A Vegetarian in Paris

The first time I walked by a branch of France’s frozen food emporium Picard, I was not overtaken by a desire to go inside.

You can find a café on almost every corner here, but it’s nearly impossible to get a good cup of coffee in Paris.

On clear days, when the forceful cold winds known as “mistrals” have carried the clouds and mist away from the horizon, you can see the Alps from the top of Mont Sainte-Victoire.

It’s fitting that Isaac Peretz looks a little as though he could be a member of the Israeli mafia, given his incontestable domination of the Parisian falafel market.

Last semester, for the final project of a journalism class I was taking, I decided to interview a French chef named Gilles Ajuelos about the current state of French cuisine.

I lived in the spare room of a Parisian family’s apartment for the majority of the fall semester, and though I had a number of reasons for wanting to leave, being unable to cook for myself was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Taste memories are funny things, especially when the food evoking them seems as though it couldn’t be farther from the food that’s being remembered.

The French don’t make eye contact, so to keep myself from inadvertently offending or flirting with my fellow Metro passengers on my daily commute, I’ve found that it’s useful to keep my nose in a book.