LOVE IS IN THE AIR

In this area of Paris, love (or lust) used to be in the street. The mere mention of Pigalle conjures up images of the Moulin Rouge, sex shops, and adult theaters. While boulevard de Clichy at night still highlights the raunchy nature of the red-light district, things change dramatically when you venture a couple of streets away. South Pigalle has become a quiet corner of Paris and a lieu branché: the once racy area is now peppered with upscale coffee joints, fashion boutiques, and fantastic bakeries. As SoPi continues to get the gentrification treatment, several maisons closes from a century ago have been transformed into hip hotels. Rick and I visited Hotel Amour last May: we didn’t need accommodations but he was hungry and I thought it would be lovely to have lunch in their luxurious garden. Of course, the place was packed but we got a table in the cozy lobby/restaurant. I had better luck last month when I returned with my friend Raegan on a late afternoon. Oh, wait: the experience was so dreamy that we had to go back a second time.  You will find the hotel/bar/restaurant at 8 rue de Navarin. You can’t miss it: just look for the pink neon sign Amour, up in the air.

Vocabulary
Le lieu branché: hip location
La maison close: brothel (the shutters on those houses were closed so that children and passersby could not see what was going on inside)   

A luxurious garden, filled with lush greenery, under a glass roof. Very popular for brunch. Peaceful in the early evening for a before dinner drink.

The main dining room is cosy and decorated with books and vintage finds.

A large selection of stunning black and white photos illustrate the neighborhood's provocative past.

Stairs down to the bathroom...

Vintage aqua tiles in the vaulted bathroom.

Table football to kill time while you wait!

A nice crisp Sancerre for me. I brought back a set of six glasses in my suitcase. Amour is now in Modesto, too!

NIGHTTIME IN CARCASSONNE

I had visited Carcassonne a few times before but always during the day. This time, I booked a hotel room inside La Cité to experience the medieval fortified city at night, when lights and shadows dance on the massive stone walls. Since cars are not allowed within the walls of the old city, we had to leave our rental in a parking lot and trek uphill to the hotel. Let’s just say that pulling wheeled luggage on narrow alleys “paved” with protruding galets makes for a challenging and noisy experience… But what a reward! On an October night, we were almost alone while circling the city between the two walls of fortifications. Here are a few pictures to share so you can imagine what an atmospheric experience it was.

Vocabulary
Le galet: river rock

Porte Narbonnaise, the main entrance

Lices Hautes, in between the two fortified walls

Between the two walls, looking toward the Château Comtal

Shadow of the exterior wall projected onto the interior one

Peeking into Porte Saint Nazaire

Porte d'Aube. This entrance has been featured in many movies, including the 1991 film Robin Hood, directed by Kevin Reynolds.

LA FETE A CHATOU

There were three good reasons to head out to Chatou this week. Number one: I had never been there. Number two: it was the 95th Antiques and Hams Fair. Number three: it was taking place on the Ile des Impressionnistes. Art, food, and junk: the ultimate combination!

Renoir's Déjeuner des Canotiers

The island is located on the Seine, about twenty minutes west of Paris and is easily reached via the RER. During the mid-1800s, it became a very popular weekend destination for Parisians who were looking for cheap booze (alcohol was more heavily taxed within Paris,) dancing at the guinguettes, and nautical activities: boating and swimming were favorite pastimes. It was an irresistible draw for artists such as Guy de Maupassant and Gustave Caillebotte. Auguste Renoir was a regular at Maison Fournaise –a restaurant and guinguette– where he painted some of his most famous toiles: Les Canotiers à Chatou and Le Déjeûner des Rameurs . Maison Fournaise still exists nowadays as a restaurant and a museum.

Vous êtes arrivé à bon porc (pun...)

Since medieval times, Chatou had been the location for a large Foire aux Jambons. Pigs had to be the most valuable farm animals in the old days: they are not finicky eaters and, as the saying goes, “Tout est bon dans le cochon.” Indeed, pork butchers still cut and process every part of the pig and a lot of preparations are cured: people could store meat, non-refrigerated, for weeks or months. Even modest families would keep a ham at home.

