Flotilla the Hun

while at Grands Boulevards last night we ran into a six person flotilla of braying semi-drunk American girls in flip flops looking for the Moulin Rouge, which is located nearby. they marched gracelessly up to the corner crepe stand and with the charm that can only be cultivated by spending years in shopping malls and from hours dedicated to dreaming of frat party romances, accosted the french dude behind the counter about directions.

he responded by asking if they spoke french? the leader of the pack, a slim-but- soon-to-be-built-like-a-beer-keg charmer in shorts and tee with long blonde hair mirrored back to her friend's delight with, "Do I speak your language? I sure (pronounced "sher" and elongated for emphasis) don't!"

a young french guy around their age attempted to give them directions and the lead girl promptly drafted him to accompany them to their destination. perhaps he found their attitudes somehow charming and direct? or maybe he couldn't believe how he'd scored some time with a group of tipsy american girls? hard to say, but as they disappeared from sight, his efforts at keeping up clearly faltered as the leader of the pack upped the pace as she led her flip-flopped acolytes to their collective date and fate with the Moulin Rouge.

****

it's the last day in Paris and pluie is a comin'.

and that rain means the French Open is very iffy, so unsure whether i'll make the metro ride out there in hopes of picking up a ticket. tricky to spend le monnie and then get rained out, since then you're bang out of luck.

Berlin and Paris are dotted with kabeb and north african food joints, where you can get Shawerma and such. the ones in Berlin have yet to make an impression with their super-thin and vague slices taken from an amalgamated hunk of pressed beef and lamb that sits on a vertical spike, slowly turing until ready to be shaved for inclusion into what they call a "donner."

which as far as i can tell means dropped into bread spread with a mayo and yogurt mixture that goes so out of its way not to offend that it narcotizes the tastebuds.

but in Paris they do things a bit differently - yesterday i ran into a place in the Bastille section called Babylone that hoists chickens onto a roasting spit and makes Schawerma by cutting off thick slices of the freshly roasted bird and then filling the pita with a crazy gorgeous array of hummus, cabbage, hot sauce, and assorted greens, including marinated cucumbers sliced thin but not too, and finished with sesame sauce and a few bits of cubed eggplant on top.



According to the owner, Nicole, she doesn't use onions, because folks do that in order "to disguise the bad quality of the meat." so, next time you happen to be in the Bastille, check them out on Rue Daval close to Rue de la Roquette

i took one bite and yielded to the idea that yo, a Shawerma can be a revelation.