September 2010

I have a very bad habit of being fixated on a food for weeks at a time and eating nothing but until I get completely sick of it.

It happened once with fried foods, when my friends got me a deep fat fryer in college and I was deep frying things almost every week which culminated into this insane deep-fry party and the apartment ended up smelling like a greasy taco/burger stand. We all ended up passed out on the couch, our stomachs coated in canola oil.

There was a two-month period when I only wanted to eat pho and I went on a pho crawl on Valley Boulevard from Alhambra to Rosemead.

I go through too many phases like that in life.



Tuesday afternoon, making duck confit.

Photo: Miss Lunch

A very brilliant friend of mine was leaving Paris so we went to the Hemingway Bar as a last hurrah.

Our drinks were great, but something about this place weirded us out. The concept is a bit bizarre. People come here with the romantic impression that Hemingway sat at this very bar as a raging alcoholic in 1920s Paris.

Now imagine Hemingway drinking his martini, scribbling away in his journal or whatever, sitting at this very bar surrounded by Hemingway paraphernalia — books by Hemingway, photographs of Hemingway, newspaper clippings about Hemingway, Hemingway’s hunting rifle, an enormous bust of Hemingway.

Way too meta. This place gives me the creeps.

Hemingway Bar, Hotel Ritz
15 Place Vendôme
75001 Paris, France
01 43 16 33 65