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Since Yelp did not yet exist, and since I spoke only enough French to assure French people that I was a harmless and well-meaning, though linguistically stupid, American (not the kind that walks into a store and bellows “ANYBODY HERE SPEAK ENGLISH?”, please no; it was a glorious day when I was mistaken for a Canadian), I was largely dependent on my friend Angela, who was letting me crash in her apartment. During the day, while she was at work, I wandered around the city and subsisted on cheese and baguettes and pain au chocolat, but in the evenings I would allow her to guide me wherever.
I can’t remember what it was called or even where it was, though I suspect it was near her apartment because it was soon after I arrived and I was still a little jet-lagged. We’d become friends when she was still mourning the end of her junior year abroad; one of our first friendly excursions was to Old Orchard mall, where she railed against parking lots and chain restaurants, and although I’d spent my entire life till then in the suburbs, I totally agreed and was happy to listen to tales of a magical land called France where these things did not exist and instead there were poetically winding streets with boulangeries with superb croissants on every corner. When she got a job there after graduation, it was understood I would visit as soon as I possibly could.
I had the “steak ‘n fries,” the Americanized version of what in France would be called steak frites. It was everything you would ever want in a steak. The outside was lightly charred. The inside was juicy. It tasted meaty and sweet. All I know about its origins was that it was a New York strip. No one told me where the cow came from or what it ate when it was still alive. I probably should’ve cared. I probably should’ve asked our server. But I didn’t. I was in a happy food daze. I just ate.
