My review of the amazing restaurant Citrus Etoile in Paris

Citrus Etoile
6 RUE ARSENE HOUSSAYE
PARIS 75008
www.citrusetoile.fr
www.gillesepie.fr


To eat at the best restaurants and know good food is one thing, to be a "foodie" and know what to order at a gastronomic establishment is another, to sample almost everything and be blown away is not only rare, it is the sought after unicorn.

Gilles Epie is the chef/owner/master of the trendy "Citrus Etoile", not only does he know how to cook food, he takes it down to the molecular DNA and redefines it to bring out the most simple and delightful taste that it was meant to have. It is not only a gift, it has been divined. To eat his food, is to feel his passion in your soul and to describe what it does to you, is to tell you what it feels like to take LSD, but I will try. Here it goes.

His foie gras beignet was crunchy, yummy, delicate and addictive, the white asparagus (only available two months of the year) with a sashimi of Loup de mere melted in my mouth, a very fast eater I simply had to slow down for the lobster salad on a bed of softly boiled potatoes, when the rabbit cooked to perfection came with roasted fig, I kept asking if everyone else was going to eat their fig and there was a resounding yes, but when the ravioli of foie gras topped with truffle foam had the surprise of an egg yolk within (a mystery that rivals the riddle of the ship in the bottle) I canceled my next night's reservation and returned for more.

Gilles food is dramatic and his menu is a veritable amusement park for the senses. Yes, this is a love letter, but truly deserved as he still holds the record of being the youngest restaurant owner and chef to receive the most coveted Michelin Star at the young age of 22. What he has also received is what the clergy refer to as "a calling" and we are all the luckier for it.

That said, the rest of the menu that you would maybe skip over is not to be taken lightly. After so much rich food in Paris I was feeling like duck and lamb were maybe a bit too rich, but not the way they are prepared at "Citrus Etoile". Gilles does not believe that you have to use butter and cream to make French food, but you would swear on your life that those two essential ingredients are in there. You only understand that his food isn't heavy, when you can enjoy several courses and do not feel that disgusting fullness. His lamb melted on my tongue and had an amazing little stuffed squash that was the perfect pairing. When you have had so much amazing food sometimes you can't force another bite, but it would be a criminal act to skip the sweets that Gilles offers. Being a hard core fan of chocolate soufflé, I was intrigued by the fresh strawberry one and opted for that. It was a pink cloud that transported me to a place of dreams. I know this because I did not share a single bite with my friends and snarled under my breath "get your own" (please remember that no one gave me even a smidgen of their fig). I think my hostility says it all.

When I made my last reservation before I returned back to the states, I was feeling a bit of that fullness from simply indulging my inner American pig all around Paris. When I confided in Gilles lovely American wife, Elizabeth, about my gluttony she understood and ordered me the roasted chicken which she guaranteed was prepared extremely simply au jus with spring vegetables. I almost thought it would be a shame to waste a dinner on such an ordinary piece of poultry, but she assured me that I would not be disappointed, and I was beginning to trust this pretty lady as I now had eaten a few meals here. So know this, she can be trusted, she was dead on. To reinvent chicken into a myriad of savory tastes and sensations, made me believe I had been blind, and that Chef Epie had performed culinary Lasix on me, that made me revisit and SEE chicken clearly for the first time. The moistness and taste of this simple protein was uncanny and unrivaled and a true test. How could this be? I am now ruined. I have a new lens with which to see and I have to admit, my dear readers, it is bad news.

Where do I go from here? I have now been to the top of Everest and your common sand dune simply will not do. But, as much has I have had an epiphany and am changed forever, it is simply another day at the office for Gilles and his lovely hostess wife, Elizabeth. Together they make you feel like you are enjoying an intimate dinner in their home. Gilles takes his pass through the dining room and makes it all look so easy as if Merlins and witches are backstage fooling us all.

