The word “taco” in the name kind of leads one to believe that the tacos are tacos but they’re not tacos. If they were, they would be an abomination. But thanks to a very popular article in the New Yorker, I’ve since had to change my stance, eat my words, and eat a damn French Taco.
Ten weeks ago, the idea of hour-long lunches everyday would have terrified me. Now, I’m grateful-ish for them.
It’s been 7-ish weeks of quarantine, folks. That’s 147 French meals, some of which featured food I never knew existed.
French breakfast is different from your breakfast, but it’s also extremely important so don’t talk shit about it.
In Paris everyone is constantly eating, carrying, or buying bread. And you can too!
I love writing off-topic reviews of frozen, unusual, and unhealthy food. This week: a boxed ham sandwich.