Junk and Ham Fair in Chatou

Separately from Chatou, la Foire à la Ferraille had been taking place on boulevard Richard-Lenoir in Paris since 1869. An ancestor to our vide-greniers, it provided Parisians with the opportunity to buy and sell scrap metal, everyday objects, junk of all kinds, and more pricey antiques. But la Foire à la Ferraille was ordered to move out of Paris in 1970; it relocated in Chatou to run at the same time as la Foire aux Jambons. I imagine the Ham people welcomed the Junk people with open arms: not too many Parisians can keep a whole Bayonne ham in their très petite cuisine. 

Boutons

Moules à chocolat et tampons

Surgery, anyone?

Moulins à café et fers à repasser

Mannequins

It turns out that la Foire de Chatou is the largest brocante in France, and possibly Europe, with more than 500 exhibitors. There truly is something for everyone from expensive armoires to vintage postcards. I was really struck by the variety of goods. Some displays are focused and neatly arranged; others require you to dig through boxes and baskets to unearth your treasures.

Jambons!

Wines from Burgundy!

Oysters!

My braised ham.

Of course, the old porcine origins are not forgotten: the food aisle is lined with pop-up restaurants and vendors who offer a vast array of regional specialties and adult beverages. I must say my braised ham with sauce Madère was succulent. 

Le toutou est très fatigué

La Fête de Chatou is held twice a year, in October and March, and it runs for 10 days. If at all possible, visit on a weekday for a more relaxing experience. If you are an avid chineur, plan on spending the whole day. If not, set aside some time to enjoy the artist trail along the river and walk in Renoir’s footsteps.

Vocabulary

La guinguette: a drinking and dancing establishment often located on the banks of the Seine or Marne
La toile: canevas
Le canotier: boater
Le rameur: rower
Le jambon: ham
Tout est bon dans le cochon: everything is good in the pig
La ferraille: scrap metal, junk
Le vide-grenier: like a garage sale
Une très petite cuisine: a very tiny kitchen
La brocante: flea market
La sauce Madère: sauce made with Madeira wine
Le chineur (la chineuse): bargain hunter, collector, a regular at flea markets

LES CHAMPIGNONS

Fall might be my favorite season in southwestern France, perhaps because I’m still discovering the sights and smells at that season. Although I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ farm while growing up, I was never there between la rentrée and Christmas: I usually left early September to get ready for school in Paris. My biggest regret is to have never experienced les vendanges: after tending to the vineyard throughout the Summer, I would have loved to be there when all our neighbors came to help harvest and stomp the grapes. 

These are pretty but I don't eat them...

By chance, a couple of trade shows take place in Paris in September and in October: in the past few years, I’ve had a few opportunities to catch the train and meet with the family for a few days. The vineyard is gone but we still harvest walnuts, chestnuts, apples, and quinces. And, if the weather and the moon cooperate, there might also be mushrooms. I got an early education in mycology under the guidance of my dad and my grandfather who were both avid foragers. I quickly learned to recognize the good, the bad, and the ugly but if you’re not sure what to pick, you can always take your mushrooms to the local pharmacy and they will tell you what to keep and what to discard. Try doing that at CVS!

Morels!

In spring, we searched for morilles. They’re small and hollowed: it takes a lot of these to make a pound! My largest morel find actually happened in the US. I was working in Chico at that time and renting a little condo with a small backyard that had been dressed with a layer of bark from the Sierra. One evening in March, I stepped outside and noticed something that looked like a small sponge. Upon closer examination, I was sure it was a morel. I was shocked! As I bent over to pick it up, I realized the whole backyard was teeming with morels! I had never seen that many of them in my whole life. I gathered close to two pounds of fungi within minutes. I called my travel agent (she lived in the same complex, a few units down from me) and asked her to take a look at her backyard: could she see mushrooms there as well? Yes! I told her they were some of the most sought-after mushrooms on earth and shared my favorite recipe. Chris was absolutely horrified that I would be eating mushrooms that were not store-bought. She actually called me at the office the next morning to make sure I was still vivante.

Morels come in different colors: blond, gray, and dark brown. Different shapes, too.

