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Space Koi 7 CLOSED ON MONDAYS AND TUESDAYS Beginning today we will be closed on Mondays Tuesdays. Pick another day to visit us for tasty treats!
Way 2 Longs 11 LIVE MUSIC:. SoCo Loco 18 LIVE MUSIC:. Deja Vu 24 LIVE MUSIC:. The WAVOS. And not just for one night, but two nights in a row!
So you can pick and choose or party all weekend with us. See ya there! Lets bring the boys back and rock the house down. The Ronnie Johnson band is gonna help us finish off the first month of the New Year with a bang!
Although European Union regulations as well as the practices of modern hygiene prohibit butcher shops from killing anything on the premises—only certified slaughterhouses are authorized to kill an animal—the annual pig slaughter in a small hilltop village goes largely undetected.
The event gives Reynaud a chance to reminisce about a pig killing thirty-three years before, when, accompanying his grandfather to a local farm, he sat on the imitation leather seat of his truck and witnessed for the first time the festivities surrounding the event.
The temperature then, as now, was considerably below freezing. The only difference between the two occasions is in the beverage: eight glasses of wine for Reynaud today; two cups of hot chocolate for the seven-year-old, plus a late-morning snack of sliced bread with butter.
But the bounty of the pork preparations—from the blood sausages to the bellies—gives the book its structure.
In this respect, it is different from the Picard or the Fearnley-Whittingstall. It is a cookbook, showing you the five, or ten, or sometimes twenty recipes for each category of pig-slaughter preparation: autumn fruits apples, quinces, pears, and a splash of Calvados with your blood sausages, for instance, or in a tart made with fennel—ingredients that might still be available when your blood sausages have just been made.
But there are affinities among the three books. The way he addresses the issue of quality is remarkably understated and telling. His book is written in the quiet confidence that you will be reading it only if you are interested not just in meat but in the whole animal it comes from.
About halfway through my reading, I stopped. The book had made me want to cook what it was describing. What I then purchased—trotters, knuckles, a shank, the belly—now seems absurd.
My only disappointment was in a piece of neglect for which the publisher is probably to blame. It is also evident in the Fearnley-Whittingstall. All these books, recognizing our supermarket-induced ignorance, make an exaggerated, outsized effort to teach us the cuts.
This, Picard tells us, is what a pork loin looks like, and he shows us a photograph. These are the twenty-seven famous cuts of beef, Fearnley-Whittingstall tells us in the British edition of his book, and he includes precise pictures, along with a diagram illustrating exactly where each one comes from.
These are all important cuts in a pig, Reynaud tells us in the original French edition, and sets them out in a series of perfectly detailed cartoons.
In the recipes, the various treatments of the shoulder are reduced to a Boston Butt, that obscure piece of American pig butchering, which is not a whole shoulder but only the fatty top part of one.
More: Animals Au Pied de Cochon Butchers CHEFS Cookbooks Farmers Food Writing Meat Pork. Rather than sit indoors with the incessant drip-drip-drip of water from the boiler into a salad bowl, La Fille and I decided to go to the Champ de Mars and have a picnic by the Eiffel Tower.
In the time it takes us to get there on the Metro - roughly 15 minutes - the sky has gone from sunny June to grey, chilly February and it is raining.
We return home and have the picnic on the living room floor. As I lay out the raw carrots and tuna pasta and plastic knives and forks La Fille puts on her My First Nursery Rhymes CD so the sound of dripping and rain is drowned out.
Mustapha arrives on time, as always, and greets me like a close relative; big hug, vigorously shaken hand.
It would be true to say I have seen Mustapha more times over the last few years than I have some members of my family.
La Fille marches into the kitchen as Mustapha is examining the boiler. She gives an exaggerated sigh and announces: "Encore une fuite d'eau" yet another water leak , which is precisely what her father said this morning minus the swear word.
Mustapha declares the boiler 'fichu' basically stuffed. From where I stand, this is not necessarily bad news and might, eventually, compensate for the ruined cookery books.
