True Parisienne

Shakespeare once penned the line “that which we call a rose, by any other name would it smell as sweet?” My response is: Sure, but let’s say you were suddenly to call that same rose a hot fudge sundae, the thought of which makes you salivate, with its warm, chocolaty gooeyness waiting for you at the bottom of the glass, past scoops of cool, melting vanilla ice cream topped with heavenly whipped cream, chopped nuts and a bright red cherry…well, then, a thorny-stemmed rose in all of its powdery sweetness would simply not be as satisfying, wouldest it?

In litigious-happy America, we are a literal people. We don’t like surprises, and we go out of our way to avoid confrontations with angry customers, if for no other reason than to evade the costly legal damages that may ensue. This has led to inane, cautionary language on many products sold in the USA, from “Warning: the contents of this coffee cup may be hot,” to “Shin pads cannot protect any part of the  body they do not cover,” and – for office workers apparently too lazy to walk to the vending machine – “Do not eat toner.”

My favorite, printed on a package of peanuts, is “Warning: may contain nuts.”

One complaint I hear time and time again from recently arrived expats coming from across the Atlantic is the lack of clear information in France. I have to admit, this can be extremely challenging at times, until you learn the ropes. But after awhile you become very adept at figuring things out for yourself. Or you move back to the U.S., where you can revel in being repeatedly reminded to remove the plastic from your package of food before you eat it. If you are one to get hung up on words and definitions, you might think twice before moving to France, where form frequently trumps function.

Speaking of food, last week I finally checked out Mama Shelter, the new hip-and-trendy lounge, restaurant and hotel unexpectedly located in Paris’s 20eme arrondissement, very near the Cimetière Père-Lachaise (where Jim Morrison and Frédéric Chopin are buried). At Mama Shelter, concept is king…or, rather, queen.

From the cheeky sayings scrawled in brightly colored chalk on the restaurant’s black ceilings, to the jars of candy available to hotel guests, the ingenuity of the creative minds behind the “Mama Shelter concept” has garnered The Best Hotel Design Award from Travel + Leisure and made The Hot List in Conde Nast Traveler.

A French philosopher was even hired to help ensure that Mama Shelter offered an “eclectic and electric ambiance thanks to its friendly, warm and casual common areas.” The place does, indeed, evoke an unmistakable homey American vibe, even though I didn’t spot any American names on the list of talent.

The founders’ creativity also extends to the menu of Mama Shelter’s restaurant - for better and for worse. It was a very warm day in Paris, and my dining companions and I were eating on the shaded deck. Our food was quite delicious. My friends ordered a succulent steak with Béarnaise sauce and a paper funnel full of perfectly seasoned pommes frites. I had grilled fish with a lovely lemony leek sauce. Although we were sufficiently satisfied after our main course, there was one dessert item on the menu that caught our eye: a hot fudge sundae. Read the rest of this entry »

This was my first Fourth of July spent in America in four years, and I was feeling particularly patriotic on this trip “home.” Just prior to landing at Sea-Tac International Airport on Saturday, I peered through the window at the purple mountains’ majesty of Mt. Baker, Mt. Rainier and Mt. Adams…and a big smile spread across my face at the thought of soon being on U.S. soil again.

Before long, I was behind the wheel of my rental car – a Chevrolet! What could be more American than that? As I crossed over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge toward beautiful Gig Harbor for a Fourth of July barbecue, Garrison Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion” began playing on National Public Radio. Its timing could not have been better, for now there was no mistaking I was in America. It was a special broadcast, too…live from Avon, Minnesota (just a hop, skip and a jump away from Lake Wobegon), on the popular radio show’s 35th anniversary.

It’s not necessary to have been raised Lutheran or to be of Scandinavian descent to fully appreciate this weekly program of homespun Midwestern music, commentary and comedy sketches…but it probably helps.

On this particular Independence Day, not only did I delight in Keillor’s folksy humor as I usually do, but I was also struck by something he said that was particularly meaningful to me, an American living abroad who - despite enjoying French champagne and cuisine and living in what is arguably the world’s most beautiful (and romantic) city - occasionally misses barbecue and pancakes, marching bands and American flags:

“If some day you should have the privilege of living outside your country…when you come back to your country, you’ll realize this is your home, where people speak your language, where everyone knows who Kirby Puckett was, they know the rules of baseball, they can shoot free throws, they know how to make barbecue, and they all know the same jokes, and they all know the words to the same songs that you do.”

The longer I live in France, the more out-of-touch with America I feel. I don’t recognize many of the stars in magazines or the bands playing on the radio or the names of the Mariners’ pitching staff. This is the first time I’ve been in my country since our new president took office. So it was comforting to hear the words of the great raconteur Keillor to remind me of who I am. 