In summer, we usually found cèpes: those are large and heavy. If you know where to look, you can pick up several pounds very quickly. But my all-time favorite mushroom is the girolle: I love its very distinctive texture and its nutty flavor. After walking in the woods for a couple of hours, always accompanied by grandfather’s Brittany spaniel, I usually came home with three to four pounds of girolles that we would immediately prepare for lunch. Grandma simply sautéed them in duck fat, along with scalloped potatoes, seasoned with a lot of garlic and fresh parsley. The aroma would fill the whole house (well, it’s a small house…) To this day, it remains one of my very favorite dishes.

Vocabulary
La rentrée: back-to-school
Les vendanges: the wine harvest
La morille: morel
Vivant(e): alive
La girolle: golden chanterelle
Le cèpe: porcini

Girolles and potatoes sautéed in duck fat, just like in Sarlat!

Pommes de terre Sarladaises
Potatoes sarladaises

3 tbsp duck fat
½ lb wild mushrooms (chanterelles, porcini…)
1.5 lbs potatoes
Salt and pepper
5 cloves of garlic, chopped
Fresh parsley, chopped

Clean and slice the mushrooms. Sauté in 1 tbsp of duck fat for 5 minutes (until they’ve released their water) and reserve. Peel, scallop and rinse the potatoes. Dry them thoroughly. In a heavy sauté pan on medium-high, heat the remaining duck fat. When the fat is hot, throw the potatoes into the pan and cook for 5-10 minutes until golden.  Gently flip the potatoes over with a wide spatula and cook another 10 minutes. Add reserved mushrooms. Add garlic, parsley, salt, and pepper to taste. Mix together and cook 5 more minutes. Serve immediately.

If wild mushrooms are not available, you may use crimini or Portobello. But you MUST cook them and the potatoes in duck fat. Potatoes will be crispy but tender inside. Yum!

Duck fat can be purchased at frenchselections.com

THE OTHER CITY OF LIGHT(S)

Like all Americans, I’ve had New York on my mind this week. I’m sure most of us remember precisely where we were and what we were doing when the Twin Towers collapsed. Incredulity led to horror. Then, a profound sadness. At first, the scope of the tragedy played like a disaster movie out of Hollywood but the individual stories covered on TV and in newspapers made that moment personal, and real. For me, there were no Six Degrees of Separation but only two when I found out a friend had lost his brother-in-law in one of the towers. Arnaud was at a trade show in Las Vegas, immediately got a rental car, and drove to New York to be with his sister and her young children.

New York is a tough city, in more ways than one, and it took me a while to warm up to the Big Apple. It was a passage obligé at the end of my first trip to the US in 1977: we would be flying back from JFK. We so looked forward to experiencing New York: the Empire State building, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Time Square, and Broadway for electronic purchases. At that time, the World Trade Center included the two tallest buildings in the world so, naturellement, we took the speedy elevator in the South Tower to the observation desk. What an incredible view! I could really feel the air movement at a height of 1350 feet and I kept wondering how funambulist Philippe Petit ever spent forty-five minutes tight-rope walking between the towers, a quarter mile above the ground. Over the following three days, we hit all the landmarks and we were exhausted. The “verticality” of New York was too oppressive: we drove up to rural Connecticut.

After 9/11/01, I felt an obligation to help NYC rebuild: instead of flying once a year for my major trade show, I made three visits. To this day, I still fly to New York at least twice a year. Coming from California, I usually land at night. I always try to book a window seat on the right side of the plane on my way to JFK: we fly over Manhattan, usually just across Central Park, and I get to see the lights of the city: it’s a 2-minute magical moment. For a few years, the southwestern tip of the island was noticeably dark, a somber reminder of the lives and lights that had been snuffed out at the World Trade Center. On this more recent picture, you can see the beacon of the newest, tallest building in Manhattan, the Freedom Tower. Freedom. Hope. Peace, perhaps. It always looks peaceful from up high.

Vocabulary
Le passage obligé: lit. obligatory venue, a must-see
Naturellement: lit. naturally, of course.

