Street, Rodeo Drive or Park Ave to be "safe", much less have a full and enjoyable experience. 

 Anyways the trip to Sacre Coeur  was preceded by the Black Paris tour.   So many cool facts besides just those revolving around Josephine Baker or  Richard Wright.   There are the biographies of people like Chevaliers, Bessie Coleman and one amazing, Forrest Gumpian Eugene Jacques  Bullard.   Here are three other tidbits that are either fundamental or  funfactamental (funamental? No? Ok...) about the origins and/or preservation of Paris. 

 1. The Egyptian Isis  is the patron deity. Paris is most likely a derivation of Par-isis (the s is silent, obvi)  which literally means the  devotees of Isis.  Isis Horace story. Many similarities to the more well-known examples of mother son father dynamic, least least of which is Mary, God the father and is the father incarnate son.  Ever heard of the black Madonna? It's Isis and Horus. 

2.  When Louis the 14th initiated the city's rebuilding he mandated that all the buildings be constructed with the same materials as the pyramids are made of i.e. limestone and imported millions of tons.  But also he wanted the same type of artwork that he had observed in Africa. So he commissioned master Malian ironworkers, Adinkra, to make them and many of the designs include classical west African symbolilogy such as that representing sankofa. The ironwork and designs are literally everywhere in the city.   And as the tour guide Miguel took pains to point out, this is Louis the 14th.  Have you seen Versailles? he wasn't doing anything on the cheap; he really did get the best. Also he wasn't bringing in a servant/laborer class to destabilize the social order;  Paris already had serfs. 

3.  OMG, a black woman, trained in Paris, is the one who made the best of Franklin D Roosevelt that we see on the dime  Whuuut!?!

Favorite Old Thing #1: Mcrophone Check

Like dating someone new, the sense of a new thing's awesomeness is quite acute; you are often compelled to tell any and everyone about it.   It really should be everyone's favorite thing.  At some point, however, you realize it's no more than your own private Idaho.   There's no shame in that, but it's a little dull to act as if it's for everyone.   That's the danger of touting the new thing:  by the time I sit down to speak on it, its "favoriteness" has invariably faded.  So, instead I'm going to tout media, culture, music, art, etc., which have stood the test of time (for me)  but still does not enjoy, I believe, the audience it deserves.  Call it: my favorite "old" things.

So, favorite old thing #1:  NPR Microphone Check with ATCQ's Ali Shaheed Muhammad and veteran music journalist Frannie Kelley. 

Microphone Check is true and golden.  A hip hop history, but served up with the very grounded wisdom of Ali Shaheed, and a certain earnest, not too shy existence on Kelley's part.  You could go straight to their episodes with Pete Rock, D-Nice or Hank Shocklee of P.E., but can just as easily get served up something profound in the interview of a much lesser known (and much younger) artist.  So the link here is to Terrace Martin, a hip hop [music!] producer and horn player in the Los Angeles crew that includes Kamasi Washington and Thundercat.  Enjoy.

http://www.npr.org/sections/microphonecheck/2016/04/08/473407997/terrace-martin-i-believe-you-should-be-yourself