I don't watch much TV, but I have reached the conclusion that jury duty is like being an involuntary cast member on an unusually monotonous reality show. I'm not sure that's a bad thing, although I wish we had more breaks for commercials and someone to do our hair.
After today's session, I returned to that pop-up crèpe restaurant, Doré, and ordered the "grilled cheese" crèpe with some additional rosemary ham. The fellow who made it must be a new recruit. He began with a good sprinkling of mozzarella and kept adding slice after slice of Swiss and cheddar until his manager and I made him stop. It was excellent — I love blends of melted cheeses — but much too rich to finish. In fact, I think it cured my crèpe craving, at least for the savory kind if not the sweet ones. (Behold the power of cheese.)
This time I managed to photograph my lunch before attacking it:
Doré's crèpes taste authentically French, but their technique needs work (even though they offer classes in crèpe-making for a good chunk of change). French crèpistes (invented a word — pretty good, huh?) pour their buckwheat batter, rake it around into a neat circle, and leave the crèpe alone to cook until it's time to flip it. They do that with a bare minimum of activity, loosening it from the griddle, lifting and unfolding it as if it were the easiest thing in the world. The Doré guys begin by fussing too much with the little rake tool. They still drip batter over the sides of the griddle, so they have to cut off all that dried batter with their knife/spatula. They work too hard; they lack that nonchalant French insoucience that turns out perfection with no appearance of effort.
But who cares? The end result tastes FINE.
We jurors are supposed to begin deliberating tomorrow, so lunch will be catered as we'll have a full day in the courthouse. I doubt we'll be served crèpes or my favorite Così salad, my standard lunch whenever I'm downtown and hungry. But if I get stuck being an alternate or the foreman, I may just treat myself to a Nutella crèpe afterward, for old times' sake.