Paris for Philistines
The best part of Paris is America.
The best part of Paris is America.
Bear with me.
Of every major European city I’ve visited, Paris is the only one I can’t spend over a week in. Yet, I keep returning to this concrete jungle.
Although I’ve been taking trains, buses, bikes, and carpooling to explore the therapeutic effects of slow travel, the opportunist is much stronger than the environmentalist in me—I couldn’t say no when my host invited my partner and me to Paris by flight.
The focus was on educating his two kids on the high culture of Paris. I’m not indifferent to culture and literature—nothing else occupies my mind and soul more. Yet, I don’t care for a tour guide listing off facts I can read in a book. Not that I could understand our tour guide anyway—she was Polish.
We visited places that show what the human spirit is capable of—Notre Dame, Pont Neuf, the Sainte-Chapelle, Louvre, Tuileries Gardens, Champs-Élysées, Charles de Gaulle Monument, Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Palace of Versailles, Place de l'Opéra, Montmartre, and finally, Disneyland—the only place with even more expensive souvenir shops than Paris itself.
If you’re looking for a travel guide about these marvels, you can follow the thousands of guides dedicated to writing about places where people take pictures of their faces.
This is not a guide to the high culture of Paris. Instead, I chose two experiences I’ll remember longer than what the tourists come here for.
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Find a Parisian Restaurant with Hamburgers.
My criteria was a patio filled with French people and a menu I struggled to read. My Polish host’s criteria was a relaxed environment where his children could choose a burger or pizza. My partner’s criteria was “Anything’s fine,” which, according to gender stereotypes, means “Nothing’s fine.”
Luckily, we found a restaurant that seemed to suit all our wants—Aux Dés Calés 17 - Legendre. A restaurant in the 17th arrondissement, a district that blends cosmopolitan energy and residential calm, making it attractive to families, young professionals, and the occasional sex worker.
Aux Dés Calés 17 - Legendre is quintessential to this diversity by offering a place where you can sip Petit Chablis as you select your next move in Catan, enjoy regional vegetarian food while playing Monopoly, or ignore the board games altogether and sit on the terrace as you soak up the sun and cigarette smoke from the Parisians.
As usual, the oldest ordered a burger. To my surprise, the father did as well, and my partner followed suit, to my disappointment. Fortunately, the six-year-old ordered Ravioles du dauphiné with gorgonzola sauce and was happy to try the appetizer I ordered—Rillettes de Sardines, a spread made from sardines mixed with butter, cream cheese, or crème fraîche, and seasoned with various herbs and spices accompanied by a squeeze of lemon juice and a sprinkle of chives.
Then came the main courses. The burgers that made my mouth water… and my plate.
I order what I don’t understand whenever I can. I had no idea what an Andouillette AAAAA was. Yet, à la fraise de veau Origin France, de chez Bobosse, sauce vin rouge & frites Maison, I understood. Veal with strawberries, red wine sauce, and homemade fries. Yes, please!
As I cut into the burrito-shaped mystery, a tangy smell wafted into my nose, immediately taking away the hunger the sight of burgers had produced. As I continued cutting, I realized I had ordered intestines wrapped in intestines, but I transferred my disappointment to the ketchup bottle my partner requested. The kids then asked for mayonnaise and mustard, and soon enough, the French table looked like an American picnic bench.
Everyone squirted their sauces, bit into their juicy two-handed burgers, and moaned with pleasure as I straightened my back, pointed my index fingers down the cutlery and lifted small pieces of intestine into my quivering mouth.
I do believe in acquired tastes. I didn’t give up on Whisky, Gin, Absinthe, and Oysters, although I wasn’t a fan of any when I first tried them. Now, I love them all—sometimes too much. Yet, the taste wasn’t acquiring. I wondered if it was just me, so I gave my partner a bite.
“Why would you let me try that!” she said, making a gagging face I hoped the server didn’t see.
“Try everything once.”
“But not that, that’s disgusting.”
“It’s probably really good, but we’re not used to the tastes.”
“No, it’s bad. Why do you keep eating it?”
“I can detect something new in here. I’m curious,” I said, but I took too big of a bite at that moment, and my eyes watered as it slid down my throat.
“Babe, you don’t need to prove anything,” she said, offering me half her burger, which did not smell of fermented farm animals.
