Making the food pilgrimage to Paris
For years, I've been a culinary Francophile. I'm finally going to the motherland, and I hope you'll join me
Topics: Francis in France!, International cuisine, Food, Life News
I’m on a plane pointed toward Paris, and I swear I just saw a woman in a flowing bow of a neck scarf, made of the same material as her shirt. Classically chic, she could walk right into my vision of what I’ve always imagined Paris to be, strolling past gilded statues on a bridge over the Seine, on her way to meet a deliriously beautiful lover to nibble on cheese and, eventually, one another. It was exactly the sort of thing you don’t want to see on your way abroad, because the reality of the world rarely matches your fantasies, and it’s best to travel with realistic expectations. But I can’t help it. I’m flying into a fantasy of France.
“Why are you going?” a woman asked me in the airport.
“To eat baguettes and macarons,” I said with a jokey smile. But I meant it. When my friend came back from his honeymoon there — a friend who inspired me to go to culinary school — he said that going to Paris was like a pilgrimage. French food may have fallen a little out of fashion in favor of the brasher cuisines of Asia and Latin America, the earthiness of Italian cooking, the creative haute cuisine of Spain, and the amalgam of these things we have in America. But what I’m looking for isn’t flash and bang, it’s the basics, it’s the foundation.
For me, this trip is about benchmarks — I want to know what a baguette is really supposed to be, a roast chicken, an omelet.
Who flies 3,000 miles because of an omelet? Well, I became a Francophile because of one. In culinary school, a chef gave a lecture on the perfect French omelet, a totemic dish of eggs, butter, and salt. I snored until he made one, and it felt like my life changed a little bit when I took a bite and felt it dissolve and disappear, vanishing into the purest egg flavor I’ve ever known. I tried for weeks to get it right, and the more I learned, the more I discovered there was to know about the seemingly simple task of wrapping scrambled egg in an envelope of itself. There was the shape of the pan, the size of the pan, the kind of metal the pan is made of. There is the heat, how much of it and for how long. There are your hands, and how they move the eggs in the pan, how they scramble them so you have the silkiest, sexiest eggs imaginable, with the very last drops of liquid egg hitting the bottom of the pan at the same time, so they form the thinnest possible skin for the omelet.
Francis Lam is Features Editor at Gilt Taste, provides color commentary for the Cooking Channel show Food(ography), and tweets at @francis_lam. More Francis Lam.






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