Its been a month since I began my get-rid-of-baguette-baggage diet. It has been really helpful not having 12-inch freshly baked so-good-they-make-your-mouth-water cylinders of bread lying around the house. Giving that up was the first hard step I had to take, and because I had to rid myself of all carbohydrate madness, I chose to also give up pasta, potatoes, rice (except the one in sushi), and sweets. Yes. All that good stuff. Now, you’re not going to believe me when I say that these past 4 weeks seem to have been a lot easier than I initially thought they would be. The reason for this is largely due in part to my extraneous overindulgence in all the above during my short-lived stay in Paris where I couldn’t allow myself to say no to anything that could've potentially been a party in my mouth. It has been especially helpful not having Patisseries on every corner, with those sweet fumes busting through the creaks of their doors and all that inviting colorful glaze of pastries so exotic it was necessary to have a piece, or 3. I appreciate the absence of Boulangeries, a heaven for bread lovers and a paradise of carbs, smiling at you with their warm flaky goodness. Oh yes, its been very helpful. It seems as though the options for healthy eating overseas were lackluster. The French didn’t know how to diet because the French didn’t see a need for it. Besides the fact that they were all already incredible thin (genes, I tell myself to feel better) they also don’t believe in what we Americans call 'moderation'. If it pleases you then do it, eat it, be it, feel it. In the French world there is no time or use for restraint. They have inhabited and become the sole promoters of Oscar Wilde's famous words – "the only way to get rid of temptation is to give in to it".
And believe me, I tried. Oh I tried hard. Unfortunately a diet of bread, red wine, and fatty meats did my non-French body no good. I couldn’t process it the same way the French could. And no matter how much I walked or how many cigarettes I smoked (the one French pleasure that suited me just fine) I couldn’t curb my cravings for another order of the bread basket, with some butter please. I was insatiable.
I quickly learned (ok fine, it took me the entire 6 months) that more than one delicacy a day becomes overbearing after a while. The reason they are called delicacies, instead of grub, is because they are reserved for those once-in-a-while moments when you want to treat yourself to something god-awfully appetizing. And their rich in flavor after tastes are supposed to linger on your tongue and in your memory just long enough so that the next time that once-in-a-while moment rolls around, you think – "I remember that tasting very, very good".
A few years ago, someone told me that I was a gluttonous freak. That if I liked something, I would overdose on it until I couldn’t look at it anymore without getting nauseous. I was offended by this statement and thought it was just a smart-asses way of saying ‘hey, you’re fat’. But having recently lived the good-food life in Paris has helped me better identify with that not-so-attractive part of myself. I guess maybe if you could use gluttony as a trait not only reserved for consumption lingo, you could call me a hard working overachiever. But lets not sugar coat the problem here (or as my previous gluttonous self would say ‘yes please sugar coat that shit!’) After-all, we're talking about my stomach here. And my stomach is definitely missing a threshold.
Anyway, by month 6, I realized that there is no bad food in France. It simply does not exist. Also, it's hard to grab a light bite to eat such as a slice of pizza, or a small salad, or a hot dog (not that all those things are healthy). If you want to go eat, you go out with a bang. You sit down and you have a full meal and you really enjoy it. Everything is gourmet. Everything is good. Perhaps if I resorted to shopping for groceries and cooking at home, I could have cut down on the amount of calories I digested daily but who wants to stay home and cook when you’re living in Paris? Not I.
Eventually, my greedy self accumulated favorites. Café Charlot was my sanctuary. It was by far the greatest café I ate at and it quickly became a regular dining spot (the close proximity to my house did not help). The standard Charlot meal? For starters, escargot, with bread for dipping into the sauce the snails were cooked in; ceasar salad with smoked salmon, which at first sounded weird but later you wonder why you don’t eat your salad with salmon every time; then the best tartare de beouf in the city with the crispiest French fries ever (I can attest to this because my mission for a long time was eating tartare de beouf at every cafe just to find one better than the one at Café Charlot); and for dessert crème brulee. The meal was always accompanied by a good bottle of Bordeaux, and sometimes more than just one. If a puddle of saliva has not yet accumulated at your feet, let me tell you that there were other dishes at Charlot that still make me salivate just thinking about them – like the perfectly cooked chicken topped with some sort of sweet caramel sauce sided with the most cheesiest, creamiest risotto I have ever tasted. Every meal at Café Charlot was eaten in silence and in one breath. You didn’t stop until you cleared your plate because in all honestly you couldn't if you wanted to. And you never left anything on your plate. 'Cause that would really just be a slap in the face to all that good food.
