When I was six, my grandmother promised to take me to Paris.  We were to visit the city of lights where the best, most refined foods, culture, art, architecture and fashion combined to create the epitome of haute culture.  Time ticked on and Paris remained an elusive dream.  I studied the French language, French cheese, French wine, and diligently waited.  Three years drifted by since my grandmother passed away, and I still had not visited Paris, nor taken a vacation.  So, with some of the inheritance money that my grandmother left for me, I finally booked a trip six days and five nights in the city of lights!

First, I had to make restaurant reservations.  After all, Paris is the Mecca of all great cuisine, non?  So, off I went to La Tour D'Argent, which is one of the oldest and most famous restaurants in Paris.  Founded in 1582, the restaurant serviced the French nobility and earned its notoriety for its two key attributes a) a magnificent view of Notre Dame; and b) their signature duck.  Each roasted duck is numbered, and they present that number to the ordering patron.  They press a portion of the duck in what looks like a vice grip to eek out every drop of duck juice, which they use to make a sauce.

After landing in Paris, I checked into my hotel and promptly visited at La Tour D'Argent.  Knowing I'm American, and that my French is limited, they seated me in the corner of the restaurant, at the only table in the whole place that did not have a view of Notre Dame.  With a quick glance around the room, I noticed that everyone dining there originated from other countries, making my Siberian seating even more insulting.

I began with the Fois Gras appetizer, which arrived as a cold, small dice suspended in aspic with a layer if sliced figs dressing the top.  At the first bite, I thought, "This is interesting…" expecting it to get better; It didn't.  The fois gras left a gritty feeling on the roof of my mouth, while the aspic presented me with no flavor at all.  Since I always abhorred the jelly that gefelte fish came in, I wasn't particularly enjoying this appetizer.  Bad fois gras was a first experience for me.

For my main course, a gentleman presented me with a whole roast duck that look very nice, but did not carry the fragrant aroma of freshly roasted fowl.  I feared they cooked it off well in advance; and they brought it to room temperature to present to tourists they felt would not know any better.  He whisked the duck away as quickly as he brought it; and the finished dish arrived shortly after.  I received a plate with about four slices of duck breast that swam in a brown sauce (their famous press duck sauce).  The duck breast was dry and overcooked.  The sauce tasted like warm potting soil after a good watering, also leaving me with a gritty mouth-feel.

Only the half bottle of 1988 Le Bon Pasteur Pomerol rescued my meal.  As I always do, I asked the sommelier to remove the label for me.  He did not.  I asked him about four times within the three hours I sat there, and he still did not remove the label. Only as I was leaving did they begrudgingly give me the bottle.  Now, how was I supposed to carry that home to New York?  How ironic that my worst French meal would take place in France.  (Nov. 06)