Crack Time

Last night, the girls and I went to, you guessed it, Snack Time. We had a few new faces, Caroline and Jessica, two girls who go to law school with Suzanne and Steph, but it was the same old Snack Time experience. We commandered our table, bought our dinner and usual amazing cookies, a French man insulted me... wait this deserves a sidebar.

SIDEBAR: There was an older French man waiting in line at Snack Time with his daughter (or Lolita lover - you never know in France), and he was commenting on the mixture between American and French food. He looked to me as if for confirmation, so I said, oui, il est un mixte! Then he said something about the American food and how Americans were very fat (of course he felt it necessary to use hand motions to describe this). Appalled, I say, ''je suis Americaine!" Ohh, he says, mais vous etes le exception. I'm appeased for a moment. Then the guy behind the counter hands me my giant slice of pizza, and the French man looks at the pizza and then looks at me with a smirk on his face and says something to the effect about how I'm going to be a fat American if I eat the pizza. I give him my most murderous look and walk away...to eat my pizza. SIDEBAR ENDED.

....and back to Snack Time, usual experience, etc... As I was saying, we settled in to eat our dinner and, as always, started into a rather loud and inappropriate conversation just to showcase our ''American-ness." It was then, that I decided that Snack Time -- with it's undeniable draw and an atmosphere that makes American girls fall into conversation so hilarious they (ok just me...) laugh so hard water comes out their (my) nose -- should be renamed: ''Crack'' Time. I am 100% convinced they put crack in their cookies.

Today I had another culinary experience that was a bit more tame. My boss invited me over for dinner. He lives in a small town outside Paris called Maisons-Lafitte. It's absolutely adorable with a little shop-lined boulevard, a park, and its own chateau. We had a ''market dinner'' as he and his wife like to call it. They go to the open air market, buy roast chicken, fresh bread, cheeses, and fresh fruits and veggies, and they put out a delicious spread for dinner. Everything was amazing...but nothing compared to one item that graced the table. My boss had told me before about the buerre sale - a creamy salted butter. I had promised him I would try it, but I hadn't got around to it. Well, he and his wife put out buerre sale to go with the french bread, and he said, you must taste it. As someone who loves butter and salt, I knew I would like it, but when I put that creamy, rich, melt-in your mouth delicacy into my mouth...I knew I was in trouble. It was like the heroin of dairy. One taste and I was hooked. Between each bite, I went into withdrawal. Right now, my hands are shaking... I may have to stop at the market on my home from (ok on my way to...) work tomorrow!