We May Love Paris in the Springtime, but Not Because of the Food

Hello, faithful readers (meaning my mom and dad)! After a week of orientation and two days of classes, I've come to a realization: college is hard. But, that doesn't mean I can't have some fun, and that is what this article is - fun. So, onward!

Paris is a wonderful city, probably my favorite in the world. It's beautiful, artistic, and literally bursting with culture. However, recently, I was forced to come to a jarring realization about this gorgeous place, and while it was tough to grapple with and accept, accept it I have.

Now, if any Parisian chefs actually read this, they would have my sautéing arm for what I'm about to say; but I proudly stand by it.

The "in" restaurants in Paris don't taste good anymore. Just skip on straight to Lyon.

Yes, I mean that. Basically, the new culinary phenomenon in my most favorite of places is to try and combine so many ingredients in such a complicated way that the food just ends up tasting bad. I'm serious. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, describes it as chefs "trying to jump above their belly button."

Take, for example, Helene D'Arroz, formerly my top choice among the chefs of Paris. Not two years ago she was churning out delicious scampi, lightly roasted and magnificently seasoned, and following that guaranteed crowd pleaser up with a chocolate plate that was to die for, complete with tart, ice cream, and all a manner of goodies. Some call this simple fare, which is sort of true I guess, but it was perfectly prepared classic French cuisine, and sometimes, that is what you want to eat, not fancy mumbo jumbo (cue screaming French chefs).

Now, my mother and I returned on a scouting trip for the Pilgrimage (more on that in another column), and of course, we considered this restaurant a safe bet. However, upon sitting down and reviewing the menu, an icy hand stole about my heart, and when the food (such as it was) arrived, the hand clamped down and squeezed. To be perfectly honest, I don't even remember what I ate, because I didn't really eat it; I can tell you that on the whole menu, there were two dishes for a single person, one of which contained meat. Um, excuse me? Where is my scampi? Where is my chocolate? To be blunt, where is my food?? And this may sound lame, but I was really upset. This was my FAVORITE restaurant, and it let me down. It's kind of like a friend that you've come to rely on telling you to buzz off when you call them with an emergency. You feel alone, abandoned, with promises broken, that kind of thing. In all seriousness though, it was not a good experience.

And it wasn't just the formerly fantastic Helene who apparently forgot all that she'd learned at her grandmother's knee. Mom and I went to Arpêge, a three Michelin star restaurant whose praises were being sung all up and down the Seine, and were sorely disappointed. First of all, the appetizers were tiny, and I'm not talking about the normal French tiny; I mean miniscule. Then, there was this celebrated item on the menu: THE beet. But do not mistake this beet for just any beet, oh no. This beet has been encrusted in the finest sea salt mixture for your tasting pleasure; it is a special, wonderful, magical beet; please, let us show you the beet and praise the beet and roast the beet and worship the beet... and when Mom ate it, she looked at me and said,

"It tastes like a beet." Pause. "With salt." Pause. Bite. "But it needs more salt." You do not want to know what they charged for the sacred beet.

And it just went on and on like this. Where, where, where has all the food gone?

Well, if you are in Paris and looking for a good meal, you still have several good options, and among them reigns Joel Robuchon, a beacon of hope in this gastronomic desert. His food remains awesome; His down-market restaurant, l'Atelier de Joel Robuchon, is not only reasonably priced but truly fun. It's almost a tapas bar (may I be stricken for this comparison). The restaurant is set up like a sushi bar, and you order a lot of little dishes, including but not limited to lightly battered shrimp tempura wrapped in basil (although my mother and I disagree on which shrimp dish is the best, as I adore the truffled shrimp ravioli), and a superb quail. The tart assortment is a compelling dessert, especially since it contains the amazingly cinnamony milk . This traditional creation has the thinnest, flakiest of crusts, delicately topped with sweetened milk cream and perfectly copious amounts of cinnamon. Delicious! The other tarts are outstanding as well, but this one, an original, took my heart. Thank you, thank you, Joel Robuchon.

So, Paris is basically barren, no longer the Mecca of French food. We still have Laduree for tremendous macaroons and other delicacies (and go to the one on r. Royale, the original; the atmosphere can't be beat, and the breakfast and hot chocolate are a true treat). We still have the Jewish quarter, the Marais, with Scha Finkelzstein and her phenomenal Hungarian pastries (she does have stiff competition, though, up and down the main street), there is still the inimitable Pierre Garnier, but the magic is gone the way of fusion.

There is a new place though, for you foodies on a quest for the best, and it is Lyon. All I have time to say now is, Go there. You won't regret it. Just hop on that high speed train, the TGV, and you'll be there in 2 1/2 hours. Dive into Mattheiu Vianny's restaurant, Nicolas le Bec and other young, new, steeped-in-tradition with their head in the sky chefs, and you'll remember why France is still the food capital of the world.

More in the next article about this fabulous land, but as of now, sleep calls. Calculus in the morning.