Food Porn

I like food. I like eating food, cooking food, shopping for food, talking about food, prepping food, growing food and catching food. While others shop for shoes, I browse fromageries and tryy to get in good with the local butcher. I'm with my people. I know this next statement will issue cries of dissent from Italian/Asian/latin food crazies, but I believe French cuisine is tops. Its difficult to ignore the root of so many culinary terms. Off the top of my head- Saute, Marinade, Souffle, Julienne, Braise, Flambe, Fondue, Meringue. Chicken Cordon Bleu comes from the french cooking school, Cordon Bleu- "Blue Ribbon". Don't worry, the french won't let the world forget this. While France suffers from some of the lowest recover numbers after the economic crash in Europe, the cafe's are packed, and they aren't cheap. Hence me taking on the setiments literally. While I love wine, the world inimidates me slightly. I move more fluidly with food. And so here I find myself, at the Place Madeleine, in search for something that surpasses simple nutrition and approaches religious fervor or orgasmic pleasure (please forgive the blasphemy).

First stop was at La Maison du Miel- The Honey House. The saccarine smell made me jittery. There were large vats of golden honey behind the cash register, with a tap at the bottom. One customer was getting what I hoped was a years supply, large bubbles moving lazily up from the tap. I saw honey from Canada and New Zealand, but finally settled on a box of five, each honey made in France, flavoured with various curiosities- Acacia, Rosemary, Chestnut, Rhododendron, and Lavander. God knows what I'm going to do with Rhododendron honey. I moved around the Place Madeleine past upper class brasseries and shops seling five items, immaculately dressed young women buying 200 euro sunglasses and 40 euro chocolates for Valentines day from bored shopkeepers. Each doorway had an armed security guard, including the deli and the dog clothing store. Carrying around my bag from the Maison du Miel gave me an unwarranted self of entitlement to be walking around in this neighborhood, and so I ducked into Les Truffes. Truffles look like small moist balls of dirt, and cost about 40 euros for one the size of my big toe. Crazy, I know, but the beauty of truffles is that they are so fragrant, similar to rose water or elderberries, you only nee a small shaving to flavour an entire dish of tagliatelle aux cepes or risotto aux morilles. I bought a small bottles of black truffle out, and the smell followed me around for the rest of the day, and that was off of trying about 1/8 of a teaspoon. My taste buds were bombarded greedily like pushy italians. I didn't even make it to Mariage Freres, with their wall sized display of bucket sized tea from around the world, and to the Maille house, France's largest mustard producing family. Next time.