THE CANNERY

Continued from Modesto, first look

We left Yosemite Park and returned to Modesto: after taking in the view from Glacier Point, mingling with very friendly écureuils, and driving through a giant sequoia it was time to get back to civilization and get ready for work. We were settling in Modesto for a few weeks to fulfill one of our business school requirements: we had to work for one month en usine, performing blue-collar tasks. Some of our friends had done seasonal work in California canneries during previous summers and we had a visa that authorized us to be employed. The procedure was straight forward: show up, sign up, and wait to be called. Hence the importance of having a domicile fixe and a phone number.

We drove to the apartment we had agreed to rent a few days before only to find out the manager no longer wanted us to be tenants: she had called the cannery and realized we would be leaving after a month. Que faire? We had to find another place. We hooked up with other students: they were renting an apartment on Paradise Road and another unit was available. We rushed over there to check it out and it was perfect: spacious and furnished, with laundry facilities and a swimming pool! Only ten minutes from the cannery with our Torino! It would truly be paradise.

A couple of days later, I was starting my first shift as a sorter: basically, I spent eight hours standing in front of a moving belt carrying loads of tomatoes. My job was to look for and remove any fruit that exhibited black mold and to discard anything that did not meet the definition of tomato: weeds, soda cans, small animals, etc. Since tomatoes were harvested by giant aspirateurs, everything that was present in the field would get sucked in. I must say it was the hardest job I ever had. Although I was assigned to the morning shift, August temperatures routinely reached 95ºF and the sorters’ lines were set outside, under a metal roof. Standing in one place for eight hours was uncomfortable and staring at tomatoes continuously moving before my eyes was making me dizzy and mildly seasick. To add insult to injury, my supervisor was not very impressed by my performance and kept urging me to “try to be a little faster with your hands.”

After a couple of days, she thankfully moved me to another position (clean up duties) and we eventually became good friends. We chatted during lunch and breaks; she had three French students working in her shift and she was curious about our native country and our travel plans after our stage. One day she asked me where we were staying; I happily shared our address on Paradise Road. She was absolutely horrified. Unbeknownst to us, our “paradisiac” apartment was located in one of the worst neighborhoods. In fact, a dead body had been found in our dumpster the week before we moved in! I’m happy to report that none of us got killed or maimed. We didn’t interact with our neighbors very much (we worked 6 days a week) but I’ll never forget that day in August 1977 when Elvis died: everybody seemed to congregate outside their apartments in disbelief and talk about what The King meant to them. Of course, all the radio stations were playing his songs. For some reason, it felt like the end of an era; we were not Americans but I felt we were all sharing a significant moment.

We spent four weeks on Paradise Road while working at the cannery. Tomato is still one of my favorite foods. I discovered turkey lunch meat, American cheese, and Mexican salsa. My coworkers looked at me with amusement at first but, eventually, took me into their fold and brought me plums, figs, and peaches from their gardens. They even threw a mini lunch party on our last day at work, bringing home-made sweets and cookies. As we were getting ready for our big road trip across the United States, I said goodbye to my supervisor. Five years later, she became my belle-mère…

Vocabulary
L’écureuil: squirrel
En usine: in a factory
Le domicile fixe: lit. a permanent home, a residence
Que faire: what to do
L’aspirateur: vacuum cleaner
Le stage: internship
La belle-mère: mother-in-law. Also, stepmother

PASSAGE TO INDIA

I’ve already confessed my love of outdoor markets. One of the bright sides of living in the Central Valley is local availability of bountiful produce. Nevertheless, a stroll through a French market yields many pleasant surprises. Not just because of the different varieties of fruits and vegetables: cultural preferences in regards to size also play a part. I always know that I’m in France when the stalls brim with slender poireaux, tiny fraises des bois, diminutive aubergines… or huge balls of céleri rave without knobs. In Paris, I’m particularly fond of Marché Bastille: the aisles are not too narrow and the selection of ingredients and prepared dishes is quite extensive. If you wish, you can even purchase a plate of chucked oysters and a glass of Muscadet to enjoy sur place.