Café Charlot was also the home to some of the best burgers in Paris, even though French etiquette forced you to eat them awkwardly with a fork and a knife, which is really impossible and should be totally done away with as a mannerism. Sometimes you just need to get in there, and not with a utensil. It truly pained me to watch those thin Parisians slicing and dicing their burgers with perfectly shined cutlery. I sat through a dinner one time growing hot by the second because of all the dirty looks I was getting. As a kid I learned that you eat burgers with your hands and in the midst of my hunger I wasn’t about to try to change my ways. When you’re hungry and the only thing standing in the way of you and that large juicy piece of perfection is a fork and a knife, you say ‘fuck this’ and you grab that blessing from god and you bite into it and really you don’t care if there’s ketchup on your cheeks or if there’s burger juice dripping down your forearms. The strange stares are worth it, but the French would beg to differ. And that’s fine. Some things never change.
But Café Charlot was not the only hot spot in town. There was this restaurant called L’entrecote. Get this: you come in, sit down, and there is no menu. The only thing you have the freedom to choose is what you would like to drink and what you want for dessert. The restaurant serves only one dish to everyone, all the time. It's their speciality and also one of the few things that makes me very, very happy. The dish is simple – perfectly cooked, thinly sliced beef, covered with a creamy green sauce (think: pesto alfredo aesthetically, not taste-wise). And you get a plate of really good fries. It looks like middle school lunchroom food. But it tastes better than [insert favorite expensive steakhouse]. The best part, for the taste buds, not the waistline, is that you get two servings. Yes, you heard me, two. Even if you don't want it. Once you finish your first, the waiter quickly rushes over and slabs on another serving of delicate beef with that mysterious sauce dripping all over, no questions asked. Oh and you get more fries. Now, seriously, how can anyone say no to this, ever?
After 6 months of literally stuffing face, I slowly began to lose all appreciation for what good food meant. Not to mention, I was no longer listening to my body’s needs, just gorging down meals that were too appetizing to resist. I will never forget the first time I had escargot – a friend took me to lunch at a fancy hotel near the Tuileries. The only affordable dish on the menu was the escargot and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to try it, given that I was in the land where they could go no wrong with making it. Waiting for it, I realized how much I didn’t belong there - starkly under dressed in my T-shirt and jeans, I spied flawless women clad in Louboutin heels and impeccably tailored Chanel dresses. I bumped into Jessica Alba in the bathroom, nonchalantly washing her hands, and thought “what is this place?” I returned to the snails lying dead, freshly cooked on my plate, seethed in the most delicious pesto garlic sauce ideal for bread dipping. There was a miniature fork and there was this clamp thing that looked like something my gynecologist holds in her hand every time I walk into the office. I froze in fear. How am I going to properly eat this? All I wanted was that gross slug looking salty thing inside the shell but there is no way to get to there. It goes without saying that most of the pesto garlic sauce ended up on my shirt instead of in my mouth or on my bread. It also ended up on my forehead, on the table next to us, and on my friend’s plate. But I got those scrumpuous little suckers into my mouth and I knew I was addicted.
The 20 plus times I ate escargot after that, I do not remember nearly as clear enough. Yes, they were good. They were always good. But just like buying expensive clothing makes you immune to the quality of what your wearing, so does eating well prepared food. My jaded taste buds were taking over my life. All I thought about was where I would have my next meal and how good it would taste, while my body was growing outward in size.
Then, one day, I was struck with the observation that my used-to-be loose jeans were no longer loose and I said to myself that once I returned to the good ol’ US of A, I was going on a strict diet. And that’s exactly what I did.
All the good eating I have done was 100% worth it and I would not take back any of those last good natured plate licks. But I have, as natured proved it, maxed out my gluttonous inclinations and forced myself to resort back to an opposing extreme – banning anything that excites my taste buds.
Unfortunately, once you forbid yourself to have everything you used to eat, temptation moves in to neighbor you, always creeping over your shoulder, screaming in your ear, fuming at your nostrils, itching your tongue. Sometimes I walk into grocery stores with a single mission – something like ‘must buy toothpaste’, or anything else that is entirely mundane and totally not relatable to food. Yet all I see when I get there is 100 flavors of ice cream, 30 different kinds of potato chips, chocolate chip cookies, large cakes, small cakes, and candy - salty, sweet, hard, or chewy. The options are endless and the temptations firing away. But I deny, deny, deny. I stare and day dream sometimes of what the flavours would be like in my mouth, and that seems to keep me going just enough to not have to buy the thing and eat it. Thank god for my imagination.
Last week, on a midnight snack run, my friends brought ice creams but I, instead, was chomping away at a measly fruit salad. Pitiful, huh? But it’s not so bad, really. Since I have been eating healthier, I have begun to feel so much better – mentally and physically. And I know that every choice I make matters. Food is no longer everything. I can now better manage my food decisions in order to prevent myself from overindulging. And honestly, I have grown to love all the healthy things I eat because I love the way they make me feel in the long run. Yes, ice cream is really good. But sometimes it's just not worth it. And when I go out for the occasional dinner, I can guiltlessly indulge in those few delicacies that I still really love and just simply cannot give up. But instead of eating as though the world is running out of its food supply, I can wholeheartedly enjoy their tastes. I chew slowly, I satiate each bite, and eating is now more instant pleasure and less future pain.
