Caroline in Paris

According to one of my guide books, I can buy French bread in Tokyo.  Seriously; it’d cost about 40 euros and be six days old, but it’s honest-to-Dieu French bread from Poilâne.  Now, they have a bakery a brisk 15-minute walk from my apartment, and their loaves are sold in baskets at several of the nearest grocery stores, and I don’t really think their bread’s all that anyway.  And yet…I seem to be considering it.

It’s just a part of the theme.

Yesterday morning I was about to take the dogs outside when our doorbell rang.  And there was our cheeful-looking gardienne with a crabby-looking guy who muttered something about “taking a look.”  When I stepped back to let him in, he wandered into the kitchen and began muttering some more.  Apparently some of it had to do with how our pots and pans were obstructing his view, because the ever-perky gardienne trilled that I shouldn’t worry about it, and began dragging the pots and pans out of the cupboard and onto the counters.  “Whatever,” I sighed.  “I have to take the dogs out now or there’ll be a problem; back in five.”

“We’ll lock the door when we leave!” the gardienne shrieked joyfully.

On my way back inside, I ran into Crabby.  “See you in a bit,” he mumbled.

Huh?

Three hours later he came back, removed all of the pots and pans that I had oh-so-optimistically returned to their places, and started…I don’t know.  Drilling something.  And he brought a friend, and they were here most of the afternoon, and before they left Crabby told me two things that chilled me thoroughly:

1) They wouldn’t be putting the long shelf back into the cupboard yet, because it wasn’t worth the effort when they’d just have to take it out again, and

2) I’d have to move at least one of the appliances out of the kitchen before they came back the next morning (today), because there was really just no room to work.

In case you’re wondering, there is no part of any of this that’s remotely acceptable under French tenants’ rights law.

Also, they left the kitchen completely unusable, since:

1) The long shelf in question held half of the pots and pans that are now taking up all of our work surfaces, and

2) No matter which appliance we moved out of the kitchen, the oven would have to be moved away from the gas line to make room for them to get in and do whatever it is that’s saturating everything in the room with plaster dust today.

With cooking out of the question, I explained the situation to Nick and, while his ears turned red with rage, halfheartedly listed our dinner options.  He decided to think it over.  He shifted the oven, cutting his finger in the process, took out the overflowing trash, and then watched curiously while I had a mini-meltdown over the fact that I couldn’t replace the trash bag, since the oven was now planted firmly in front of the cabinet where we keep them.

“I’m making a command decision,” he announced.  “We’re getting Pizza Hut.”

The latent New Yorker in me purred; the only food delivery in Paris is junky American pizza chains.  I love delivery; I miss delivery.  Delivery is wonderful.  But my new French self balked.  “I don’t want to walk to Firenze,” Nick insisted.  “You don’t want to walk to Firenze.  And wait fifteen minutes while the dogs go nuts outside and people bump into you and the creepy kitchen guy tries to chat.”

All of that was very, very true.  But it’s right around the corner…and so much better…and…and….

Apparently Pizza Hut lets you make delivery orders entirely online.  I was sold.

“You know,” I remarked a happy half hour later, munching on a really-not-so-bad veggie slice, “this is the first time I’ve ever actually eaten anything from Pizza Hut.  I used to hate pizza, then I hated chains, and it’s just never happened.”

“And all it took was moving to France,” Nick smirked.

Oh, and hey: good news!  With some luck, the disaster in my kitchen might be all cleared up…by tomorrow afternoon.