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.