Paris is a city where every little hole in the wall can deliver a nice experience. The produce, the lack of preservatives, maybe the coordinates of the planet and the sun make that difference that allows me to believe what I enjoyed was not a mirage. But, to do it and consistently deliver and prove that it is no mistake, but deliberate and calculated makes Gilles a scientist. His chef whites could as easily be a doctor's lab coat. To speak to Gilles, he is funny and humble, and when he speaks of his simple goal, to nourish the soul and feed the people the best he knows, you feel like you have made an instant friend and would never know that he has cooked for kings, rocks stars and the toughest critics of all, his fellow chefs. By any other name, I could say the same of a priest, a rabbi, or a guru.

Regardless what you believe, amazing food is a form of religion because it makes you believe in something bigger than us, a sense memory of something we have never tasted, yet feels familiar. Another word for it is "love". I may be a food-loving atheist, but I am proud to say without exaggeration that I was reborn at "Citrus Etoile". The pilgrimage is worth it, but be warned, you will never be the same and you will have to return again and again to the Culinary Cathedral that Gilles built. Services start at noon.

11:02 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

new story

HOW IT GOES


I. Wrong number


I pick up the phone and call my mother.

First mistake.

She’s out of breath as she picks up the receiver. I can’t imagine why, she never leaves the house. No matter. I ask what’s going on and she starts her monologue about the Chinese and their perennial scam in regards to the NO MSG request. She just knows that there were traces of it in everything she ate earlier for lunch. She just knows it.

It goes a little something like this. Maestro...

-I had my favorite dumplings, you know the ones I like, a little salty, to mask the MSG, and wouldn’t you know that the sweet and sour pork was too soggy, I don’t know why I keep giving them another chance and now I have this MSG headache. It’s in everything.
-Even the water, I add.
-Don’t be a smartass.
-But, their Mongolian beef is still the best in the city. Hey, how many Valiums does it take to kill yourself? Next time, I get the beef to go.

Meet my mother.

The suicide aside is typical, but still the dramatic highlight of the conversation. It always jars me and makes me think of something I’d make up to get attention as a kid. Like lying about being a witch. It all makes me remember being jealous of Regan Hobock, because her mother was crazy and in the fourth grade she came to live with us for a month because her mother chased her around their living room with a knife. I felt sorry for her but I hated all the attention she got for it.
My mom is talking, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking about Regan. Pretty Regan. We both had long brunette hair and were similar looking. If you had to pick, her features were more refined and my manners more sophisticated. We traded clothes once and my mom made us trade back. I had designer clothes, even then. "I got that green suit at fucking Hansel and Gretel" my mom yelled as she shook her highball at me, the ice settling.
I tune back in and receive...
...I know you love Mongolian beef but the green onions give me an upset stomach. What’s the generic for Valium? I’m going through Rose’s cabinet. Her twin who died a week ago.
What she doesn’t know is, one, I’ve already hit the cabinet and, two, I don’t know the generic for anything because I don’t believe in them. All I can muster in my most tired voice is-
- Mom, I’m at work.
Boundaries. I have got to locate some. She’s irritated that I have a job and that I’m not available to give her a life 24/7, just one of my many responsibilities, by the way.
-Come on, I forget, is it 15 pills?
Fifteen is the number of milligrams not the quantity. People don’t realize that it really does take a whole lot of pills to kill yourself. She never gets it right; she’s the person who never gets the punch line right to any joke. I want to say. Yeah, Mom, take fifteen and I’ll see you in thirty-six hours. But, instead, I squeeze out.
-Can we not do this now? You need to ask someone else, a therapist.
-For pills? Which one gives the pills? Not the Ph.D. What’s the one with the prescription pad?
-No, Mom, to talk to, to tell that I don’t care enough about you to tell you how many pills it takes to kill yourself.

Modern theater.

