Slouching Towards Recovery

I will say one thing for French cold viruses -- they are persistent. I had hoped that today would be back-to-school day, but my chest and ribs did not share this view. So it was another morning of fitful dozing, where time slowed to molasses, then accelerated in odd bursts, as if I were living in a bad Dali painting. (I know -- that's a tautology right there. I loathe f###ing Dali. Even more than that other nutjob Gaudi).

 

The plain people of Ireland: "Hold on, now! That's a bit strong. Sure they were geniuses, the both of them. Way ahead of their time.

 

Whipping Cats Management (wrestling for control): WTF? Get out of here! Ye are not allowed to be in the main body of a post ...

 

Anyway, as I was about to say, I am continuing on the road to recovery, and hope to get back to class tomorrow. This evening I had been scheduled to meet Ellen and Leslie for dinner at this well-known fish restaurant:

 

http://www.restaurant-poisson.fr/

 

Indeed, I had already picked out what I was going to have (tomato pie with pesto, and roasted sea bass, if you must know). But, in the end, I had to bale out (bail out?), because my immune system did not feel ready for another trip in the metro just yet.

 

I did manage to make it to the Normandy restaurant a few blocks from home,  where the owner knows me and fusses over me and gives me free Calvados. Tonight he did all these things and it made me feel much better about life and my chances of beating this cold.

 

And when I got back from dinner, one of my favorite French TV programs, "Maison à Vendre" was on. There is something delightfully universal about real-estate greed.

Things are looking up.

Secret Diet Tip

Apart from getting a 3-day cold (Lord, I hope it's just a 3-day cold, because staying at home is getting old), here is my foolproof French recipe for keeping those sugar cravings at bay:

Yes, gentle reader, it is the French version of the fig roll (or fig newton, if you are American), about which I have spoken before. Their secret is that they bear just enough similarity to their juicy Irish counterparts

that having one after your meal tricks your taste buds into thinking they have had the desired sugar fix. Their "advantage" is that, unlike their juicy Irish or American counterparts, they are so mouth-desiccatingly dry that there is no temptation whatsoever to have a second. Their consumption is thus self-limiting. Addiction to the Leader Figue would be a sheer physiological impossibility.

Oddly enough, these amazing concoctions are not sold in the pharmacist's under the rubric of "diet aids" (are any of my readers old enough to remember when there was a diet aid called AIDS, broadly advertised in the Reader's Digest, in what now seems like an unimaginably innocent age?). No, they are sold on regular supermarket shelves.

The mystery of their origin (because the apparent complete lack of butter used in their manufacture seems as if it would be a crime on French soil) is partially resolved by closer inspection of the packing, which merely stipulates that they were produced "within the European Union". I think we know at least one country, just a stone's throw across the Pyrenees, that must be considered a suspect in the fabrication of the "Leader Figue". And, no, I'm not talking about you, Andorra.

A Dinner Post

I stayed home from school today because of my VILE COLD, but things appear to be on the mend. Enough for me to try a very abbreviated post about dinner on Thursday evening, which was at Chez Flottes, with my legal companions from last week's "French & the Law" class. Though Chez Flottes had the slight air of a tourist trap, a fine time was had by all.

Sonre (Norway), Elaine (Canada), and Ksenia (Russia)

The foie gras starter with mango chutney was my favorite course.

Though the chicken with mashed potatoes and vegetables was pretty good as well.

Sarina (from Switzerland) and Ekim (from Turkey) also enjoyed the evening:

Sadly, Teresa, the apellate court judge from Modena, did not join us; possibly because she didn't want her face plastered all over Facebook.

Dessert was an excellent chocolate moelleux, a little too rich pour moi.

Enormous thanks are due to Greg Butera, from Manchester, who took on the trouble of organising the whole evening.

