Before leaving for Paris, a friend I place in the tip-top echelon of ‘foodie,’ as she not only appreciates excellent food but flawlessly executes complex recipes herself, assured me that I would love the food.  In her words: “The French take food very seriously.  Everything you eat there is impressive.” 

After five days of doing little else but eating and drinking (or else digesting in a near-constant state of anticipation for my next morsel) I can say with confidence that she is absolutely correct.  The food in Paris has been, without exception: outstanding.

Even when I wasn’t entirely sure what I was eating.

Croissants and baguettes and cheese.  Perfectly ripe tomatoes and delicious French wine.  Double espressos, so smooth that I’ve hardly missed my customary spot of cream.  And the pâté!  My pescatarianism simply stood no chance.

Our meal on the second night was particularly memorable – and as much for the company as for the food itself.  We had taken a recommendation from a friend whose taste in food I hold in high regard.  He described L’Epi Dupin as ‘Amazing’ and advised us to make a reservation as soon as possible.  We arrived breathless, having sprint-walked from the metro station.  The server who greeted us frowned and sat us at the worst table in the restaurant: a two-top connected to a four-top in the middle of the floor.  David thought he was unhappy with us because we’d managed to be late for our 9pm reservation, I suggested it was because we were American.

Perhaps it was both.

As it turned out, the threesome we sat with were from Manhattan – attorneys in Paris on business.  They welcomed us like old friends and the man to my right immediately dove into a chivalrous description of the various dishes listed on a large blackboard the waiter had deposited near my elbow before quickly scurrying off.  From the top to the bottom the man laid out in sufficient detail each item, ranging from a chilled cauliflower soup to the quail, which, he advised, we should not order if particularly hungry.  I noted the tiny bones on his plate and surmised that he had been ‘particularly hungry.’

The server impatiently took our order and when it came to the wine, a thing we had not even yet thought about – nor had we seen anything that could communicate the selection – I instinctively pointed at the bottle the New Yorkers were swiftly draining.  It turned out to be an excellent choice.

One by one the dishes arrived.  My chilled cauliflower soup dotted with poppy seeds and David’s duck confit sealed inside a flaky pastry.  My monk fish (the ‘poor man’s lobster, though there was nothing poverty-stricken about this deliciously rich dish) and David’s filet mignon topped with a battered and fried slab of head-cheese.

And then the cheese course.

Perhaps my favorite thing about France.  We were served a gorgeous assortment of four goat cheeses – same farm, same field, same goats, but because each was processed differently, they tasted not at all similar.  I watched our server drizzle olive oil onto the plate and wondered why I’d never thought to do so before.  It nicely balanced the typical ashy consistency of the goat cheese while enhancing its earthy flavor.  I devoured it.

Meanwhile, the New Yorkers were still drinking.  While David answered, for the third time, the question ‘what do you do?’ I engaged in a slightly more sober conversation with the man to my right: a forty-year old father of two who was eager to tell me about his children.

At one point he fully grasped the severity of my own extensive travel plans and offered me his contact info. “If you’re still doing this in three months, let me know,” he said skeptically as he punched his email address into my iphone.  “I’m just very, very curious about how it all turns out.”  Clearly he thought our operation a failure in progress.

After the cheese came a duo of beautiful desserts paired with a half-bottle of not-too-sweet port.  I glanced at the clock.  It was midnight.

As I dug my fork into my first bite of something resembling rhubarb, the server appeared with five empty glasses and a large bottle of something amber.  I watched in horror as a generous pour was placed in front of me.  The man to my right took a sip of his and winced.  I sniffed my own and immediately put it down, announcing that there was no way I could do it.  Someone pointed out its age – a number that perhaps I might have been impressed by had my nostrils not been burning. The man to my right wordlessly took my glass and poured half of it into his own, the other into his colleague’s across the table.

I happily ate my rhubarb.

After the final drop of port had been swallowed and the check paid, we lingered for a few more minutes to chat with one of the kinder servers – a man who was keen to test his english.  We kicked questions and answers back and forth, our most burning being “how do you say, ‘how do you say ___ in French?’”  I wish I could remember what he’d said…

The New Yorkers announced for the eighth or ninth time that they needed to get back to their hotel.  There was work to do in the morning.  But it was clear that they weren’t too concerned.  I smiled, remembering that feeling when traveling for work.  The barely bridled nights out with colleagues whom I considered good friends.  The ability we all shared to somehow forget that tomorrow was coming for us – and that we would indeed regret our late night out when we found ourselves sitting in front of clients, bleary eyed and heads aching.

On the way ‘home,’ I listened to music as our train rolled smoothly through tunnels and, at one point, over the river – presenting a most beautiful view.  I reflected on the evening – the food, the drink, the conversation: all things I’ve experienced in excess at home, yet they seemed to sparkle in a new way.  Being abroad does that, I’m finding.  The relatively mundane has become special.  Where once I took for granted the opportunity to make small talk with  strangers, I now find it’s enough to push my evening from good to great.

Though I also must give credit to the port.  And the cheese.