-Don’t you have a date tonight?
-Yes. Hold please. I press the button and take a breath.
Why do I tell her anything? The question is why do I tell her everything? I’m an only child. Habit. I couldn’t possibly find my cuticles more interesting. Inhale.
-Back to you.
-Oh, I know what else I wanted to ask you.
Brace yourself. Put your head between your legs and breathe.
-What should I say when the girls ask if you’re dating someone?
And the oxygen has dropped down from the ceiling and I they remind me of those yellow cups I walked around on when I was little.
-Tell ’em I’m a dyke.
-Well, we’re getting nowhere fast today.
- I just broke up with Tom last night, and I have a date tonight. That’s pretty good, seriously what do you want from me?
- You sound grumpy. Are you going to have your period soon?
I don’t answer. I don’t have it in me. She reads the silence.
-Am I allowed to ask what medication you are currently taking?
-No.
-Oh, it must be the moon; I just checked my calendar, that’s it. Sweetie, consider today a wash. Maybe not the best for a date. You should go home early and nap. You sound so tired. You never did like naps. Have you spoken to your father today? That always upsets you. Call me after your nap. I welcome the dial tone.

II. On the way there

This is my favorite part. The driving, the meeting of boys, the anticipation. The simple car ride. Existing in my car to go where they are. I have a purpose, a destination, a place to be, a body waiting. There’s the gold-the desire. Once you get there, it’s never quite what you had in mind. Disappointment, the product of what too many movies do to the human heart. Entrances get harder; it’s the exits you get better at.

III. This year’s model

-Do you love her? I asked him.
It was during the second hour of our first date. Blind.
It was a Thursday.
I broke up with my boyfriend at two am last night, also officially Thursday. My first call out this morning was to Anne, who couldn’t stop talking about this really great guy she had in the writing class she was teaching. She definitely had a crush on him, but felt too old for him, being 15 years his senior. The same number of years I was older than Max, her youngest, a 19 year old, who was about a commercial break away from being "just my type."
-Fucked timing. She laughed down the phone.
Since I had a boyfriend, she had set up her agent, Sally, with this Jack, and after a lot of phone calls they finally had their first date last night, Wednesday. I didn’t care. I didn’t care if she had blown him and his ancestors. I was seeing him tonight, and I told Anne as much.
-Have him call me for drinks. Tonight. I insisted.
-All right, all right. She answered.
I wanted a date with him and it was going to be tonight. It was duty dating. You get back out there. I own the saddle, supply the horse. That’s how I saw it.
I’m a pro. Dates are something I do very well. I always get a second one. A steady hand, an arsenal of current fiction, a conversationalist on a myriad of topics, fresh wit peppered with an occasional curse word to make it real, but not emasculating.

Now, I was sitting across from this funny, cute, bright guy and we were laughing about what a disaster Sally had been. She had managed to be late, bore him, be seen in the most unflattering fluorescent lighting and do it all in about 112 minutes. Now, that’s quite an accomplishment. I mean, they went to a diner next to her pharmacy at 9:45, while they waited in her prescription--don’t ask, and when they were finally seated she asked how they prepared their hot chocolate and still managed to return it twice. Twice. Second date, denied.
That was obviously not the "love" in question. The "love," was Noelle, the current ex on the way out. They’re on "hiatus." Time out, she said. Much needed by him, but instigated by her, and now, curiously, him wanting a more permanent "break." What can I say? I give good date.
He paused before he answered, a nice touch.
-I love aspects of her. He said with a straight face.
I liked that, not a full commitment. I can’t begin with someone still in love or falling out of love, too many complications for the average male.
-Aspects? I laughed. Is that what you say to each other?
-Yes. He answered and joined me in the humor of it.

He had decided it was the end that Monday, it was her birthday. He had bought the "puffy heart," a silver necklace they had seen together in a window. She loved it and he had gone back and purchased it. It’s easy to please if you listen in every few sentences. They had a perfect dinner and after the baked Alaska he presented her with the fabulous "puffy heart."
-Jewelry, for Christsakes. He said.
She was deeply touched and when he was ready to be touched himself, she began to weep. Disappointed. She told him she was confused and it would be best if she went home to do her Carmen Electra Fit to Strip DVD (seriously why do we bother ever making anything up). Her problem--he’s too nice and she doesn’t appreciate him like she should, plus, she doesn’t know what to do and it’s not fair to him. All this, she managed to choke out through a tear streamed face. An actress, what else?
He looked at his watch, 9:15 and alone. Not quite how he had pictured it in his head.
Jewelry, he said out loud to no one as he reached for the remote.

