"Mexican"

The constant quest: legitimate, real, spicy, juicy Mexican food. In Paris. Impossible? We thought not.

We heard of a place called Rice and Beans through a friend.

"HOW WAS IT?" I asked earnestly, when he told me about it.

"Pretty good," he said. He was a Californian, so I took this as a good sign. Ari and I immediately picked  a date to try it out. We read the menu online; Stella yelped it, good reviews. Things were looking up.

We arrived exactly when it opened--7:30. Only in Paris do restaurants open at 7:30 for dinner. The tiny hole in the wall was covered in over -the-top, hispanic jesus paraphernalia, flashing Christmas lights and Day of the Dead decorations. American oldies rock filled the little communal eating room. Yes, we thought, winner.

We ordered chips and guac to start--they didn't have margaritas (that should have been the first sign). Stella ordered a carnitas taco and a beef burrito. Ari and I split the chips and guac and "le super" burrito poulet--rice, beans (obviously), chicken, veggies, guacamole, lettuce, tomato, cheese.

Chips and Guac--sad. I had to ask for salt to pour all over the chips and into the guac. I actually dipped my chip in salt. Stella said her taco was good, a little oily but much better than her burrito...now lets get started on the burrito.

It looked like a real Mexican burrito. Warm, flour tortilla packed with delicious goodness. Might redeem the guac failure.

First bite...and there it was. Absolutely no flavor. Actually, it was sweet. We could not discern why everything had this sweet aftertaste. I guessed maybe the tomatoes here. So I deftly utilized by side bowl of salt and dumped, along with the guacamole, and a whole dish of pico de gallo. The "cheese" was a small slice of cheddar...in a burrito? So, so wrong. It didn't even melt.

It was a very large let down. Nothing could bring about that spiced, fresh zest of California Mexican food. We came, we tried, and were even farther from conquering our mission. I gave up on the burrito and just started dipping my finger in the salt bowl, putting it in the pico de gallo and into my mouth.

I looked around at the packed little restaurant, sadly realizing these frenchies had no idea that what they were eating was not Mexican food. This was a "Mexican" restaurant. They were eating "Mexican" tacos and "Mexican" beans, but it wasn't even close to Mexican anything. They probably will never know that. That little nugget of knowledge made me feel much better about being an American in Paris. Now, when some Parisians scoff at me; my Americanness, my accent, or whatever, I can think to myself--you have no idea what real Mexican food tastes like, and therefore, I win.

Grade:
A: for effort
D: for execution
35%: Chance we may go back on some cold Winter's evening to try a platter, in dire hopes it will be better than the god forsaken burrito.
0%: Chance Ari will go back.

French Phrase of the day: Tu veux dire--"you mean..."