Paris

Brasserie Lipp is a magical place to me that has maintained its integrity for well over 131 years. Not much has changed with the decor, food or with the waitstaff since I was a small child. There are waiters that have been there every day for 40 years, rapidly shuffling along, flat feet and all, with huge trays of covered dishes. I love this place, period!

They have a thick Parisian attitude which means that it could take years for them to notice or acknowledge you, but when they finally do they never forget you no matter how far back in line you may be standing. The waters parts and you are summoned to the head of the line like royalty has arrived as everyone moves quickly out of the way with a confused look on their face as they try to figure out "who you are" that they are making such a fanfare over.

It was hard not to take it personally.

The moment my mother and I stumbled off the plane onto Parisian soil this past June, the city was getting away from itself in a most unusual way.

Too-close-for-comfort terrorism alerts were being issued to Americans traveling to France. Torrential and relentless downpours of rain were pummeling the streets. The Seine was flooding to a historic level. A strike by transit workers and airport employees was looming. Unseasonably cold temperatures were forcing us to forego wearing the Paris-style fashions we had dreamily packed in our matching luggage sets. And, in an emergency act of protecting its antiquities from drowning, the Louvre had the nerve to close its doors - literally as we were arriving at the ticket booth - rendering us unable to so much as snap a prized selfie of us surrounded by hundreds of other tourists snapping selfies of themselves snapping selfies with Ms. Mona Lisa.

Frankly, the City of Light was looking more like the City of Uh-Oh, and I’m fairly certain my mother wanted to cry. After all, this was the highly-anticipated mother-daughter trip she’d been planning for a year now. A vacation to celebrate our triumphant survival through a previous year of abysmal woes. A vacation that had already been postponed once and had a lot riding on it emotionally and spiritually. A vacation that, at this point, seemed would have been better spent in the Bahamas. Or Trenton, New Jersey.

It was a hunk of meat that turned things around for Mom and me.

A few decades ago, my sister and I went to Paris at Christmas to see the legendary holiday decorations. Galleria Lafayette was near the top of our not-to-miss list. On the top floor was a collection of Kiosks set up just for the 30 days before Christmas that offered food for shoppers that were hungry and tired. The room was loud, too warm, and packed full of holiday shoppers but Petrossian's smoked salmon looked too good to miss so, we sat down at a tall stool and preceded to order 2 plates of salmon and 2 coupes of Champagne. We planned on just having the salmon and continuing on with our day...We sure were wrong! The smoked salmon arrived, completely covering the large 10-inch Limoge plate, hand-sliced, surprisingly thick, a pot of creme fraiche, and a plate of blinis and two coupes.

I remember taking that first bite – the room around me disappeared in a fog. I no longer was aware of the sound of the holiday shoppers, it was just those blissful mouthfuls of smoked salmon and sips of Bollinger Champagne. Our food had stopped the movement of time – looking at my Sister when the plate was empty we didn't need to say anything because we both knew we had to find the "Mother Store." We had to find the source! What else awaited us?