Some of the highlights of these smaller explorations have been a local Greek bakery where I got some spanakopita:
Full disclosure: I might have bought more than just spanakopita |
Yes, that is a can of smoked rattlesnake |
Alsatians have something called a flammekueche, or tarte flambée. A delicious flatbread topped with fromage blanc, onions and cured pork belly, it’s the closest thing France’s culinary tradition has to a pizza. It’s not a pizza, though. The French simply aren’t known for their pizzas. They are quite fond, unfortunately, of the kind you defrost in a microwave. Pizzaiolos, the French most certainly are not. Finding a good slice of pizza in Paris is no easy task, especially when you haven’t slept much.
I’m also difficult to please, both in general, and especially when it comes to Pizza. I have eaten hundreds (literally) of slices of Chez Panisse’s pizza. I have eaten pizza in the Midwest, and indulged in plenty of slices in New York. Purely for professional purposes, last year, I avidly sampled countless different types of Roman pizzas (sorry, Doc!). I ate plenty more in Napoli. I’ve made my fair share of pizzas too. Pizza is far from my favorite thing to eat, but I’d like to think I know a thing or two about it and its consumption.
My goal for today—finding a good slice of comfort food—to make up for my sleep deprivation was not nearly as complicated a task as I make it out to be. I already knew how I was going to go about it.
I think I first heard about Nick’s Pizza thanks to David Leibovitz, and I’ve been excited about it since I did. I was not disappointed; it was well-worth my 8-mile round trip walk.
Nick is a New Yorker who has spent most of his life in France. About two years ago he decided it was time to give Parisian pizza an upgrade, so he opened Nick’s Pizza. Chatting with him was like talking to someone I had known for years. He’s one of the most affable people I’ve ever met. We spent the better part of an hour talking about pizza, politics and why he decided to move to Paris (he’s an incurable lefty and he delights in the idea that the French are all guaranteed a standard of living that isn’t disgusting).
Some of Nick’s slices |
My walk home took me, yet again, past Notre Dame and then along the Seine. This time, at night, it was all the more magical. The magic didn’t end with my walk, either. Perhaps a bit delirious from fatigue, but certainly awed by how gorgeous Paris is at night, I arrived home to music. My neighbor practices piano. I’m not sure who she is, but she’s good and it’s because she practices all the time. It’s never intrusive and when I want to listen better, I open the door and latch it with the safety chain. I’m writing this as I listen to my very own piano concert.