The whole kitchen of green and black tiles circa and mosaic floor the colour of vomit and cupboards that are bloated and wonky from successive floods needs replacing.
The Frenchman is someone who never does today what can be put off indefinitely - or at least until next year - but this might be the kick needed.
Mustapha repairs the leak but warns we'll need a new boiler in " months max". He adds: "And you don't want to be doing it in winter.
I also tell him that Mustapha has suggested turning La Belle Belle Fille's room into the kitchen and the kitchen into La Belle Belle Fille's room; an idea that might be worth considering when she goes back to university in September, I say.
There is silence the other end of the line. Later I tell a girlfriend the verdict on the boiler. Just before midnight she sends me a message.
I was explaining the concept of 'stepmother' to XXXXX her daughter and used you as an example of how not all stepmothers were evil like those in Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella etc.
You've given it a whole new twist. Generally, the evil stepmother makes her stepdaughter DO the cuisine; you want to make her room INTO the cuisine.
You really should contact Disney about this. Posted by Parisgirl at 2 comments:. Tuesday, 9 June Channel Hopping. My ongoing campaign to ensure that La Fille speaks English has taken a blow.
Central to my mission, conducted with the zeal of a religious convert, is the great God of expatriate parents, Uncle Walt. Uncle Walt is our saviour; him and the other Hollywood relatives because unfortunately we can't get Auntie Cbeebies and I'd throw myself under a Ninky Nonk if I had to watch In the Night Garden every day.
Anyway, the house rule is that films are watched in VO or original version and as Uncle Walt churns out far more children's entertainment than the rest of the world put together, this means lots of English lessons disguised as fun.
This is the carrot to my linguistic stick; the reward La Fille gets for persisting with her mother's tongue. I can live with the Disney fluff and political incorrectness, the fairies, the pink princesses and the cute talking animals as long as whatever tosh they are talking is in English.
Then the remote broke down and we had to watch Mulan II in French. A double whammy that made me regret not studying something useful like electronic circuitry.
The default language on DVDs sold in France is French. Normally this is no problem; I just go to the audio configurations, flick it to English and voila, even the insects are talking my language.
But with no remote the only way to play a movie was to push the play button on the DVD which then launched itself into French.
I took the remote apart and cleaned it but it still wouldn't work. La Fille wailed: "Why can't I watch it in French? La Fille flounced off, arms crossed, pet lip jutting.
Her parting shot was: "You do what you want. I'm going to the lavatory. I don't know where she got that from and I don't know what I'm worrying about.
This girl speaks English better than I do. Posted by Parisgirl at 4 comments:. Wednesday, 27 May Kate Moss's bottom. British people are the fattest in Europe but also, we are told, the happiest with our weight; the French would say we are "bien dans notre peau" or happy in our skin.
And secretly I'm a skinny supermodel called Kate Moss; so secretly even my mirror doesn't realise. How many tubby British teenage girls are happy in their peau when they realise that unless they starve themselves they're never going to look like the skinny models and actresses in the glossy magazines who don't look like that either having been airbrushed?
So it's another diet or weight loss pills with side effects you don't want to think about too much the drug company calls it the "Alli Oops" as if it were mildly amusing, which it is not or another deep pan pizza.
Seeing the swathes of flesh bared on a chilly day in London recently I suspect the pizza and deluded mirror have joined forces. Honest" I do wonder what those who sit on the Underground and eat their own body mass in crisps, chips, chocolate and McDonalds in five stops on the Central Line and still have time for a Diet Coke, expect.
Having said that, I am not sure if it's entirely their fault. Every time I go to Britain I put on weight.
Every time without fail; I get back to Paris, step on the scales and I'm two kilos heavier. Not only is it annoying, I just don't get it; in the UK I eat less, I eat earlier and I expend half a million calories hauling bags and La Fille half way up the country to my parents' home and then down again.