Dinner with France and Pascal

Yesterday evening I had dinner at my friend France's home (in the beautiful 6th arrondissement), with her and her charming, super-smart son, Pascal. They live on a velibe-packed street:

The ratatouille, made from a recipe of France's grandmother, was superb. But the raspberry and rose-petal sorbet at the end, from Berthillon, was worth killing for. You may want to look into making arrangements for having it shipped weekly on dry ice to your home.

Clearly, France and Pascal are thriving on this diet of nectar from the gods

Maybe I should have scarfed down a little more, because today I am suffering from a nasty cold, which is preventing me from attending Gabriella's birthday party this evening. I am, as the French would say, desolated.

I also know exactly which vile inconsiderate metro passenger gave me this cold on Friday, and if I ever see you again, Madame Sniffly, my vengeance shall be terrible indeed.

There is a much longer post in the works, all about my exciting week with the legal eagles, but its completion will have to wait until I am healthier.

The Neanderthal Archbishop of Lyon has a Reasoned Message pour vous

Today I tried to get a headstart on the little demon who tries to dissuade me from going to the gym by going for my workout during my lunch break. This worked quite well, and left me with lots of energy during our exciting afternoon session on the French penal code and criminal law procedures; however, one side-effect appears to be that by now (23:00) I have completely run out of steam.

So, while I had hoped to regale you with the latest developments in the ongoing fig newton investigation, my empirical experience with the Benjamin Franklin effect, not to mention my exciting recent acquisition of the finest in Bruno Magli's product line, all of these topics will have to wait until a later posting.

Instead, I leave you with this cartoon, which unfortunately sums up the level of "debate" attained by the catholic hierarchy here in France (specifically, the archbishop of Lyon, the appropriately named Philippe Cardinal Barbarin) on the topic of gay marriage:

Rabid episcopal figure: First gay marriage, then polygamy, incest, cannibalism, necrophilia, bestiality...
Parishioner: Maybe we'll come back for the baptism some other day...

Somewhere a neanderthal village is missing its idiot.

Le sigh.

My inadvertent brush with cannibalism

As I mentioned yesterday, today was the start of the week-long "Français et Droit" (French and the Law) seminar series at ACCORD. And a fine series it promises to be, if today's sessions are anything to go by. Anyway, because we had a 3.5 hour initial session with the excellent Natalie, and were slated for a 3-hour session with Olivier in the afternoon, at around 1pm I went in search of sustenance.

For whatever reason, I was moved to try the "Indiana", a (not particularly good) pseudo-American chain with a wannabe Tex-Mex ambiance. And, to be fair, their chicken chimichanga, accompanied by a Desperados beer (dangerously 'flavored' with a soupçon of tequila), did hit the spot. Though I did wonder at the blood-colored streak of something mysterious mixed through the guacamole atop my chimichanga.

A mystery that was cleared up first thing in the afternoon session. Wherein the gruesome reality was revealed that THE FRENCH WORD FOR AVOCADO AND LAWYER ARE ONE AND THE SAME!

How horrifying is that?

I had hoped that the image search for "lawyer in a blender" would turn up something more lurid. But this was about the best I could come up with.

French and the Law

Beginning tomorrow, I have signed up for ACCORD's special course on "French and the Law". Though it is geared primarily towards lawyers from other countries who want to learn about the French judicial system in some depth, it is not exclusively meant for members of the legal profession. I figure it will provide me with some helpful vocabulary, and the opportunity to visit assorted sites of legal importance here in Paris. It's a total of 27 hours instruction all told; in the mornings we will have class in school, then each of four afternoons we visit a different site of legal interest, such as the Court of Appeals, the Palace of Justice, and so on.

Having made it to the gym seven days in a row for the past week, I decided to take a day off today, because the last thing I need is some kind of injury. I did, however, walk over to Nancy and Gabriella's and back, which is a brisk 30-minute walk each way. Here are some photos I took on the way back:

 

 

 

 

 

Poor Mr Bennet. I hope he has found his way home by now.