The next morning, he received no less than six phone calls from friends to see if he had "gotten any." Anne placed second. As usual, he was the last to know that it "wasn’t going so well."

What Jack did have was a spine. He seemed to be closing in on the end credits, and I could imagine myself liking him. Tall, skinny, nerdy with an intelligent kind face. A face that could listen to my problems (insert issues here). It’s been a long time since someone told me they loved me and an even longer time since I said it back. What mazes we create with people...rules...ways to speak to one another. This one was clever; a trait I’d decided was non-negotiable.

The start of something, that’s the drug of it.

First kiss, meeting his best friend, a slow Sunday of doing nothing, watching his TV. More introductions. The pressure of it all. The spending of nights, the rituals of mornings, the buying of an extra toothbrush. Him, putting my underwear on top of his dresser out of cats reach. Me, packing my diaphragm and lithium.

Could this one find me interesting beyond my flaws? Where would we be standing when I told him I was manic-depressive, that my mother’s an alcoholic, that I need too much attention, that plenty is sometimes not enough.

Then, the ever-present wish fulfillment, hoping he’s enough, that I won’t need any more therapy, that I can stop taking the medication. But, it’s never like that. The emptiness is all too familiar. You can already taste it in your mouth. When did everything take on this enormous weight? When did it all become so important?

You know what to do.
See directions below.
Repeat if necessary.

Take my waist in your hands, look into my eyes, lean in closely and in your sweetest most tender voice lie to me.

8:47 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

How Christmas Tastes

I don’t have many holiday memories of my father. These days it’s a welcomed check with a post-it that says, "Just what you wanted, cash." Never a Merry Christmas or a
Happy Hanukah or even a safe Happy Holidays, maybe a Happy Birthday because I was
born the day after Christ. "A tough act to follow, Kid, " my dad would always say. I
remember there was a Christmas with a popcorn trimmed tree, but I think it was at school, not in our living room, maybe at a neighbor’s or in the store up the street. What I’m thinking about now is vodka and my father. It was one of the few times I felt we connected during my youth. Not on a daughter/dad level, but because we shared the same history--the feeling of roommates, almost cozy. It was a few days before Christmas and it was the first time I’d ever tasted vodka. Drinking was never a big deal in my house, I’d had beer and wine, that cream colored thick stuff you drank with coffee or in it. It must have been 11:00 at night and I was on my way to the garage to shrink my Levi’s an extra time before morning. I was 13 and a freshman. My father was sitting at the kitchen table.
-Come here, Kid. Tell me what’s going on.
My standard reply, that was nonetheless truthful, never changed.
-Nothing.
-Have a seat.
-Let me throw my jeans in the dryer first.
-Mom asleep?
-Light’s off.
My nightly ritual. I washed my jeans after every wear because I didn’t like it when they stretched out the wrong way. I squeezed by the Jaguar in the garage; my mother never parked it right even though my father had a tennis ball hanging from a long string to mark where she should pull up to. When the ball barely hit the windshield she was right on the mark. An invention he was very proud of, and that was completely ignored by her. My mom always pulled in so far that the ball hung limp over the side. I always forgot how much it bugged me, until I went to the washer, but I knew my father hated it more. He’d come out to the second refrigerator for a soda or an ice cream sandwich and he would simply shake his head as he looked at the tennis ball, his proof that my mother was paying less and less attention to him.
I squeezed back past the car and walked into the kitchen. It struck me that we had never been at this table together besides eating. Never to go over homework, to eat a late dessert, or to look in the paper for a movie. He smiled at me and told me to take a glass and sit. I chose my favorite; it was an old fancy highball with real gold leaf that was mostly chipped off and valuable if part of a set and in pristine condition. Now, it was worthless, as it was the last one of my grandmother’s. I was the only one who seemed to think it had any value. I liked the weight of it in my hand; my mom kept trying to throw it away so there would no longer be a reminder that there once had been a full set, before careless and careful accidents.
My father pulled out my chair and I giggled.
-Are we at some state dinner?
-Maybe. Give me your glass.
He poured some of his water into it and held his own glass up to toast.
-Well, pick up your glass.
I did and we clinked and drank.
I couldn’t believe the sour bite of it. I made a face as the hot ran down my throat.
I coughed.
-You trying to kill me?
My dad laughed so hard he couldn’t stop and his eyes watered. My dad and I both do that, cry when we laugh too hard. When I was little I found it embarrassing, but I was just starting to like it. I liked that we shared this very specific thing. It wasn’t a coincidence; it was genetic, in our chemistry. It pleased me. I looked at my father and felt close to him. I wanted to hug him and say I was sorry for always siding with mom and how I thought he was a jerk most of the time. I wanted to crawl up in his lap and talk about mom and what he thought of her, not as mom, but as an ordinary woman who lived with us and walked the same halls. I wanted to say so many things, but then the moment passed as if the channel had been changed. We held each other in our eyes and I liked that he had given me my first shot. I was a grown-up. We were blood brothers.
-Now you know what it tastes like, he said.
Yes, I did.
It would be one of many things he taught me, but the others would never be as clear.

