Bennie emailed last night to tell me he had the dulce de leche cake at Momofuku for dinner. Needless to say, I was tres jalouse.
Then again, for the past two nights, I have had heavenly dinners myself. It just so happens that they have been simple dinners of bread, cheese and fruit: baguettes from Paul, creamy brebis from my favorite fromagerie and beautiful, sweet cantaloupe. Mon dieu.
It's partly because I'm lazy and don't feel like cooking. I really should go to Picard (everyone loves Picard; I still haven’t been) or, better yet, stop by the poissonerie on rue Montorgueil and make some fresh fish for dinner. But it’s also partly indulgent. I feel like I can eat as much bread, cheese and fruit as I want since it’s not a big gnuddi dinner at Centro Vinoteca or something. I can fix a handful of bread and cheese canapés and then go back for seconds. And I just can’t get over how delicious the cantaloupe is here. It’s so sweet, it almost tastes like perfume. Potent. Gorgeous.
I need to get back on track though. In New York, I was pretty shameless about eating, and my snug-jeans-be-damned attitude has carried over to Paris. In addition to my welcome-back pain aux raisins the other morning, I’ve had no compunction about eating whatever I want, whenever I’m hungry: cereal at 5 in the morning (the jet lag—I wake up, starving), double fistfuls of cashews at 11 in the morning, Twizzlers as I prop myself in front of my computer at 10 at night. Nor have I been drinking enough water, and I haven’t exercised in three weeks. Once again, I’m getting winded from my six flights up to the treehouse. Not good.
For three days, I’ve been chalking it all up to the jet lag. I can eat mindlessly, I tell myself, because I feel like a zombie. But, my jet lag almost kicked after a glorious eight hours of sleep last night, it’s time to clean up my act. Starting tomorrow…