In July 2011, I met a vendor whose offering was not of the edible kind but turned out to be the highlight of my day. He was selling leather-bound notebooks. They all looked different and varied in size, thickness, and color. Some covers were smooth, some were a bit rugged, others were stamped but they all showed an unmistakable antique patina. Each one was hand-made and tied with two or three feet of black string. He explained that he had bought a pallet of accounting ledgers from India. He unfolded one of these ancient leather books and unveiled yellowed pages filled with Sanskrit. He would cut pieces from their long covers, wrap them around a folio of white paper, and saddle stitch the whole thing together to create new books. They were beautiful. I purchased four of them, intending to keep one for myself and give the others to friends who would use them to sketch or journal. As I was relishing their smooth buttery texture between my fingers, I wondered whose hands had stroked that same leather a long time ago, in a land far, far away.

Vocabulary
Le poireau: leek
La fraise des bois: wild strawberry
L’aubergine: eggplant
Sur place: on the premises

PARIS REFLECTIONS

Rick has been an avid motorcycle rider since he was fifteen. His mother had hoped that none of her sons would ever own a motorcycle. She was horrified when Randy purchased a Suzuki 200 cc Street Rambler; relieved when he decided to sell it and buy a car; dejected when Rick bought the motorcycle from his older brother.  I, too, had a love affair with a couple of deux roues when I was a teenager: a black Solex at first, then I “graduated” to a classic blue Mobylette. But those days are over for me: I traded helmet hair for the comfort and rain protection afforded by enclosed vehicles.

Motorcycles and scooters are a favored mean of transportation for many people in Paris: commuting at peak hours is more efficient than when traveling by car and they are much easier to park. Whenever we run across a herd of motorcycles parked on the street, Rick can’t resist checking them out a length. My interest wears off very quickly but I have found an entertaining way to keep myself occupied until he is done: I look into the bikes rear view mirrors hoping to catch an interesting reflection or an unusual architectural detail. Quelquefois, j’ai de la chance…

Vocabulary
Le deux roues: vehicle with two wheels (bicycle, motorcycle, etc.)
Quelquefois, j’ai de la chance: sometimes I am lucky

MODESTO, FIRST LOOK

Continued from The Torino.

The trip had been planned in great details. After landing in California, we would purchase a car, drive to Modesto to register at the cannery where we would work for one month, then start our road trip across the USA, staying at campgrounds along the way. The itinerary was set and dates were nailed down so we could pick up mail from France at General Delivery in some of the cities we would pass through. Our own version of “If it’s Tuesday, it must be New Orleans…”

After buying our mustard yellow Torino, we were chomping at the bit: still in Oakland (nothing to see), so close to San Francisco (lots to see.) We decided to drive across the bridge for a first taste of the City by the Bay. Spectacular! We spent most of our time around Fisherman’s Wharf, admiring Alcatraz surrounded by jade waters, and trying out a sandwich at Boudin's. We realized that French bread, like French dressing, was not really French after all. Late afternoon, we picked up some groceries at Safeway in the Marina district and headed out to the Berkeley Hills: our California map showed a tent icon there, indicating the presence of a campground.

It was dusk, and then it was dark. We were still trying to find that campground. Eventually, we noticed a wooded area with some picnic tables and a couple of parked cars. We had arrived. We turned our flashlights on, unloaded the gear, set up the tents, cooked some pork chops and rice, and called it a day. The next morning, it quickly became obvious that our first camping night had been sauvage: there were no facilities of any kind save for the picnic tables. But we were prepared for everything: teeth were brushed and business was done, in a very ecological manner. We boiled water for coffee, fried some eggs, and devour them with untoasted white bread. We packed our gear and headed out to Modesto.

We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and filled up the Torino at a station service on 5th Street. As soon as we got out of the car, we were immediately welcomed by the infamous Valley heat, a prelude to the temperatures we would contend with during the whole month of August. We drove to the cannery, signed up at the personnel office and told Kathy (personnel manager) we would give her our address and phone number as soon as we had secured an apartment to rent. We spent that night camping at the Modesto Reservoir, a legit campground. Taking a shower was wonderful, watching young Americans brush their teeth under a running faucet was surprising: I was the only one using a plastic goblet. Does your father own the water company?