Then, the server approached. She was French in every way, elegant and confident in her own skin, with a subtle trace of makeup around the eyes that looked straight into mine. Can any other nationality of women pull off such a mixture of finesse, softness, and directness?
“Are you enjoying the food,” she asked, her voice free of the sharpness and nasality Hollywood has inflicted on so many.
“I am, but what did my boyfriend order?” my partner asked with a fierceness and volume that immediately gave away her nationality.
“Andouillette.”
“And what part of the animal is it?”
“Intestines,” said the waitress and I simultaneously.
“And you like it?”
“Yes,” said the server. “But where are you from? Spain? Because Spanish people don’t often like it.”
“Well, he’s from Canada, and he hates it.”
I almost choked on the intestines. C’est un régal, I wanted to mutter, but showing off one of the few French phrases I learned couldn’t leave my mouth, as it was not un régal.
All I could stutter was, “No, no, no.” Yet the server stayed calm, not just with the patience of someone who had experienced Spaniards many times before but also with a certain respect that assertive women have for each other.
“I understand,” she said, walking off to serve the following table.
“Never put words in my mouth like that again, please.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” she said.
Breaking the tension, my host stepped in.
“That was amazing. Really. Amazing. I mean, ‘he hates it.’ Not just, ‘he hates it,’ but he hates it. Really, you don’t hold back. That moment. The energy—”
“It was rude,” I said.
“It was rude, but it was also—look. You, the polite Canadian, the educated Belgian, or whatever you are. And then her, the Spaniard, I mean, this is why I love Europe.”
“Nolan, please. I’ve never seen you so embarrassed.”
“Nolan’s reaction, your reaction, the waitress’s reaction,” my host continued. “A strong Spanish woman looking at a strong French woman straight in the eyes and saying he hates it, I mean… you can’t make this up.”
“You can be direct and honest while still being polite,” I said.
“But that wouldn’t be as honest, Nolan,” he said, “But yes, you’re right. Of course, you’re right. However, everything’s okay.”
And, of course, everything was okay. I always say, “salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente.” I try to break free from societal conventions, but sometimes, I fail, especially when it comes to what I consider classy at a restaurant.
Our Breathing Home in the Concrete Jungle
“The best part of Paris is America” was a bit hyperbolic. I’d rather live in Europe than America any day—just not Paris.
I agree with
when he explains why Europe is Healthier than the US, just like I agree with his statement that “the nice part of Paris is probably one of the worst places to see the European community.”Touristy city centres in Europe have become a homogenized and corporatized extension of American imperialism—McDonald’s owns the prime real estate next to a monument or cathedral surrounded by kiosks selling you shit made in China you’ll forget about as quickly as your Instagram-dictated experience. There’s likely a Decathlon, Kebab shop, and ALE-HOP around the corner as well.
If you want to experience the richness and diversity of European cultures, visit the towns or neighbourhoods where people might not speak English.
Yet, I didn’t want to experience Europe's richness and diversity that day. I just wanted to breathe. To escape the claustrophobic neighbourhoods, I had to go to the most American one of all—the Clichy-Batignolles area.
After a week of staring up at the romantic Juliet balconies that give Parisians the false sense of having a balcony and watching people soak in the city’s “culture” through their tiny screens, my partner and I could finally inhale some fresh air.
Sure, the neighbourhood lacks ambiance. There’s no music, and the people are too spread out and rich to give a sense of community. And instead of tourists, you hear Asian and white business people talking about real estate and stocks.
“This is exactly like—”
“Yaletown, Vancouver,” I cut in.
“I wish we—”
“Were there.”
We continued walking through Parc Clichy-Batignolles Martin Luther-King Park, past the glass high rises with coffee chains and Asian restaurants below. It was our favourite neighbourhood because it gave us the space to reminisce about the time we shared in Vancouver, but in reality, the area is another example of how American culture/greed is slowly ruining (or influencing, if you prefer) European cities.
As we headed towards the Seine (apparently, Parisians were going to shit in their beloved river once Macron announced he’d swim in it) and passed the Tribunal de Paris, the life and sights turned back into the effortlessly chic style that couldn’t have the same authenticity anywhere else on Earth. The people and stores were absolutely unique in the most subtle of ways, and that’s when we both understood why people—even philistines—love Paris.
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Haha you should’ve had my husband as guide! He knows his city like then inside of his pocket