An American friend of mine - an artist of modest reputation in the US though completely unknown in Europe - loves to visit Paris to eat. He pretends that he can’t get a decent meal in New York or Los Angeles.
What he means by ‘decent’ (he readily concedes that there are great restaurants all over the United States, even in Las Vegas!) - are places that feed people with pride and empathy. “Food in the States is a business,” he says, “in Europe it’s a sacred artifact and an idiosyncratic expression of awe.”
When my friend visits Paris I’m the first person he calls. “Let’s have a nosh,” is how he begins every conversation.
He never says “hello.”
A nosh, I learned early on in our friendship, technically means a snack, though when used ironically, suggests a meal of substance yet absent of ceremony.
My friend is often ironic.
The best tagine outside the Magreb is at the restaurant attached to the Grand Mosque of Paris, or so my friend claims. I’m not sure whether he’s ever traveled to the Magreb but the truth is, the lamb with plum, eggs and almonds is sublime.
There is something ineffably satisfying about slow cooked stews. Like life itself, it ripens gradually and if left unattended, turns to waste. But if life is pursued with a prolonged and affectionate patience, one can reach the perfect balance of pleasure and depth.
Maybe my friend’s career in Europe will take off after all.