This time I bought sandwiches for the Frenchman and La Fille for lunch and an apple for me. I said no to fish and chips and ice cream by the seaside and opted for salad.
I refused potatoes and Yorkshire pudding and had extra vegetables, I ate the rhubarb without the custard. When I left the UK nine years ago chocolate bars and bags of sweets were normal-sized.
Now the confectionary counters that are in your face every ten paces in London look as if they have undergone radiation on a Chernobyl scale.
Then there's the enticing "two-for-one" offers in the supermarket and the obscene cereal boxes as big as houses because of course it's cheaper to buy in bulk and not, dear customer, because we're trying to encourage you to feed your face even more, oh no, no nooo!
And a large glass of wine? Why not? A bargain! But let's face it, there's no mirror in the world going to give you a Kate Moss bottom if you eat all that in one go.
Posted by Parisgirl at 7 comments:. Wednesday, 20 May Fiddle-de-dee. If one of my old editors were alive today I suspect he might write the following memo to his staff.
However, I do not ever wish to see these words appearing next to each other. The very idea that France's elected representatives should account for the spending of personal allowances or that we should learn they spent it on moats, chandeliers, loo rolls, HobNobs or whatever, is risible enough.
Add incredulity to ruptured spleens and mass hilarity. There were raised eyebrows a few years ago when food bills run up at the taxpayers' expense by Jacques Chirac when Mayor of Paris, and his wife Bernadette were investigated.
The receipts revealed a penchant for foie gras, truffles, organic yoghurt and chocolate mousse. The Frenchman believes the British row is heading into dangerous territory.
He points out, presciently I fear, that far-right leader Jean-Marie Le Pen , leader of France's Front National, has made a successful career out of claiming, among other things, that the French political system is rotten; so successful he was voted into the run-off in the presidential election.
But never mind the chocolate biscuits and toilet paper. Call me venal and disgusting but in what privileged parallel universe do people "forget" or "not realise" they have paid off their mortgage?
I know interest rates are low, but we're not talking about settling the milk bill here. Perhaps I should be less cynical.
And perhaps I should have kept La Fille at home today after she woke up this morning and announced: "I can't go to school. I've a headache, my eyes hurt, my tummy's sore and my leg is broken.
Monday, 4 May Man's Inhumanity to Man. Over the last couple of weeks the French papers have carried pictures of a dark-haired woman in large glasses whose face is etched with unimaginable pain.
She is Ruth Halimi, the mother of Ilan Halimi, a young Parisien mobile telephone salesman who was kidnapped, tortured and murdered in , allegedly by a group of youngsters who called themselves the "Barbarians".
The details emerging from the trial of those accused of Ilan Halimi's murder are truly horrific and should bring tears to the most hard-hearted or tragedy inured.
The story has been in some British papers, but bears repeating, in my view, not least because it reminds us of the wide and varied forms man's inhumanity to fellow man can take.
Ilan Halimi, aged 23, was lured into a honey trap by a pretty girl acting on the instructions of the gang leader, the court heard.
Having persuaded the young man to meet her, Ilan Halimi was then pounced on by the gang. He was, we learned, stripped naked and kept prisoner for 24 days during which his head apart from his nose was almost entirely covered in tape and he was stabbed, prodded, burned with cigarettes and beaten.
A ransom was demanded of his family. He died in an ambulance on the way to hospital. Ilan Halimi was Jewish and apparently snatched because the head of the gang - a Muslim - believed Jews to be rich and instilled with a sense of social solidarity meaning they would be more likely to come up with the demanded six-figure ransom.
Arguments, on which I make no comment, continue over whether the murder was motivated by anti-Semitism or money. What is as deeply troubling as the above details is that there are 27 young people, two of them minors at the time of the murder, in the dock.
Yes, 27 - TWENTY SEVEN - people. That's 27 people accused of being involved or having knowledge of what was happening to Ilan Halimi while it was happening not one of whom thought to inform the police or raise the alarm even anonymously.
