Madamoiselle EPL

For the last few days, I've exchanged my English blogger identity for the chicer, Parisian alternative, Madamoiselle EPL. Please excuse any typos, getting to grips with a french keyboard is playing havoc with my ability to touch type at speed.

This has been my first time in Paris and despite my typical English ignorance of foreign languages, I've managed quite well - mostly thanks to ma terrifique roommate who happens to be both French and in posession of a fabulous Parisian apartment a mere 15 minute walk from the Louvre. It would have been rude not to. . .

I'm not known for being overly romantic infact romance is not something I am comfortable with. In a list of things which turn my stomach it's right up there with Sir Cliff Richard and carol singers. Needless to say being in the most romantic city in the world, I've had to get used to it pretty quickly.

Thankfully a run in with a street seller at the Sacre Coeur, who went to slip some tat onto my finger but actually achieved an accidental boob graze, coupled with a slew of indecent text messages that would make the most ardent of Scarlet readers blush, from my old faithful; has meant that in Paris, Madamoiselle EPL has found romance to be as dead as the baby calf that was sacrificed on the alter of my blanquette de veau craving palette.

I love to eat. No I really love to eat so this trip has been about fondant chocolat, macqaroon, pain au chocolat, beurre, beouf, sausisson, some more beurre and the most exquisite of canellonis, swimming in a bubbling bath of gorgonzola.

A visit to my roommates friend's restaurant had me clenching the tablecloth in a fit of culinary pleasure. After satisfying everyone of our tastebuds with scallops, fresh spinach and ricotta, chocolate tarte (the secret is to use salted butter), pannacotta and the most delicious of reds, Joanna and Patricio locked us in and insisted we light up over a light discussion of french politics and french cinema. There is nothing like a cigarette after a meal. Yes its a dirty habit, but when in Rome (or Paris as the case may be) I have found myself overindulging my lungs as well as my stomach.

Unfortunately for me they don't sell Slimatea here, just food and wine, and a shed load of it at that. I can see why Master EPL adores it so much here even if it makes London look like a reasonably priced city, although I have managed to stock up on my beloved Vogue cigarettes at a fraction of the price. Home to Londres this evening armed with sassison sec enorme for Master EPL and as much pastry as my suitcase will carry. Destination diet via a stint at the gym.

Bisou, bisou xx

Ate: a lot all with a side plate of butter
Paid: a lot, but one can not put a price on a good time
Lived: like a true Parisian ooh la la