LIZ SAYS:
Okay, I have always wanted to title this Liz And Dick a Go Go but Dick set it up and we never got around to changing it. Well, just did it so, new location, click:
http://lizanddickagogo.blogspot.com/
and don't forget to change the bookmark ;-}.
cheers! and Happy New Year!
Monday, December 29, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Blog maken
Liz says: Encouraged by Dick, I've decided to add a few words. Its Christmas eve and we are in the Amsterdam airport, I am evidently 'Blog maken'. Okay, Dutch is the hardest language I have heard to date. It stunned me when she, the flight attendant started to speak on the plane in dutch, I had never heard it before and it doesn't sound a thing like it looks. Somewhere between blurgs and bduch's, I cannot imagine trying this one!
I am judging my mental blur by playing scrabble and seeing how long it takes me to finish a game. We should walk around a little, I know, but all I want to do is sleep. We have been up since 5, the place is dull as warm milk and its foggy outside, so you can't see much past the parked planes. The Christmas music is driving me crazy, as usual! Soft calming music always makes me nuts! Judging singularly from the airport, the Dutch are no nonsense people. Everything is very clean, plentiful and straight-forward. Of course, its cruel to judge anyone from their airports ;-}. But, hey, that's where I am.
It is wonderful to hear the symphony of languages and accents, everyone is flying on Christmas Eve, so there are no expectations of getting anywhere on time or doing anything except waiting out the weather or whatever. It is evidently blowing hard in the States, so, maybe we will get to Minneapolis, or maybe we will be stuck in Amsterdam. Be careful what you ask for, it just might be funny!
In Transit
After a final meeting with the fixer at a familiar--although hardly outstanding--cafe, Liz and went back to the bank for a meeting with Madame.... Oh, that's right, she conveniently forgot to give her name when she promised to call "demain" with information about yet another
twist in the never ending game that is French-style banking. At least, the normally brusque gatekeeper at the front desk was pleasant, but since she speaks no English and my cheat sheet French is good for ordering meals, navigating transportation options, basic shopping and little else, not much pertinent information was exchanged.
Both of our personal bankers had taken off for a 5-day holiday (we've learned that this is the French way, when it comes to one-day national holidays), but fortunately, the young guy who speaks a tiny bit of English was there and after many apologetic merci's and sil vous plait's, I was able to get a relatively straightforward answer to my question. Not of course before the guy frowned and disappeared into the copier room for 15 minutes or so to a) speak with a colleague, b) make some copies c) curse "Monsieur Laskin" for returning and d) make plans for a post-work trip to the cafe, but that was to be expected. At the bank, nothing happens fast or with any sense of finality. Day after day, the same people return, apparently asking the same questions and receiving the same inadequate responses to their needs.
Anyhow, it was the day before we had to fly back to the States, so we didn't want to get too wrapped up in the bureaucratic web. They'll be plenty more of that to deal with later. Liz suggested a trip to a favorite stocking/stretchy body clothing store, and I obliged. The highpoint of the excursion was a stop for crepes Grand Marnier and a cafe ligieos. Then it was back to the apartment, where we did the final pack. Liz noticed that one of the walls was peeling high up in the corner near the ceiling, which indicated to me that some tenant--with luck not us--will eventually have to deal with the damage being done by the upstairs neighbors' leaky pipes. Curiously, this kink in the perfection of this very well-kept apartment also made me feel better about living amidst white furniture, white appliances, white walls, white bedding, off-white chairs.... Well, you get the idea. If the pipes are gonna to blow eventually, why should I keep worrying about the consequences of getting a wayward drop of tea on the white drywall back splash?
More later. We're currently in a lounge at the Amsterdam airport waiting for a flight. Lots of cheese and a few things with chocolate in them and, curiously, a big urn of cream of chicken soup. Apparently it's a Dutch delicacy. I haven't been to the Netherlands in 30 years, but the vibe hasn't changed. Everyone looks quite cleaned and press and tall glasses of Heineken are everywhere.
twist in the never ending game that is French-style banking. At least, the normally brusque gatekeeper at the front desk was pleasant, but since she speaks no English and my cheat sheet French is good for ordering meals, navigating transportation options, basic shopping and little else, not much pertinent information was exchanged.
Both of our personal bankers had taken off for a 5-day holiday (we've learned that this is the French way, when it comes to one-day national holidays), but fortunately, the young guy who speaks a tiny bit of English was there and after many apologetic merci's and sil vous plait's, I was able to get a relatively straightforward answer to my question. Not of course before the guy frowned and disappeared into the copier room for 15 minutes or so to a) speak with a colleague, b) make some copies c) curse "Monsieur Laskin" for returning and d) make plans for a post-work trip to the cafe, but that was to be expected. At the bank, nothing happens fast or with any sense of finality. Day after day, the same people return, apparently asking the same questions and receiving the same inadequate responses to their needs.