In 20 years as a foreign correspondent I have witnessed some very gruesome events at first hand. The Balkan wars supplied enough material for a lifetime of horror movies, among them a Croatian village where dozens of mainly elderly residents had been massacred by a vaguely paramilitary group some using chainsaws to cut them in half better not to dwell too much on the premeditation involved or the physical consequences.
There was the Bosnian village where women and children and old men had been herded into the basement of a house, covered in petrol and burned alive their charred skeletons captured in the throes of an agonising death.
There were first hand accounts of the Omarska prison camp and Srebrenica , arguably the most shameful act of negligence in post Second World War European history.
In another hemisphere there were children in Sierra Leone who had had their ears and noses and limbs chopped off by machete wielding savages who had demanded: "long sleeve or short sleeve" before amputating their arms or hands.
But it is a long time since I have seen or heard anything to make me feel so helplessly angry and cry such bitter, bitter tears as the story of Ilan Halimi.
I do not know how Ruth Halimi can bear the grief so profoundly written on her it is almost tangible. She has suffered the death of her beloved son and last week she must have suffered his death a thousand times over as the man accused of his murder swaggered and shouted his defiance and showed not the slightest hint of remorse raining blows upon the mother as he was accused of doing to the son.
As Ruth Halimi contained herself, rocking back and forth in her seat in court, the so-called chief barbarian grinned and joked. I only wish I had something profound and redeeming to say about all this, but I haven't.
As a mother and a human being I just feel for Ruth Halimi. Posted by Parisgirl at 11 comments:. Monday, 27 April iPhone, uPhone, noPhone.
La Fille and I have been spending the holidays in the UK. Don't ask me how the thief performed this particularly nasty trick of spiriting away a day old phone inside a case, inside another case, inside a closed bag on the very day my new binding two-year contract came into effect, because I really have no idea.
I felt nothing. I should say that I've been lucky until now; I've never been a victim of a crime before unless you count being shot at while trying to report from warzones.
So I admit I was a bit shaken and emotional. Not hysterical after all it was "just a phone" as someone pointed out, but a bit spooked.
The reason for this wasn't just having the phone pinched - and knowing I would have to pay euros to replace it - but the fact that in the early hours of Sunday I found myself in a police station, not sure exactly where I was, without a map to find out, without a taxi rank in sight and without any means of finding out if the Frenchman and La Fille had got home safely or letting them know where I was and what was happening.
I found myself in the early hours of Sunday in a London police station talking to a young duty officer who quite clearly did not believe a word I was saying.
It wasn't that he told me he couldn't find any record on his computer of the crime report I'd already made by phone having been astonished to find that Richmond police station closes at 8.
It wasn't even that he told me there was no evidence of "theft" "the removal of something from someone with the intention of depriving them of it or use of it," as he pointed out.
It wasn't just that he was unsympathetic and suggested I'd mislaid the phone, but that he made judgments he had no right, in my opinion, to make.
What really shocked me were two comments he uttered during our exchange conducted in the station reception with him sitting about two feet behind a glass screen.
I am going to recount them as accurately as I remember given my state of distress and frustration at the time.
At some point half way through our conversation at around 1am he made a remark about "alcohol on your breath". Taken aback I said something like "I beg your pardon," and he repeated that he could smell alcohol on my breath.
He knew I'd been at a party when my phone was stolen, I'd told him that, but I didn't deem it necessary to say I'd only been at it about an hour before it was nicked nor that I hadn't drunk anything since, a period of around four hours.
I mean, I wasn't rolling drunk so what business was it of his? Then he recounted a story of how someone had come in claiming to have been attacked and had their mobile stolen in the street by two "black men" his words not mine , when it turned out the phone had been at home all the time.
Frankly I couldn't see the relevance of either of these comments except to make a judgment about me and cast doubt on my claim. Everything I said, he shot down.
The phone, fully charged at the time, was redirecting to voicemail, I said, suggesting it had been turned off.
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