8:25 PM - 2 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

My Manifesto

MY MANIFESTO

I believe gay is the new black.

I believe laughing until you want to vomit or pee is the best feeling in the world.

I believe that Hairless Chinese Cresteds are truly cats and the best breed of dog ever. That's why Gypsy Rose Lee bred them.

I believe 40 is the new 30, because I have to.

I believe pink bed sheets do indeed give you a certain glow.

I believe that my happiness is in direct relation to what size jeans I can squeeze my ass into.

I believe a perfect Mojito can make a difference and surprisingly is very hard to find. Must easier on the East Coast.

I believe I still don't drink enough water.

I believe a great book can transport you to a different time.

I believe that Vegas is often the cure for many things.

I believe close friends can solve anything.

I believe romantic love is overrated.

I believe sexual chemistry is underrated.

I believe new shoes are better than and often more expensive than crack cocaine.

I believe makeup can do wonders.

I now believe that you can get anything you want at a Mexican Pharmacia.

I believe that there is some value to blogging.

I believe this manifesto will be constantly evolving.

3:13 PM - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

HOW TO HELP THE DYING

(this was written several years ago, everything is the same except I now have one dog and I am indeed older)

I am an only child and only grandchild on both sides. I spent a lot of time alone as a child but enjoyed it, as I loved to read and contemplate everything. I know about being alone.

These days I find myself often alone again, I am single, never married, currently no boyfriend, no children, but I'm blessed with a big house and two little dogs. I am in the rare situation that I am 38 years old and have no one to directly answer to. It has gotten me in trouble in the past, no one to tap me on the shoulder and tell me that I am taking the wrong turn or making the wrong friend.

But, after some bad decisions and not so bright actions, I realized of course I have someone to answer to, and that is myself. Not as a role model to my own children but a role model to all children. Not so my parents don't get mad at me, but so I explain with pride what I believe in and they can chose to like it or not.

I've had several jobs and have been good at several things, but some thing was missing and I found myself depressed. And after sitting around a few months and feeling what that was like, I decided to not feel sorry for myself anymore and get out there and give. Just simply give.

So, I decided to become a hospice volunteer and it changed everything. Hospice philosophy believes that no one should die alone or in pain. I became familiar with hospice when my sweet, but very sick aunt came to spend her last few days in one. It never left me how caring and generous everyone who worked at the facility was to my aunt, my mother and me.

In the past eight months I have seen several patients of my own, some I've met a few times and others only once and for a few hours. But they all stay with me. Being present when someone comes into this word is an honor and being there for someone as they leave is equally profound.

Before I got my first patient I thought I wanted someone who I would get to know over a period of many months, someone I would develop a close and personal connection with that would leave us both the wiser. What I didn't expect was that I would get that very same feeling by holding someone's hand that never said a word to me or even looked me in the eye. Just sitting in a chair near a bed because they were actively dying and in a word, afraid. Just holding their hand. Breathing slowly in and out, waiting for the moment when they would match my breath. A connection. Just sitting. Doing nothing. Being present and breathing.

11:59 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment