Capitalism is the new religion

I will eat falafel from any venue. It's not the sort of food you expect to have been prepared in the most pristine conditions, I suppose. I'm very particular about where I get sushi, muffins, and bagels, somewhat picky with pizza and coffee, but any falafel will do. In Paris, I had falafel at a restaurant with a truly filthy outhouse. Yes, a restaurant. Yes, an outhouse. Well, sort of a bathroom-outhouse fusion, but very much BYOTP. (Think about it.) Today, when Molly mentioned good falafel in a loading dock, I readily agreed. Which was a good thing, as this falafel was not half bad. Nor, for that matter, is my Hebrew, because just hearing someone say the word "lishtot" reminded me to grab a diet Coke.

In keeping with the Parisian theme of today's lunch hour, Molly and I hit up the Petit Bateau sample sale. In the interest of completely eliminating any relevance whatsoever this blog may have, I'll let you know that I got two white tank tops, a pink long-sleeved v-neck, and a black longsleeved crewneck. The sale itself was held in a church, which amused me because, in "The Ladies' Paradise" the new, big department store is referred to many times as being church-like. (Am tempted to make a remark about how a sample sale in a church is a bit like a bar in a synagogue--a sneaky way to attract converts--but should probably just send it along to Sarah Silverman, who has the monopoly on ethnic/"JAP" jokes these days).