Anyhow, it was the day before we had to fly back to the States, so we didn't want to get too wrapped up in the bureaucratic web. They'll be plenty more of that to deal with later. Liz suggested a trip to a favorite stocking/stretchy body clothing store, and I obliged. The highpoint of the excursion was a stop for crepes Grand Marnier and a cafe ligieos. Then it was back to the apartment, where we did the final pack. Liz noticed that one of the walls was peeling high up in the corner near the ceiling, which indicated to me that some tenant--with luck not us--will eventually have to deal with the damage being done by the upstairs neighbors' leaky pipes. Curiously, this kink in the perfection of this very well-kept apartment also made me feel better about living amidst white furniture, white appliances, white walls, white bedding, off-white chairs.... Well, you get the idea. If the pipes are gonna to blow eventually, why should I keep worrying about the consequences of getting a wayward drop of tea on the white drywall back splash?
More later. We're currently in a lounge at the Amsterdam airport waiting for a flight. Lots of cheese and a few things with chocolate in them and, curiously, a big urn of cream of chicken soup. Apparently it's a Dutch delicacy. I haven't been to the Netherlands in 30 years, but the vibe hasn't changed. Everyone looks quite cleaned and press and tall glasses of Heineken are everywhere.
Monday, December 22, 2008
French Pizza
Liz says: Okay, so we re getting ready to go back to the -3 temps of Madison after the balmy days of Paris. This is one unhappy camper as far as the weather is concerned. I'm just getting used to the idea of roaming my neighborhood and figuring out which corner leads to which, trying to make a sense of direction.
I've learned to be bold and insist on speaking my pathetic french or as the Fixer says, I will be here in 20 years still getting the english menu.
I have learned that my smile can change the world, or at least the way it looks to me. Even though Parisiens don't walk round smiling, I do and they respond with friendliness.
I've learned that Amy Winehouse appeals for no particular reason other than it sounds good in the background of a cafe at night.
I've learned that the french seem to love pizza and I say no,no, no!
Okay, now there is pizza as we americans know it, Dominoes or the local pizza joint run by Sicilians. The chain pizza is another animal altogether, just casserole on a dense, tasteless crust. The local pizza can be okay to great and maybe even close to authentic. But french pizza is a thing in and of itself. The french do their take on everything. You see lots of curried dishes in french restaurants, they are very light and creamy. Good but not the hot, spicy things you tend to get in America.
But back to the subject a hand, french pizza. I have to begin with Corsican pizza. That was wonderful, bizarre and of course, in Corsica (an island off of France, in case you don't know).
It had goat cheese and corsican honey on a genovese crust. Lots of Italians from Genoa settled there and influenced the cuisine. It was very unique, not really sweet, herby, as the honey there is influenced by the herbs grown there, and rich.
But, it was Corsica, there was an italian influence and I thought, well, this is special.
The first night in Paris we went to the pizza restaurant below the apartment because we were too tired to venture any further out. I had the 'parisien pizza'
it had goat cheese (fresh), ham, bland chopped meat, akin to burger,tomato sauce,
and some other creamy cheese. It was bizarre. Creamy, bland pizza on a so-so crust. Dick remembers his 'margheritta' a classical pizza," as mainly cheese, seemingly mozzerella and a flavored oil to add to your liking, super thin crust, almost like a saltine with that kind of consistancy. Not one of the great pie's of all time."
The owner was sweet and we were so tired I had forgotten all about how mystifying it was until everytime we pass a pizza restaurant here. It will be filled to overflowing. Even Dominoes has take out orders on scooters. The thing is the pizza is so very french. It bears no resemblance to Italian pizza, American Italian pizza, or even Corsican pizza!
They make it very bland, very creamy, almost like a very thin milky casserole with a thin crust. And they love it. The places are chocked full every night.
Especially a place called Cesar's. The waiters are crazy fun, they speak italian to you and swing and swirl around from table to table with utter efficiency. Large families come there and the noise level is synonmous with real live fun.
The pizza is that weird french take on the pie and veal piccata here! Don't get me started! I've had it 3 times, each time it is utterly different, it has no lemon, no capers, is not pounded out and usually resemebles some sort of creamed beef stew without vegatables, but with gorgeous chanterelle mushrooms and sometimes potatoes. The thing I can't figure out is this place is so close to Italy!
I guess I have more to learn about the french, after all if they can change the world, they can certainly change me. Vive la France!
