French potato salad
Sunday, January 23rd, 2011
Standing alone in the 3 a.m. darkness of a petite Paris apartment that my friends and I had called home for a week, I awakened from a dream in which I was picnicking on a grassy knoll with an exploding basket of runny cheeses and potato salad a la Francaise—the silky, vinaigrette-dressed potato salad that rivals the mayo-clad counterpart we all know and love. I groggily shuffled over to our tiny fridge to find nothing but a small heap of strawberries quietly rotting from our neglect. (This wasn’t quite the Paris experience I had hoped for.)
As the sun’s rays finally flooded through our windows, Paris came alive: the collective hum of scooters and cars, the faint clack-clack-clacks of women deftly walking in heels on the patchy cobblestone streets. I wound a scarf around my neck and soon I was clack-clacking along with them, on a mission to recreate my dream picnic.
But my Paris rendezvous with potato salad a la Francaise was not to be. The city is full of distractions when you’re on a mission—all kinds of amusements that only the strong-willed can resist: the streetside crepe stands, the artsy store window displays neighboring populated cafes on almost every corner. By the time I had reached La Grande Epicerie, the mothership of gourmet shops in Paris, to purchase my ingredients, I already had inhaled a ham and cheese crepe, a slice of pear tart (washed down with un chocolat viennois, nonetheless), and two chocolate croissants (How do the French stay so thin?). Clearly, my willpower needs a little more work.










