STEPHEN LYLE

In early April I traveled to Paris and then took the train down South with my sister to visit my father, who still lives there. The red-faced, fifth generation maker and seller of Brie de Meaux cheese at the Richard Lenoir market told us that since the new European Union rules have been enforced, he doesn’t make butter any more. They won’t let him touch it, even with gloves. He has waged legal battles over the right to make raw milk brie for export, but said he was tired, that ...

In early April I traveled to Paris and then took the train down South with my sister to visit my father, who still lives there. Many Sunday mornings, when my dear brother-in-law Jean is not out at his ancestral hall in Normandie, you can find him at the Richard Lenoir Market near Place de la Bastille. It was totally overwhelming, as always to me, and it was only April. Our favorite thing to look at is the fish at “Lorenzo”. Lorenzo is, by Jean’s account, a tyrant who can...

In early April I traveled to Paris and then took the train down South with my sister to visit my father, who still lives there. In my youth, we always ate head cheese after ballet lessons, on the train home from Cannes. This was always an effective way to keep a whole compartment for ourselves, because ballet lessons make you very hungry, and we never used utensils. This wonderful staple of French charcuterie is made by boiling the head of a pig with aromatics, removing the meat from the bo...

In early April I traveled to Paris and then took the train down South with my sister to visit my father, who still lives there. The quest for dependable, universal meaning is over. Eternal and self-evident truth is derived from eating pig. My sister took me to Le Comptoire du relais St. Germain, a very cool bistro on the left bank, and there this fact was driven home conclusively by a wedged-shaped, crispy, boneless pig's foot.

After the pleasurable NYC agony over where to dine, my birthday dinner destination was determined to be ultra hip, and as-yet untried Freemans. They don't take rezzies, and our lengthy agonizing meant their clever clientele got there before us, and we declined the hour-long wait. So we headed for Sammy's Roumanian, a venerable holdover from the real Lower East Side, before the tweebs got there (cross between dweeb and twink -- see wiki). Inside Sammy's, an old man at a large keyboard was pla...

Drove out to Queens again with the wife and daughter for what is fast becoming an excellent habit - eating weird food on Sunday night. Within a four mile radius centered on Roosevelt Avenue and 65th Street is one of the most amazingly global collections of restaurants on the planet. West Indian, Bangladeshi, Peruvian, Colombian, Thai, Korean, Mexican - just to name a few. They cater to their own, and we are the lucky interlopers. My children's most wonderful high-school teacher has made a th...