You are totally jealous of my sandwich, admit it.
Ryan, my haircut-needing nephew, is picking up lots of culinary-speak during his tenure at The Left Bank. No longer do we "fry that shit up in a pan" or "nuke the hell out of" anything; we use proper classical Fronsh terminology. For example, when microwaving the Velveeta with the Ro-Tel, I would instruct him to "nukez l'enfer hors de ce produit que reseembler รก fromage mais non est fromage."* The word of the week is "confit" and it's relation, "confiture," which has replaced the more familiar but less ...