I've learned to be bold and insist on speaking my pathetic french or as the Fixer says, I will be here in 20 years still getting the english menu.
I have learned that my smile can change the world, or at least the way it looks to me. Even though Parisiens don't walk round smiling, I do and they respond with friendliness.
I've learned that Amy Winehouse appeals for no particular reason other than it sounds good in the background of a cafe at night.
I've learned that the french seem to love pizza and I say no,no, no!
Okay, now there is pizza as we americans know it, Dominoes or the local pizza joint run by Sicilians. The chain pizza is another animal altogether, just casserole on a dense, tasteless crust. The local pizza can be okay to great and maybe even close to authentic. But french pizza is a thing in and of itself. The french do their take on everything. You see lots of curried dishes in french restaurants, they are very light and creamy. Good but not the hot, spicy things you tend to get in America.
But back to the subject a hand, french pizza. I have to begin with Corsican pizza. That was wonderful, bizarre and of course, in Corsica (an island off of France, in case you don't know).
It had goat cheese and corsican honey on a genovese crust. Lots of Italians from Genoa settled there and influenced the cuisine. It was very unique, not really sweet, herby, as the honey there is influenced by the herbs grown there, and rich.
But, it was Corsica, there was an italian influence and I thought, well, this is special.
The first night in Paris we went to the pizza restaurant below the apartment because we were too tired to venture any further out. I had the 'parisien pizza'
it had goat cheese (fresh), ham, bland chopped meat, akin to burger,tomato sauce,
and some other creamy cheese. It was bizarre. Creamy, bland pizza on a so-so crust. Dick remembers his 'margheritta' a classical pizza," as mainly cheese, seemingly mozzerella and a flavored oil to add to your liking, super thin crust, almost like a saltine with that kind of consistancy. Not one of the great pie's of all time."
The owner was sweet and we were so tired I had forgotten all about how mystifying it was until everytime we pass a pizza restaurant here. It will be filled to overflowing. Even Dominoes has take out orders on scooters. The thing is the pizza is so very french. It bears no resemblance to Italian pizza, American Italian pizza, or even Corsican pizza!
They make it very bland, very creamy, almost like a very thin milky casserole with a thin crust. And they love it. The places are chocked full every night.
Especially a place called Cesar's. The waiters are crazy fun, they speak italian to you and swing and swirl around from table to table with utter efficiency. Large families come there and the noise level is synonmous with real live fun.
The pizza is that weird french take on the pie and veal piccata here! Don't get me started! I've had it 3 times, each time it is utterly different, it has no lemon, no capers, is not pounded out and usually resemebles some sort of creamed beef stew without vegatables, but with gorgeous chanterelle mushrooms and sometimes potatoes. The thing I can't figure out is this place is so close to Italy!
I guess I have more to learn about the french, after all if they can change the world, they can certainly change me. Vive la France!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
all pleased with myself or how friggin domestic
Liz says: Sitting here in my purple Wolford all pleased with myself. Having charted out the living room and tidied up some business with the Fixer, I just feel all yummy.
It was a lovely day, around 50 degrees, dull, not sunny, but not cold and not grey.
I'm happy that I have a new home and the kettle is warming for tea. Dick is busy behind his computer, taking care of something or looking at the news, or as he says 'dicking around'.
We had lunch with the Fixer and his pal, delightful, as usual. They had the gargantuan bloody Argentinean steaks and cleaned their plates. I don't know how they do it. I had about half of my huge hot goat chesse salad with bacon and onion soup. I can barely fit the tea in my tummy and its been 2 hours. Dick had the Cassoulet, he finished about half. We are still working on becoming french.
The Fixer says its metabolism and that angst burns off his calories. Give me Xiety! (If you don't get it watch High Anxiety, Mel Brooks).
We went to a restaurant we had been to previously, Chez Nadine on the Moffartard. The irrepressible owner is sweet and chatty, although she can speak about as much english as I can french. Still, she will talk to you, convince you to order her best dishes, even if it takes showing you press clippings, and charm the teeth right out of your head. I adore listening to her even though I haven't a clue what she is saying, she has that musical french la, la, la going on all while she is saying whatever it is, you just go ,"okay, whatever you want, my dear". Her husband must be a puddle. Actually, I'm retty sure he's the one in the chef's jacket who strolls through every now and then, saying one word and checking the scene.
She is love!
I took some photos of the market, which is at the fountain square, the aforementioned Place Monge. It was close to closing down, as it was already near 1 p.m or 13 Paris time ;-}. It has all sorts of fresh produce, fish and goods several days a week.
I also incuded some photos of the apartment.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
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