Paris Kitchenette

I don’t have a favorite café in Europe. I have a favorite kitchen.

The best meals I ate in Paris— and later, south in the Languedoc— were the ones I prepared in our own kitchen, and ate at home.

I didn't plan it that way, and it's no criticism of French restaurants, but it was a revelation.

It started because of jet lag. My lover and I were hungry and awake when we arrived late in the city. We were staying at a friend's apartment who lives around the corner from one of the original cobblestone roads to Rome, Rue Mouffetard. There are farmer's market stalls, and plentiful delis, patisserie, and charcuterie shops, who spill their talents onto the street.

You can't walk out the door without being hit with the smells of roast chicken and potatoes, shellfish paella, fresh garlic, ripe cheese, boxes of strawberries from Spain. You're offered wine samples in the street. The Nutella and banana crepes are sizzling on the outdoor burners. The artisan's boutique of olive oils and vinegars beckons.

It was a fantastic scene, and very familiar, because Paris's season…