Destination-Paris

Passport & Plate - Destination - Paris

France | Tuesday, March 11, 2014 | 4 photos

Ingredients
1 cup all-purpose flour
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup water
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons butter, melted

 

How to prepare this recipe
In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour and the eggs. Gradually add in the milk and water, stirring to combine. Add the salt and butter; beat until smooth.
Heat a lightly oiled griddle or frying pan over medium high heat. Pour or scoop the batter onto the griddle, using approximately 1/4 cup for each crepe. Tilt the pan with a circular motion so that the batter coats the surface evenly.
Cook the crepe for about 2 minutes, until the bottom is light brown. Loosen with a spatula, turn and cook the other side. Serve hot.

 

The story behind this recipe
Nothing will ever save you from this luring, seductive scent. Nothing. Turning around the corner of the city which tends to be so romantically grayish especially at winter time you will feel it, catch its overtones, and you will follow it in the end, like you follow the yet unknown melody, you have never heard before but fell in love with immediately. This is the odor of France, its delicate fragrant. Never believe anyone who will say that Paris is not the city of love anymore, that it stands like an ordinary industrial town on the outskirts breathing out puffs of fume from the long factory pipes stretching their heads towards the sky, like an old man is smoking his pipe. When it comes to love you are the only one to believe and when it comes to Paris grab your most exquisite attire, the one you never had a chance to put on here, in your own town, and go, just go there, you may even run, if you want. You can’t go to Paris just for several days, it will be a suicide. You should have long walks here, breath in fresh air with a full breast, feel this inspiring moment with your skin. Here, in Paris, die all your worries and troubles. They simply jump out of your head and throw themselves in Seine River. Here you feel the freedom from all burdens, here is a cradle of peace and tranquility. So many times you heard French music on the streets of Moscow, which tries to bring you here, to France, to Paris. I have never heard it here, but it came from my heart, I should have closed my coat tight not to trouble the passersby. That is how this music was born once, coming out of someone’s heart, you can’t hide it, you can only share.
I happened to be here, as he was here, in Paris, in the heart of France, in the centre of me. He smells happiness, and if you close your eyes for a moment you can feel this scent for a second, be the happiest person in the world. Even coffee smells different here, especially if you drink it with macaron of yellow, pink, green or brown color. Oh, and they also have them in light beige, which means it’s with vanilla, which I hate so much. But hatred is such a heavy burden to carry if you are in Paris.
It’s good to drink coffee here, especially if you can have a seat outside. And even if it’s raining you will not get cold, even if winter is in its full swing in December. His touch will always make you warm, it’s like a delicate, soft silk, and when you touch it you feel this delicious burning for some seconds afterwards. His look is neither mysterious nor pensive, he never had a moustache and doesn’t buy baguette in the morning, he speaks French so quick that it sounds like something rude. And he can cook.
When my plane was approaching Paris I saw that the lights of the city formed a strange shape of some sort. A heart. Paris opened me its heart and that’s why I left here mine. French wine didn’t make my head spin around or dance faster on my high heels, no. It whispered in my ear how simple life is and how fast the moment passes. We should not be that cold as we used to be, even the Eifel Tower becomes 15 centimeters smaller when it’s cold, what happens with a human’s heart than?! I never got cold in Paris, even walking around the Elysian Fields or going up Montmartre which cherishes its Sacre Coeur as a shell hides its purl. It is especially warm here, and it’s your heart which creates this warmness when you hold his hand, when you kiss him goodbye. Even when there are crowds of people, hundreds of street sellers, thousands of schoolchildren you will have the world of your own, the world that you will divide for two. For you and him.
He will take you to his parents and you will put your best dress on and even put a red lipstick on your lips, that’s how they do it in France. You will laugh and make jokes, being afraid to overdo it. You will touch him sometimes and cast a shy look on his full lips. Then you will go out in the front garden and he will smoke and you will ask how it was and of course he will say that you were great and you will smile. Then you will come back to the place you are staying at, walking along the street enlightened from all sides. Paris night life will tempt you to come to a bar or a club but you will both only smile at tipsy couples coming out on the streets. Everything is different here! You will want to catch a moment and put it in your pocket to save it for a moment you will miss him too much.
He will cook crapes and make you sit on the coach and not interfere in a men’s business. He will even throw the crapes up in the air while telling you that French people were the first to cook pancakes not Russians. And you will agree.
Here you will taste the snails, which you will find like plastic and you will understand that most of French people never ate frogfoot and you will try the wine which won’t be better the one you drank in Italy. Perhaps you will even try foie gras and will feel sorry for poor ducks that were killed for someone to enjoy this delicacy for dinner. But the most important thing is that you will have this strange feeling. The feeling of emptiness, not because you’ve lost something, no, just because your life will never be the same again, it will start from a new page. And it’s you to decide who is to blame; Paris that you fell in love with or the man you will never forget who left thousands of kisses on your body. That’s Paris and that is actually love.