Cobb-ish Salad

I am fully aware of how odd this post will seem, coming right after the last one which was, for all intents and purposes, a long-winded whine about feeling homesick for a place that no longer exists. But please, hear me out: there is a thing that has happened, and I didn’t notice it happening. Or if I did, I played it off as a one-time thing, one good moment in an expanse of grey, for while Toulouse is the pink city and Cannes has always felt blue to me, Paris, for years, was grey.

I have found my people. After eight years, I am a regular.

There’s the Peruvian man downstairs from me, the one who runs a Latin-American grocery store and knows I like Mexican ingredients and coconut popsicles, who knows that I understand Spanish but will only speak it maybe once out of every two visits, even though I always say gracias at the end of our encounters. I asked him, once, if he liked living in France, and he reacted as though I was the first person to ever ask him that.

There’s the fruit and vegetable man, or rather, men. They call me mon ange or mademoiselle. Some of them say tu, and I like it. The owner calls me la Miss,the way the Parisian’s father used to — it’s strange how quickly that can send me back. The herbs in my bag are always cadeau, but sometimes, when I stop by for a quick mid-morning snack, my hand-selected pêche blanche is rinsed, wrapped in paper towel, and cadeau too.

There’s the bartender at the local café, the one we call the PMU, even though it’s just a café that will sell you 8 euro packs of cigarettes sometimes, but you don’t get to choose the brand. He waves at me even when I’m just walking by, calls me ma belle, ma chérie, mon ange. I always stop to give him an exaggerated wave and smile, because apparently once I forgot, and it ruined his morning. I don’t know if i believe him, but I smile anyway. The last beer — I won’t say of how many — is always on the house, and we can pay for even just a demi with a credit card and get change back on 10 euro.

There’s the butcher, who I see rarely, as those who frequent this blog may guess, but if he’s ever out smoking, he calls me Emily, smiles, and sometimes says Emily-i-grec, just so that I know that he knows, that he remembers.

It’s been at least a year in the making, maybe more. But when I’m gone for a few days, they notice. When I’m in a hurry, they ask if everything is OK.

I always wanted to be a regular somewhere, though when I wanted it, I assumed it would be at a dive bar. I can’t hide how happy I am, now, that I’m a regular at the places where I buy my groceries instead.

Cobb-ish Salad (serves 2)

100 grams lardons or bacon cut into matchsticks
2 chicken breasts
20 cherry tomatoes
1 red onion
50 grams Roquefort
1 avocado
2 Romaine hearts
2 Tbsp. mayonnaise
2 Tbsp. sour cream
2 Tbsp. cider vinegar
1 tsp. salt
fresh black pepper

Place the lardons in a cold pan and slowly heat. Allow the fat to render out. Cook until the lardons are slightly browned. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside. Add the chicken breasts to the pan and cook 4-5 minutes per side, until completely browned. Remove and set aside.

Halve the cherry tomatoes. Thinly slice the onion. Dice the avocado and slice the romaine.

Whisk together the mayonnaise, sour cream, cider vinegar, salt and pepper. Toss in a large salad bowl with the romaine. Top with the tomatoes, onion, blue cheese, avocado, chicken and bacon. Serve.