Food and travel writing class: What I wrote
This is what I managed to get down on paper in the 40 minutes we had to write during the food and travel writing workshop. It's transcribed straight from my notebook--no editing (other than a couple of notes). I really missed my computer--my pen just does not move fast enough.
Rick Steves must not eat. At least it must not be a priority of his. We planned our day trip to Paris around the timetable in our London guidebook for a day trip to Paris. It wasn't until it was all down on paper and the Eurostar ticket booked that we realized that the schedule didn't include any meal breaks.
But being turned away from Sainte-Chappelle (for their 2-hour lunch break--go figure) had left us with some extra time, and the chocolate crepe (mine) and croque monsieur [ed note: it was actually a crudite gruyere] (his) that we'd grabbed from a street vendor that morning had long since worn off. And after a rocky start and a death-defying cab ride, we'd done a pretty creditable job navigating the Metro and checking off the sites on our list--Notre Dame, Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elysees, Louvre. It wasn't even 5:00 and there was only one more stop that we had planned. We still had a couple of hours before we had to be back at the Gare du Nord to check in for our train ride back to London. I had even managed to do a reasonable job expressing myself in French. So, to celebrate, we decided to stop for an actual meal.
Not a fancy meal--that was out of the question. For one thing, we were wearing jeans. For another, I wasn't confident enough about my ability to order a multi-course meal. But sandwiches seemed possible.
We got off the Metro at Trocadero, which Rick said was a bit of a hike but offered an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower. Unlike the taxi tips, he was right on about this. The Jekyll-and-Hyde weather seemed to have settled on a Dr. Jekyll evening--the sun was really out, the sky was a less threatening shade of blue--and the neighborhood looked semi-authentic but still tourist-friendly. After surveying a couple of menus chalked on sidewalk easels, we settled on the Cafe Korsakoff [ed. note: actually called Le Malakoff (but I was close)], which boasted a decent selection of sandwiches as well as a prix-fixe dinner menu.
There was outdoor seating but we were unsure how to secure a table, so we tiptoed inside. The restaurant was largely empty, save for a few tables near the windows, where scattered groups of two or three were sipping their cafe cremes and espressos. It was 5:00, after all. Even in Chicago, it wasn't exactly time for the dinner rush.
I might have turned around and left, but it was too late--a smiling French waiter was already upon us. His starched white shirt and black bow tie matched the shiny black-and-white tile. He even had a tidy little moustache--the very picture of a French waiter. He sized us up, and in heavily accented but nonetheless flawless English, said, "Hello! Here for dinner?" [ed. note: I can't remember exactly what he said, dammit.] Chastened and feeling very American, we allowed ourselves to be led to a long leather booth near the windows--a good view, he told us--and seated.
So much for my triumphant moment exercising my high school French--the menu was in English. Chris was relieved--saying "deux" in the ticket line at the Louvre had been more than enough French speaking for him. But I had started to relax into my new role as the navigator and communicator, and I was reluctant to give it up. I flipped over the menu--the reverse was in French. I'd show them.
Regardless of the language, the menu read the same, and there was not a sandwich to be seen. It was a full, multi-course dinner menu, complete with dinnertime prices and a wine list.
One of the reasons I'd been reluctant to have a real meal was because I was nervous about ordering wine.
And that's as far as I got. But it was fun to write, and now that I'm at home with my computer and the trusty notebook I used during the trip to jot down things like where and what we ate, I think I'd like to keep working on it and see what happens. Stay tuned.
Rick Steves must not eat. At least it must not be a priority of his. We planned our day trip to Paris around the timetable in our London guidebook for a day trip to Paris. It wasn't until it was all down on paper and the Eurostar ticket booked that we realized that the schedule didn't include any meal breaks.
But being turned away from Sainte-Chappelle (for their 2-hour lunch break--go figure) had left us with some extra time, and the chocolate crepe (mine) and croque monsieur [ed note: it was actually a crudite gruyere] (his) that we'd grabbed from a street vendor that morning had long since worn off. And after a rocky start and a death-defying cab ride, we'd done a pretty creditable job navigating the Metro and checking off the sites on our list--Notre Dame, Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elysees, Louvre. It wasn't even 5:00 and there was only one more stop that we had planned. We still had a couple of hours before we had to be back at the Gare du Nord to check in for our train ride back to London. I had even managed to do a reasonable job expressing myself in French. So, to celebrate, we decided to stop for an actual meal.
Not a fancy meal--that was out of the question. For one thing, we were wearing jeans. For another, I wasn't confident enough about my ability to order a multi-course meal. But sandwiches seemed possible.
We got off the Metro at Trocadero, which Rick said was a bit of a hike but offered an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower. Unlike the taxi tips, he was right on about this. The Jekyll-and-Hyde weather seemed to have settled on a Dr. Jekyll evening--the sun was really out, the sky was a less threatening shade of blue--and the neighborhood looked semi-authentic but still tourist-friendly. After surveying a couple of menus chalked on sidewalk easels, we settled on the Cafe Korsakoff [ed. note: actually called Le Malakoff (but I was close)], which boasted a decent selection of sandwiches as well as a prix-fixe dinner menu.
There was outdoor seating but we were unsure how to secure a table, so we tiptoed inside. The restaurant was largely empty, save for a few tables near the windows, where scattered groups of two or three were sipping their cafe cremes and espressos. It was 5:00, after all. Even in Chicago, it wasn't exactly time for the dinner rush.
I might have turned around and left, but it was too late--a smiling French waiter was already upon us. His starched white shirt and black bow tie matched the shiny black-and-white tile. He even had a tidy little moustache--the very picture of a French waiter. He sized us up, and in heavily accented but nonetheless flawless English, said, "Hello! Here for dinner?" [ed. note: I can't remember exactly what he said, dammit.] Chastened and feeling very American, we allowed ourselves to be led to a long leather booth near the windows--a good view, he told us--and seated.
So much for my triumphant moment exercising my high school French--the menu was in English. Chris was relieved--saying "deux" in the ticket line at the Louvre had been more than enough French speaking for him. But I had started to relax into my new role as the navigator and communicator, and I was reluctant to give it up. I flipped over the menu--the reverse was in French. I'd show them.
Regardless of the language, the menu read the same, and there was not a sandwich to be seen. It was a full, multi-course dinner menu, complete with dinnertime prices and a wine list.
One of the reasons I'd been reluctant to have a real meal was because I was nervous about ordering wine.
And that's as far as I got. But it was fun to write, and now that I'm at home with my computer and the trusty notebook I used during the trip to jot down things like where and what we ate, I think I'd like to keep working on it and see what happens. Stay tuned.
posted by Madame Defarge at 3:56 PM
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