That day, the Seattle Mariners triumphed 3 – 2 over the Boston Red Sox in baseball. I ate my fill of barbecued beef and salmon before jetlag got the best of me and I fell asleep just when the fireworks started. And when I pulled into my friend Lisa’s driveway, I belted out “The Star Spangled Banner” along with Garrison Keillor and the rest of Avon, Minnesota (with my car windows rolled up, of course), appreciating being in America all the more by having been away from it.

Summer has finally arrived in Paris, with temperatures settling contentedly in the mid-80s (in Celsius: high 20s). It’s days like these when I thank my lucky etoiles that French fashion has evolved greatly since the 17th century for females.

While it’s tricky to slip into a skirt and sleeveless top when beads of sweat are already forming on my skin at 9 am, I can’t imagine the agony of squeezing into a corset or stomacher, pulling on thick petticoats and then strapping on a bustle to fill out my backside. (And back then, this was only one of the first layers!)

As I nearly lose consciousness in the Paris metro from the overheated, stagnant air and the smell of other sweaty bodies, it makes me think about what it must have been like being limited to shallow, restricted breaths from a whalebone bodice, as well as the odors resulting from the public’s overall disdain of bathing at the time. My conclusion: We’ve come a long way, baby!

Bare legs are à la mode during hot-summer weather in Paris, even in its most chic neighborhoods. (This refers to women, not men, unfortunately.) It doesn’t matter how old you are or how wrinkled your skin may be, or whether you are sporting a Saint Tropez tan or your legs are closer to the shade of Casper the Friendly Ghost. With a general lack of air conditioning throughout the city’s buildings, it’s too darn hot to wear hose! And for most French women, varicose and spider veins are not an issue because their removal is supposedly covered under the national health system.

Remember what Olympia Dukakis’s character said in the film Steel Magnolias: “The only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize”? Well in Paris, the only thing that separates us expats from the tourists is our ability to not stick out like a sore thumb.

So even though women can get by wearing very little during Paris heat waves, certain fashion rules must be obeyed if you wish to blend in and avoid disdainful glances as you walk down the street:

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“The chair, to your left, is a Louis XIV.” We don’t blink an eye when we hear the name of arguably the most famous French king in history associated with furnishings, architecture and design. Yet if it weren’t for the poor sap Nicolas Fouquet, what we now refer to as “Louis XIV style” may not have come about at all.

Fouquet (pronounced much like the name of the unforgettable Arrested Development never-nude character, Tobias Fünke) constructed a fabulous castle and gardens from 1658 to 1661, the style and grandeur of which Versailles was later based. In fact, Fouquet bought and tore down three villages to make room for his expansive gardens, although he reportedly hired most of the displaced villagers to work on building his great estate. He also hired the best architect, interior designer and landscape artist of the day, who teamed up to assemble an elegant and modern castle rivaling all others at the time.

Last Sunday, mon amie americaine Michelle and I paid a visit to this spectacular château domain, Vaux-le-Vicomte, which Michelle refers to as “a palace that you could really picture yourself living in,” compared to over-sized Versailles.

Yes, I could definitely picture myself living at Vaux-le-Vicomte (except for the bathrooms without running water)! But unfortunately its first resident could no longer, as he suffered a tragic fate. The rumor is that once King Louis XIV visited Fouquet’s palace at a grand party held in his honor, he was so envious that he threw Fouquet in jail, seized his property and possessions, and then took Fouquet’s dream team of architects, designers and landscapers to build an even grander version for himself at Versailles.

Well, the truth isn’t too far off, but before I share the full story, I’d like to take you off on une petite tangente française.

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It’s another 3-day holiday weekend in France, which means that Sunday seems more like a Saturday…complete with my lazy Saturday attitude. I wanted to journey outside of Paris but didn’t feel like going too far. So I hopped on Metro line 13 and headed to the Cathedral of Saint Denis, known as “the royal necropolis of France,” located just 17 kilometers (10 miles) north of Paris.

Sure, this massive cathedral is intriguing because it’s the final resting place of most of the French kings and queens, starting with Clovis I (465 – 511 AD). It also has dozens of fascinating “recumbent” statues that probably are the crème de la crème of funerary sculptures, down to the deftly detailed medieval pointy-toed shoes.

But it gets way, way more interesting than that.

