Mexican't

I have it on good authority that there are two supposedly authentic Mexican restaurants in town.

My company cafeteria is not one of them.

Now you'd think that's pretty damn obvious, and that I'd be a complete fool to go for the "Mexican lamb stew" on the menu today. "Omid, you idiot," you may say. "When was the last time you saw lamb on a Mexican menu?"

That's a totally valid question, considering I've eaten goat at real Mexican places more often than lamb... But there are lamb dishes south of the border for damn sure. Still, you don't see it on most menus Stateside, so to see a Mexican lamb dish in Paris?

Hey, maybe they're tapped into something I didn't know about!

With the above argument in mind, I went ahead and ordered it.

It didn't look Mexican. It didn't smell Mexican. And after a couple of bites, I could verify that it sure as hell didn't taste Mexican.

In fact, I think I determined why they bother to call this otherwise fine-tasting stew Mexican: It's brown.

Next thing you know, they're going to serve me "Chinese chicken," turned yellow by tons of saffron, right?

All political incorrectness aside, it's probably an honest mistake. The executive chef of our company cantine (if there even is one) probably heard about - or maybe even saw at some point - mole. The spicy, rich, chocolate-infused sauce that is not only tasty in its own right, but when prepared well can make even the gamiest of meats palatable.

But being French, this chef de cuisine probably thought, "Impossible! Nobody dares to eat chocolat wiz... MEAT!" And thus, he concocted a dark brown sauce that looks somewhat chocolatey but tastes like... any other brown, broth-based sauce. That flour-thickened middle ground between jus and gravy. Plain. Old. Sauce.

I know that culinary musings about the company cafeteria are pretty much pointless. It's the working stiff's equivalent of a pig's trough, for fuck's sake! Never mind that our building was built by Gustave Eiffel's firm, with the cafeteria's curved girders and thousands of rivets meant to be reminiscent of the eponymous Tower everyone so romanticizes. You still eat your food off of a tray under so many rows of industrial-strength fluorescent lights.

I write about it, though, to illustrate my daily battle. That despite how good the French food is in France, I have to try really hard to find that bowl of pho. That I have to wait in line to eat a decent bowl of ramen. That I'll probably not have a decent burrito until the next time Air France flight 84 touches down at SFO. And this saddens me.

Eatin' On the Cheap: Part Deux

My friend Ed commented in my posting about financial woes about his student days in Paris, eating baguettes, cheese, and jambon for a cheap meal. I've probably dispensed this advice a thousand times in the past, and not being a hypocrite, I've been doing it myself - albeit courtesy of the "breakfast buffet" at the otherwise nil-service Hotel Savoy.

I start each morning with aforementioned baguette, cheese, and ham, and maybe some coffee and orange juice and yogurt, to boot. This certainly beats the "contintental breakfast" made up of shitty coffee and Svenhard's shrink-wrapped Danishes at your run-of-the-mill Travelodge.

Today, my new boss introduced me to another cheap thrill: The company cafeteria.

I heretofore hadn't known we had a company cafeteria - or the cantine as it's called here. But apparently, my badge works as some sort of debit card at this wondrous oasis of cheap food. Cheap being the operative word, as everyone told me today. It's certainly no Tour d'Argent, but I'm not complaining: Endive salad, mustard-crusted ham, farafalle, ratatouille, and a drink for less than €5.

I have the sneaking suspicion that all this is subsidized by the government through some pinko commie program that represents a significant portion of the budget, alongside cheap public transit, fantastic parks, and hardly-any-copay healthcare. (As opposed to - you know - wars, faith-based initiatives, and congressional hookers.) In that case, viva la revolucion! I'll be in Montmartre's Place de Tertre buying a crappy painting of Che Guevara in no time!