In Montmartre

Paris is a city of villages – much like Istanbul. Over the cemetery bridge whose mausolea shelter the remains of Zola, Ampere and Degas, there is a genuine village feel – a community of disparates where I always feel quite at home. Le Café Qui Parle near Le Moulin de la Galette is across the street from the premises of French heartthrob TV baker Gontran Cherrier – he wasn’t there when we visited – a kind of Jamie Oliver for bread. The Cafe is high-ceilinged, full, animated and the food was, well, quite good for a restaurant. Those who know will understand why…
I had Pluma Ibérique rôtie pieds de porc safranés aux olives et croquant d’oreilles which, roughly translated means Iberian pork – a tiny muscle at the back of the pig’s neck – very chic – with stewed pig’s feet in saffron and “crispy ears”.
I thought that the title on its own was so lyrical that it deserved a mention. The crispy ears were…crisp.
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2 thoughts on “In Montmartre

  1. FYI, I had to have it translated. Les Francais are most inventive in the kitchen and can often make something from almost nothing. The very finest cooks won't ever discard anything, but make something delightful from, well, not much. Pig's ears are a case in point. I know these things…

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