To start with, the cathedral stands on the site of a Gallo-Roman cemetery that held the tomb of Saint Denis. According to legend, this former Paris bishop was beheaded with a sword by the Romans in approximately 250 AD, on the hill now known as Montmartre. Not one to be deterred by mere decapitation, Denis allegedly picked up his head and walked away. Some claimed that he even continued to preach a sermon while carrying his severed head in his hands (although, personally, I think just being able to walk after literally losing one’s head is impressive enough). He was buried at the spot where he ultimately fell, and an abbey was built to mark the place.

The abbey was eventually rebuilt in the late 12th century as a masterpiece of early Gothic architecture. However, the grand cathedral barely survived the French Revolution – and the bones inside the royal coffins didn’t fare any better. Revolutionary officials ordered workers to open the tombs and to dump the corpses into two large pits nearby.

After French King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette were sent to the guillotine in 1793, they were “buried” under quicklime (to quickly decompose their bodies) in the same cemetery as other guillotine victims, near the center of Paris. However, after Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled in Elba, the Bourbon family briefly returned to power and they ordered a search for Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette’s remains. In 1815, a few bones that were presumably the king’s and a clump of “greyish matter” containing a lady’s garter were uncovered and brought to Saint Denis to be buried in the crypt.

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While I’ve lived in Paris for more than four years, there are some traditional French foods that I still don’t intentionally eat, including Andouillette (a smelly sausage made with pork intestines), cuisses de grenouilles (frog legs), escargot and lamb’s brains. I use the word “intentionally” because I have, unwittingly, eaten the last two in the past couple of years!

Nevertheless, there is one famously French dish that I’ve grown quite fond of in particular, and that’s steak tartare.

In the e-coli phobic (with good reason) United States, many people would wince at eating a mince of raw beef. I think I must have drunk a few beers before I tasted my first bite several years ago – offered by a French friend while at a table full of French people…how could I refuse? I had to protect my honor and prove I wasn’t une mauviette (the French equivalent of “a chicken”). To my surprise, it was wonderfully fresh-tasting and had a bit of a kick in the seasoning department. I ended up asking for several more bites.

The best steak tartare, in my opinion, is hand-chopped, not ground. According to Clotilde Dusoulier, the author of one of my recent cookbook finds, Chocolate & Zucchini: Daily Adventures in a Parisian Kitchen, “Two phrases to look for on a French menu are tartare minute and au couteau: this means that the meat is prepared right to order and chopped by hand, which gives it less time for unfortunate encounters with bacteria, and a more satisfying bite.”

The basic recipe for steak tartare, in addition to high quality beef, includes Dijon mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco sauce, a dash of brandy, garlic, small capers, finely chopped onions or shallots, fresh parsley, ground white pepper, salt and an egg yolk. Clotilde also adds chopped hazelnuts in her recipe.

Because I’m afraid to handle and then eat raw beef (go ahead, call me une mauviette!), I have discovered a cozy little bistro in my own neighborhood of Batignolles where I regularly enjoy this tasty uncooked treat. Tartare au couteau is always on the menu at La Bonne Heure (which my American friends and I cannot resist calling “The Boner.”)

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Hooray, hooray for the month of May! Because when you live and work in France, you do a little less working and a lot more living during this month.

This May, the majority of French residents will enjoy three 3-day weekends and one 4-day weekend. Many Parisians take advantage of the back-to-back long weekends by taking trips. (I did this last year by exploring my roots in Norway and Sweden - and eating my body weight in lefse and reindeer steaks.)

Still, Paris is always a playground, as there’s so much to do and see. So while the rest of the Parisians clogged the highways, train stations and airports last weekend, I stayed put. But I certainly wasn’t idle. Here’s what I did during my three days of freedom:

Friday, May 1
May Day is not only Labor Day in France (La Fête du Travail), but it is also La Fête du Muguet (Lilly of the Valley). While most shops are closed, the streets are dotted with vendors selling these delicate, fragrant flowers in cute little bouquets and pots. Ah, Paris.

It was a warm and sunny day, which made me think about wearing skirts…which then made me think about my disappointingly atrophied calf muscles. So I hopped on the short metro ride to one of my favorite Parisian neighborhoods, Lamarck-Caulaincourt, on the backside of La Butte Montmartre. I chose the longest set of stairs I could find, alternating between running and lunging up the steps each time to work different muscles. (I’m sure that the patrons at the café at the bottom of the stairway got a kick out of this. While running stairs is a common form of exercise in Seattle, Parisians would never do it, opting instead to stop halfway up to light a cigarette before continuing their climb…thus avoiding breaking into a sweat.) Read the rest of this entry »

Children on donkeys and cadres* on benches
Boys bobbing boats catch their mothers’ attention
Springtime in Paris and all that it brings
These are a few of my favorite things…

Ah yes, indeed. It’s definitely Springtime in Paris. The days are growing warmer and longer. Flowers are blooming everywhere. And for the first time this year, I ate lunch today sitting on a bench in the Jardin des Tuileries, 63 glorious acres of sprawling gardens situated on the right bank of the Seine, adjacent to the Louvre Museum.

