The Jetpacker

This may come as a shock to you, but airline food isn’t good. It’s actually a step below those microwave meals you get at the grocery store for 99 cents. (You sure this is the turkey dinner? It looks like a salisbury steak.)

So we didn’t eat much on the 11-hour plane ride from Los Angeles to France. By the time we landed in Paris, our stomachs were sputtering like deflating balloons. We. Were. Hungry.

And what happens when you get hungry? You get irritable. You get the shakes. You don’t care about the sights or how nice the weather is.

None of this “let’s check out our room.” None of this “let’s see the view out the window.” No. Just get food.

So we literally threw our bags into the hotel room and stormed outside with the intensity of a boxer approaching the ring.

There it was. “Restaurant.” The most beautiful word in the English language. Listen to how it rolls off the tongue: res-too-rahnt. Even the word inspires salivation.

We jogged to the door like kids stalking the ice cream man. Crankiness fading. Smile growing. Finally. That French food we heard so much about. We get to the door and pull on the handle and…

It’s locked.

This… This is what nightmares are made of. You can’t hand me the keys to a Ferrari and tell me there’s no engine. You can’t fool someone like that. You can’t play with people’s hopes and dreams like it’s a dog’s chew toy.

I hate you “Restaurant.” Worst word in the English language.

But right across the street, we saw something. Something better. “Bistro.” Now that’s an appetizing word. Bistro. Sounds like the hot, older cousin of Restaurant. We’re moving on and moving up, Restaurant. Take that.

So we jog towards the Bistro. Out of our way traffic. Make a hole. Hungry people coming through.

Steak. Crepes. Steak. Pastries. Steak. It all sounded so good. I couldn’t wait to open the door and see ten guys simultaneously lift the lid off a silver tray and present us with the best France has to offer. I grabbed the handle and…

Locked.

This… This is the long descent into hell. Is this some sick French version of “Punk’d?”

One eatery after another… Closed. Closed. Closed.

At this point, we didn’t care what we were going to eat. Frog legs? Escargot? Pigs feet? Didn’t matter. Throw it in a blender and give it to us in smoothie form for all we care. Just give us something. Anything!

Finally, we stumble into a cafe. I love you, Cafe.

We take a seat at an empty table and a waiter asks if we want to start with some wine. Sure. So he brings us a two glasses of wine and heads back into the kitchen.

As we wait for him to return, we notice that all the other tables are empty. Maybe the food isn’t good? Who cares? Scrape up food that was dropped on the floor and deep fry it. We’ll eat it.

5 minutes pass and he’s still MIA. So we sip on our wine. At this point, each sip is like taking a shot of vodka. We’re on empty. And we’re getting buzzed fast.

5 minutes. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. No sign of this guy. My lips are numb and my vision is getting blurry.

So I got up, looked around and finally tracked down our waiter. Then I asked for a dinner menu. He looked at me like I was speaking another language… which I was. So I threw out words hoping he’d identify one: “Food?” “Din-ner?” “Eat?”

Right after I said “eat,” a guilty grin jumped on his face. And in broken English, he said: “No, no, no. No time eat.”

I checked my watch. It’s 4:30. What do you mean “no time eat” at 4:30?

Apparently, eateries in France only serve food at lunch (sometime between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m.) and dinner (from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m.). And we were stuck right in the middle of the dead zone. Our hotel was also located in a semi-redisential area in the 20th arrondissement.  There likely would have been a few more options in the tourist-centric areas.

Tipsy and cranky, we stammered outside like zombies in search of brains.  I was so hungry, I seriously debated about grabbing a pigeon off the street and eating it.

Luckily, I didn’t have to. Because a few blocks away, we saw something amazing. Jackpot! Golden and glowing, it called to us like a beacon of hope. It was glorious. It was remarkable. It was…

McDonald’s.

Yes, our first day in the culinary capital of the world, and we ate the same fast food you can find on any street corner back home.

Well, at least we can say we ate a French fry in France. Right?

Photo courtesy of Hernan Herrero @ alertavisual.com.ar