We drove to town early, had breakfast at –the now defunct– Smitty’s coffee shop on 9th Street, picked up a copy of the Modesto Bee, and poured over the “For Rent” ads to find an apartment. We only needed a place for one month and there were seven of us but, in reality, we would be working different shifts: a two-bedroom apartment would suffice. We drove to Villa Verde South on Coffee Road, had a pleasant meeting with the manager where I pretended there were only three of us: me, my “brother," and my “boyfriend.” We were quite impressed by the spaciousness of the apartment, at least, by Parisian standards! I signed on the dotted line, paid the security deposit and one month rent. We congratulated ourselves for finding a place so easily and arranged to get phone service tout de suite. We knew the cannery would not need us for a few days and we drove off to Yosemite. What could possibly go wrong?

To be continued...

Vocabulary
Le camping sauvage: lit. wild camping; setting up your tent in an area not specifically designated for camping.
La station service: gas station
Tout de suite: right away.

MILOU'S RASPBERRIES

We had a ritual: on our way home to Paris every August, we would stop in Angoulême and spend a day at Mom’s parrain. Milou was an avid and precise gardener. His potager was stunningly reminiscent of Le Potager du Roy in Versailles: purposeful and artistic. Just like a general commandeering his troops, he seemed able to order his blue-green leeks to form straight rows and his fuzzy carrot tops to reach the exact same height. Even his radishes were methodically thinned out so that gorgeous red half moons peeked out from the dark soil in an orderly fashion. Galvanized watering cans stood at attention at the end of the rows, ready to be commissioned to water the colorful vegetables each morning and evening.

While thoroughly impressed by the love, work, and attention he devoted to his garden, my sister and I were mostly attracted to the far side of his yard, all the way back. It was a jungle, a far cry from the manicured rows and alleys that led to it. But it was a jungle of berries. Tall sturdy canes covered with bright green leaves rose randomly, almost menacingly, but the thick bushes revealed the plumpest, sweetest framboises on earth. Françoise and I would just pluck them off the vines and pop them in our mouth, not caring whether we stained our hands, our cheeks, or our clothes. Pigging out on the gorgeous red gems had to be the best way to spend an August afternoon.

Raspberry charlotte
Charlotte aux framboises

½ cup milk
3 egg yolks
2 envelopes unflavored gelatin
24 oz raspberries
¾ cup heavy whipping cream
2 tbsp raspberry syrup
2 tbsp raspberry liqueur
24 boudoirs, ladyfingers, or biscuits roses

In a heavy saucepan, bring the milk to a simmer. Meanwhile, whisk the egg yolks and the sugar until white and foamy. Add one-third of the hot milk to the egg mixture, whisking constantly. Pour the egg/milk mixture back into the saucepan and cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the cream thickens. Do not allow to boil. When the cream coats the back of the spoon (like a crème anglaise), remove from the heat. Sprinkle the gelatin and stir 5 minutes. In a blender, puree 8 oz of raspberries and strain to leave the seeds behind. Mix this raspberry coulis with the cream. Reserve in the refrigerator. Whip the heavy cream until stiff, then gently incorporate into the raspberry cream with a rubber spatula. Line an 8" charlotte mold with 2 or 3 layers of plastic wrap (they should overlap the edges of the mold). Mix the raspberry syrup, ½ cup of water and 2 tbsp of raspberry liqueur in a deep plate. Quickly dip one ladyfinger on both sides and set vertically on the side of the mold; repeat until the whole perimeter is lined with cookies. Cover the bottom of the mold in the same fashion. Ladle one layer of raspberry cream and sprinkle with whole raspberries; repeat; finish with one last layer of cream. Top with another layer of dunked cookies. Layer a sheet of plastic wrap on top of the cake and cover with a plate: the flat bottom should be of the same diameter as the mold. Set a weight on top of the plate and keep in the fridge for 6 hours. When ready to serve, remove the top layer of plastic wrap, invert the charlotte onto a platter. Garnish the top of the cake with remaining raspberries.

Raspberry syrup and biscuits roses can be purchased from Frenchselections.com

Vocabulary
Le parrain: godfather
Le potager: vegetable garden
La framboise: raspberry