I Was A Prisoner Of Pasta Primivera In Paris, France
As an American in Paris, walking down the Champs-Elysee near the Arc de Triomphe one afternoon, I had a yen for pasta primavera. Unfortunately I don’t speak the native language and, as Americans know, the French want everyone, whether they speak the language or not, to articulate flawless Parisian French. Absoluement!
Non, Non, said one passerby, oui, oui, said another, tout droit, said the French poodle, while some hand from the crowd pointed a finger, reminding me of Thinga, the long lost love of Thing, so aptly portrayed by Thing T. Thing in The Adams Family. Perhaps I had discovered the mystery of Thinga’s disappearance!
All I wanted to know was, where can I find an Italian restaurant in Paris, France? I didn’t want pain grillé français, potage français d’oignon, cuisses de grenouille, un mac d’o avec pommes frites or vin francais. What I craved was a bowl of Pasta Primavera in cream sauce with a glass of coca cola or vin rouge de California.
After all, I thought, as a native New Yorker, brought up among a vast diversity of restaurants, how could I possibly survive in Paris without the variety of choice so characteristic of my gleaming metropolis, the streets of New York. In France, a request for a simple glass of “wadder” gets a bottle of effervescent Perrier.
I was puzzled. Here I was at the center of Paris, and all I could find was French Restaurants. Finally it dawned on me: they weren’t all French! It’s just that all the signs were “en francais.” Perhaps I had mistaken what I had seen because I could not find anything written in Italian.
For More on Pasta – and the wit of the Legend who claims “spaghetti can be eaten most successfully if you inhale it like a vacuum cleaner” – see the following links:
– Sophia Loren – a legend of the lost
– Fashion’s most enduring statement
– On fashion and fasion icons – my top list
– On the late Contessa Llwaxanna Loveless Von Bralispth
– Ode to Peanut – the three-eyed cat