The Jardin des Tuileries – with its origins in the early 16th century – was one of the first parks to open to the public, and it quickly became a place to see and be seen. Today, whether just strolling through or taking time to sit and relax, residents and visitors alike enjoy this profoundly popular Parisian park.

Here’s my routine: I first go to the bustling Patissier Boulanger at 302 rue Saint-Honore (in the first arrondissement) and get in line. My employer-issued “ticket restaurant” is good for 7,50 €, and for one ticket I can get a sandwich, a dessert or small salad, and a drink. The sandwiches and pastries here are among the best I’ve had in Paris, which is a pleasant surprise given their reasonable prices in such a costly neighborhood. What’s more, the ladies who work there are both friendly and efficient. They really don’t have to try so hard, but I’m glad that they do.

Today I picked up a roast-beef sandwich (which I could tell tickled the ladies at the boulangerie because they assume I’m British, whom the French dub “les rosbifs,” or roast beefs) and a lemon tart, along with a bottle of water. Then I headed with my coworker to Les Tuileries. Looking for a place to sit, we walked past countless others also on their lunch break, in addition to joggers, children, tourists, retired folk and, bien sûr, the ubiquitous young lovers passionately groping each other in broad daylight – who are all as much a permanent fixture here as are the garden’s sculptures and monuments.

We found the perfect bench – one partially shaded, sans bird droppings – although unfortunately it was next to the route of les ânes (donkeys), whose smell preceded them by at least a minute. Still, I can’t imagine a better place to sit – in view of fountains, breathtaking flower beds and a grand palace – when enjoying my delectable lemon tart. Lunch doesn’t get much better than this!

When the rails strike
When my tax bill comes
When je suis malade (I am ill)
I simply remember where I eat my lunch
And then I don’t feel so bad.

* cadre = someone in a managerial position, or an otherwise high-level professional

Since my last post, a lot has happened: I’ve spent a week in Tuscany, broken up with my boyfriend and experienced yet another water issue in my apartment. But that’s the life of a jet-setting, French man dating, Parisian apartment-owning  expat.

In celebration of two friends’ 40th birthdays, their Italian-wine-loving friends flew in to join them from all around the world – Hong Kong, Chicago, Washington DC, London and Paris – for a week of nonstop laughter, staying in a private villa approximately an hour south of Florence. Despite the rain, there are few places more beautiful on this earth than Tuscany. And few cuisines as wholly fulfilling as Italian.

One evening a chef came to the villa to prepare dinner, and she gave us a bit of a cooking lesson, which included hand-rolling pici – a traditional Tuscan pasta resembling fat spaghetti.  I can still remember how fresh the pasta tasted, with the delicious, yet incredibly simple, ragù sauce and plenty of shredded pecorino.

On our last evening together, while visiting Arezzo, we found the most charming wine bar, complete with a romantic room hidden beneath the main floor, where men supposedly proclaim their love to their women. Notice that the room was empty:

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Daffodils are blooming throughout Paris’s parks. Green buds are sprouting out of seemingly barren branches. It’s that time of year again: time to renew my Carte de Sejour (the French residence permit) at the Préfecture de Police de Paris.

This marks my fourth time going through the process, each year painstakingly poring over the “Pièces à Fournir” to see which documents and other items (such as three 3.5 cm x 4.5 cm photos) that I will need to bring with me…in duplicate, of course.

And each year the list gets longer. But I suppose it’s a small price to pay in order to continue living in France.

Still, I think the French Government could greatly improve upon the Carte de Sejour appointment. I don’t mean by reducing the long waits in the sitting area. For at least there is a wall-mounted television, although it’s usually airing some inane game show in which the contestants awkwardly clap and dance along to the music.

And I don’t mean by automating things so as to reduce the various papers you need to photocopy, while hoping you won’t be asked to produce another document on-the-spot that wasn’t on the list, and then forced to make yet another appointment. (Because, let’s face it, France would be at great risk for losing its reputation for bureaucracy – and thus a large part of its national identity – if government officials did away with all those millions of dossiers stuffed with never-to-be-seen-again documents that fill entire buildings situated within France’s highest-priced real-estate market.)

While I was waiting for my number to be called, I started reflecting on how the French government could make the process so much more interesting. I mean, why not throw in a fun twist, or two, to make the appointment something to look forward to…perhaps a pop-quiz relevant to the district in which you are residing. And, of course, something to do with food.

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