I turned the war off today, because I could.
So on to my other obsession...food.
NY Times Magazine's food column let my perverbial cat out of the bag. They mentioned my secret guide to navigating the Paris food scene, my purple companion, Le Pudlo Paris, which I faithfully lugged around with me every time I found myself in that city.
I don't like this one bit.
Reading le Pudlo Paris is like getting dinner recommendations from your foodie friends, sometimes quirky, always rich in details. Compare that to the stark description of the rooms and the flatwares in the Guide Rouge, or the sometimes outdated Patricia Wells's Food Lover's Guide to Paris, my Pudlo has them beaten by a mile.
I've given up the occasionally useful Ms. Wells because every self-respecting American foodie would never find herself eating anywhere in Paris without first checking with the good Ms. Wells. This often results in the mass descending of American food tourists on places she favored. Walking through the door of La Regalade these days feels like one has just been magically transported to Manhattan.
My only solace is that my Pudlo is still only available in French. When a translated version is published, then I will really scream.