It was a long day, getting back to our small neighborhood on the Rue du Chemin Vert. It was a smallish sort of neighborhood with a plethora of ethnic restaurants. There was an Ethiopian restaurant right down the block, and Jeff checked Trip Advisor. Two thumbs up, so we decided to stop there on our way back from Normandy.
Incredibly stupid choice. The food was superb, as we expected. However, anyone who knows anything about Ethiopian food (there are no utensils; the food is served on a large pancake and you eat with your fingers) and has been paying the slightest attention to this space over the past six years (Jeff is gluten intolerant) would recognize that someone had made a huge mistake. I'll take responsibility for this one (I'm also the Arrested Development fan, if you happened to catch that).
Because, I knew better. I really did. While I was tired, and I'll use that as my excuse, the notion of being able to stuff my face with delicious Ethiopian food over-rode that little voice in the back of my head saying, "Hey, don't they serve all of their food on pancakes??"
By the time we had ascertained that this really was going to be a problem, we had wedged our little party into the last available table in the very crowded joint, already had a bottle of wine open, and both children were napping.
Never ignore the little voice in the back of your head. After a huddled conference, Jeff was able to order up a plate of chicken with sides. It took a bit of finagling, but they even managed to dig up a Knife and Fork of Shame.
That said, it was one of the more delicious meals I have ever had the pleasure of eating. Hope and Tom also thought it was pretty good, but given that we had ordered a meal fit for two grown ups I ate leftovers for dinner the following two nights.
Bad food photography aside, my taste buds are trying to book a flight back to Paris right this second. You mosh all bits on the plate together to eat them (which freaked Tom out to no end; he of the "no food should touch another food" camp), but Hope and I dipped and swapped and traded with gusto, while Tom tiptoed around, daintily picking up one bit or another.
When it came time to clear, leftovers were slammed in one huge lump into a plastic container. It was layers of stuff just jumbled together. When dinner rolled around the next night, I boiled some pasta for the children and peeled a lump of stuff out of the container for myself. It was even better than the first night. Seems you're not meant to just mix and match, but to really just mash it all together.
Night three? If possible, even better. Heaven. Plus, three meals for the price of one. In Paris, that's a deal.
After our my Ethiopian Delight, it was late, late, late, and time to troop up to our fourth floor flat. No lift.
Still. It was free. And that always makes stairs a little bit easier.
Next: In Which We All Pretend We are Cultured and Tour the Louvre
My husband was born in Ethiopia (parents military) so as a naturized citizen he still has citizenship there (caused a lot of confusion and concern after 9/11 by some one rechecking his secret clearance) . I have never eaten Ethiopian food. I don't believe suc a restaurant exists in southern NM.
Posted by: Rose | June 22, 2013 at 02:32 PM
Possibly not. I think you need two things: Ethiopians and access to ingredients. NYC apparently has some pretty fab Ethiopian restaurants, and I would imagine other major metro cities where there are immigrant populations would, too. Do you travel for work at all? I can say quite seriously that I would research well regarded Ethiopian restaurants and find one, particularly given your husband's history. Also, have you read Cutting for Stone, which is set in Ethiopian? The food descriptions in the book are rather good.
Posted by: Ellen | June 28, 2013 at 01:48 AM