I woke with a start on Saturday, realizing that I hadn't done any Christmas shopping at all. And now, with a very generous Christmas gift of cash in my wallet from V, I could. I headed to, where else, the Christmas Market on the Champs Elysees, the largest and closest Christmas market in the city. It was a warm day, but raining cats and dogs. To all of you who urged me to leave my rain boots at home because they were too big to fit practically in my suitcase, I can only say that you were so, so wrong. They are a Godsend.
The Christmas Market sells everything you'd expect a Christmas market to sell: jewelry, scarves, ornaments, novelties, etc., as well as lots and lots of food and hot beverages. It was becoming more and more apparent that I'd barely had anything to eat that day as I passed roasting chestnuts; nutella crepes; fat, aromatic sausages grilled with onions; chocolate waffles; dozens of neon signs hawking vin chaud; and tartiflette. I'd been to the Christmas market twice before, both times with friends. One of those times happened to be the evening that my throat felt like it was at the bottom of the fires of Mount Doom. I got it into my head that the one thing that would totally cure my sore throat was a little vin chaud. Yes, a nice cup of hot, sweet wine would certainly soothe my ragged throat, and then I'd be well enough to dance the night away with no problems. L agreed that hot wine was definitely in order but first, she stipulated, she'd like to eat. Makes sense, I suppose.
Well we passed by stall after stall but nothing seemed to tempt her. Not the francified "hot dogs" topped in melted cheese, sweet sausages, sandwiches, crepes, or even chicken paella.
"What are you looking for?" I finally asked, slightly exasperated and glancing longingly at a woman clutching a steaming styrofoam cup.
"Tartiflette," she said. "I have a craving. I just really want some tartiflette." When we'd circled the entire market with no luck, she suggested we head to Trocadero, where there was another Christmas market. So we walked another ten minutes to Trocadero, where still, we could not find the elusive tartiflette. Eventually, she gave up and satisfied herself with some fries, while I ran to the nearest vin chaud sign. It did help, by the way.
Well at the market on Saturday, feeling famished, I passed a sign for tartiflette. Obviously, I had to know what deliciousness could have induced a hungry person to pass by all the other delicious things and check two markets in search of it.
"Une tartiflette, s'il vous plait."
I took the hot mess they served me to a nearby bench.
Oh. My. God. It was a sort of casserole of grilled potatoes and onions and cheese, and oh my God are those bacon bits? All piled on a piece of lettuce, for health reasons I can only imagine. After walking around for hours on a chilly, damp day, tartiflette is the final word in comfort food.
L, you are forgiven. I understand now.
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