Let me introducing myself: My nom is Francois Soupcon, and I come from a very old and enchanting Gaulic family. Since I have been thigh-high to a spiny lobster, I have studied food in all of its excesses, first working with my grandmere in her wood-burning oven, later, with my father in his tiny bistrot in Montmarte. I attended the Cordon Bleu, but did I become a chef? No, I did not!
Instead I traveled the world in search of new sensations gastronomique, eating snakes and lizards in Bhutan, seal blubber in the maritime provinces of Canada, and French fries in some of the best boites of Bolivia, washed down with flagons of male tea. The dining halls of the diamond mines of Afrique Sud are not unknown to me, nor are the tiny pho shops of Mountain View, California.
So, when the staff at Fork in the Street hit a dry spell, they asked me to fill in, letting my wit and wisdom in electric currents flow onto the computer pages, surely delighting one and all. To put it in a simplest way, I will be writing a few freelancer pieces for the blog when I chance to pass through New York. My first, they told me, would be an easy one. “Complain about everything you unlike about today’s New York restaurants,” they told me, sitting on Brian’s couch and fixing on me fierce looks.
“It will be a piece of cheese,” I responded. And indeed it was. So tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, look for my first aretickle for Fork in the Street: “Our 10 Worst Restaurant Trends.”
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