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Tonight my friend John and I went out for moules frites.

I realized, when we made this plan over a week ago, that following my grandparents’ visit I would probably want to detox, but nothing keeps me from my moules frites.

Though actually, this was my first moules frites in seven (AND A HALF) months of life in Paris. The last time I had mussels and fries was at the Hop Leaf in Chicago, which is when we took this picture:

And then before that, summer 2010 in Périgueux, at the seafood restaurant down the street from Le Patio, our dorm. Some of us ate way too many mussels.

Really, I’m not sure where my mussel obsession came from. I kind of went from never having eaten a mussel to being all EAT ALL THE MUSSELS. Am I even obsessed with mussels? I don’t know. I feel like maybe moules frites is a little mythical for me, something with a difficult-to-translate French name (you can, of course, but it never has the same ring to it) that comes in an enormous cocotte or bowl, piles of shells floating in some kind of delicious broth…

But I’m getting ahead of myself. First I had a beer. Yes, another one. And I ordered it because of the name.

Yes, just like THESE Grisettes. Lolo, Dodo, Joujou, Froufrou, Cloclo, Margot. Et moi!


Anyway. I ordered mussels à la crème, which was just as obscene as it sounds.

And then I dipped french fries in the broth. Also in mayonnaise. Aghhhh, my arteries!

All gone! Miam miam, j’aime bien les moules!

(By the way, blogosphere, you are very fortunate indeed that I was willing to give up my dignity by taking FLASH PHOTOS in this very hip, very French bar. It was pretty dark in there, and the flash was really extreme. When I finished the mussels (see above) I had to apologize to the couple who was sitting next to us for disturbing their slow progress through a bowl of moules Roquefort from which cheese-scented steam was wafting.)

We hung around and chatted about food and music and life in Paris for a bit, and then we decided it was time for a walk. We wandered from Port-Royal to Luxembourg, then through the cobblestone streets around St. Michel. From there we decided that since neither of us had tasted the legendary Berthillon ice cream since arriving in Paris in August/September, we had better make that happen. So we strolled on, across the Pont d’Archevêché (where we happened upon a couple who was actually putting a love lock on the bridge–I felt like I was part of something really special), over to the Berthillon ice cream parlor on the Île St. Louis…which was closed. In the end we found another restaurant that advertised that it was selling Berthillon ice cream (because we didn’t want to be inauthentic) and bought scoops. And man, that ice cream is worth every cent and every calorie. Unbelievably delicious. It’s not really great ice cream weather right now, but I have every expectation that it very soon will be.

And that was my moules frites adventure. Time to go sleep it off. Goodnight, blogosphere!

Bisous,
Anne

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