“Eating, for the French, isn’t a matter of life or death – it’s all much more serious than that.”
“I guess I didn’t know” (Crystal Method, [i]Vegas[/i], Busy Child)
“We think the subtle-witted French
Conjurers and sorcerers.” Shakespeare’s [i]Henry VI Part I[/i] (I.i.25-6)
Dinner, the other night, we started at 7:30, more realistically, about 8:00, and we finished at about 10 minutes [i]after[/i] 11 PM. I was dining with an old chum from way back, I mean, way-way back. He was doing a tour of duty in Paris, with his family, and we got together for the most pleasant of evenings, “Yeah, the French are really serious about their pleasures.”
On our way to the Tunnel station, we got together with some of Sister’s friends again, and found ourselves in yet another famous bistro, Café Flores. Some us had “steak sashimi” whereas that Pisces ordered “Welsh Rarebit,” which was mispronounced “Welsh Rabbit.”
When that Welsh Rarebit showed up, I howled.
“That’s queso. Can’t fool me, that’s queso!”
I was corrected, but then, it’s a cultural reference. I’ve had Welsh Rarebit before, and I never did understand why cheese toast was so expensive, but like everything else I experienced in Paris, they do food right.
It was a bubbling bowl of cheese. Apparently, there was a piece of French toast settled on the bottom, but the cheese mixture itself? Yeah, that’s queso, in my terminology.
“Welsh rarebit, my ass.”
As [url=http://www.brandonjenkins.com/]Brandon Jenkins[/url] sings: “I love to hear those engines wind.” (from [i]Unmended[/i], real red dirt music)
Listening as the Euro-Star winds up and launches down the rails towards England. [i]N.B.[/i], one can see fish from the observation deck while under the Channel.
Looks like queso, tastes like queso….
Gare du Nord, Paris, France