La Samaritaine est KAPUT

I have this wonderful hairdresser. Let's call him..., oh, I don't know, how about...Tad. He loves to travel, especially to French places. Paris. Montreal. Quebec City. He is enthusiastic. He shares. When I told him I was going to Paris, he brought in his DK France guidebook, his Streetwise Paris map, and lots of good recommendations.

One was to eat a salade fou, or crazy salad, made with duck and foie gras. Check. Another was to walk along the rue de Rivoli as the sun sets. Check. Go here. See that. Taste this. You just can't miss that. By the time Tad was done with me, I nearly wet my pants, he was that excited. And I promised to do everything he said.

The big one, the one other people also said to do, the one we planned for, was to visit the department store near the Seine called La Samaritaine, and go up to the rooftop restaurant and have a drink. This was the best view in all of Paris. Tad said so. Everyone said so. So off we go.

Me: La Samaritaine, sil vous plait.

Cab driver: mumble, mumble

Me: LA SAMARITAINE

Cab driver: MUMBLE MUMBLE

My Friend: La Samaritaine, ou crève.

Cab driver: LA SAMARITAINE EST KAPUT.

The Samaritaine is kaput, closed, no longer in operation, a mere shell of its former self. Too dangerous, the cab dirver said. It may open in a few years. It may not. A shrug of the shoulders and another dream dashed. And Tad has been so excited that we would do this. I felt so bad.

So I went shopping.

I got him three gifts for being so helpful:

1. A book about French cheese. French cheese is to die for. Stinky, runny, fabulous. Tad loves it.

2. French chocolate. Dark. rich. To die for. Tad loves it.


3. French cigarettes. Tad smokes. A lot. These are to die for.



And I bring my Paris treasures to him the next time I get my haircut. Only to find out he has had a heart attack while I was away.

He can't eat cheese.

He can't eat chocolates.

He has quite smoking.

Go figure.

But Tad is definitely NOT kaput!

Duck Duck Goose

Yesterday, the Chicago City Council ban on foie gras went into effect. "Silly," our Mayor Daley called it. The reporters had a wonderful time with this. The ban was against SELLING foie gras in Chicago. Did that mean restaurants could give it away and up the ante on other dishes? Would crazed foie gras junkies stream out of Chicago to North Shore bistros or skulk in corners with illicit jars? Would e-Bay now have a foie gras section? Would the jar of foie gras I bought in Paris now be worth the total cost of the trip?



The Ile Saint-Louis seemed to be foie-gras central. We ate lunch in a cute storefront bistro on the main street. I had a salade fou, or crazy salad, with duck breast and foie gras. How hard is that to take? Then across the street was a chariming rustic shop. The jars of marinated aspargus as big as tree limbs caught our eyes. The lovely silver-haired French woman then held up a jar of foie gras and started to talk. Of course, it was all in French, but I really did keep up with most of it, until she got to the part about storage. Then she explained in English, and I was hooked. I bought a $40 jar of foie gras, not much differrent from the one here, and was happy.

Until I got home. I waited a respectful two weeks, got a nice fresh baguette, and lifted the lid on the jar. Or tried to. Couldn't budge it. Tried knocking it on the countertop, running cold water over it, running hot water over it. Nothing. I even asked my brother, who keeps nasty looking tools and home repair devices under his bed, to give it a try. No deal. Nothing. Zip. I have a $40 jar of foie gras that may turn into an interesting paperweight.

So brother said, "You really got taken, didn't you." Note that this was a statement, not a question. I hate to think that. She seemed like such a nice person. And George Bush is smart.

Le boulangerie

When Grandma made bread, armies stopped in their tracks. Waterfalls failed to fall. Clouds parted, and God smiled on our house. Music up and over. Everything was full of wonder on the days that Grandma make bread. Loaf after loaf of redolent, steaming bread. Clover-leaf rolls waiting for dripping butter. Pecan rolls, gooey and sweet. We would gourge ourselves after school, knowing that dinner that night would be scrambled eggs and... more bread!

Grandma had this huge aluminum bread mixer. She would make 12 loaves of bread at a time in this contraption, which looked like a bucket with a handle on top. Grandpa would clamp it down on this little black step stool that always sat beside the sink. Then he would turn the crank. And turn. And turn. This was a duet for two who had been married for over sixty years. They had done this ritual breadmaking so many times, they didn't even hav to talk about it anymore.

When we moved to San Francisco, the first thing I fell in love with was the bread. Once again, I could find wonderful, creative, delicious bread in abundance. Heaven.

I keep searching around Chicago, looking for harmonious bread. I have found a few places that sell baguettes, and of course, the French nuns with the croissants. Give me some good bread and some runny cheese and I am happy.

So a trip to Poilâne, the famous boulangerie in Paris, was high on the list. This is Ina Garten's favorite boulangerie in Paris. Mort Rosenblum, in his book "A Goose in Toulouse," says:

"Only n France could a loaf of bread come with a technical support phone number and an instruction manual thick with philosophy. Lionel Poilâne, who produces such bread, would be a mere baker in any other country, To the French, he is a national treasure..."

So on a sunny Wednesday morning in April, off we go to rue du Cherche-Midi to Poilâne. It's on a charming, tiny, very old street, just what you would imagine a Paris street would look like. The store is tiny. More than four people inside, especially bread-eaters, and you could have a claustrophobic attack.



The bread is huge, with the letter "P" artfully inscribed on the top. There is no mistaking this bread. This is bread with an attitude. Attention must be paid. While we struggle to say "Je peux goûter un peu?" or "Can I have a taste?" the bakery ladies in the white uniforms smile and give us each a slice. Warm. Brown. Hm-m-m. And I think of Grandma. Her bread made you want to sing. And this bread? Not so much. A Parisiene shrug of the shoulders, and a lesson learned.

Next door to Poilâne is a small café that serves the French open-faced sandwiches, called tartines. Of course, they use Poilâne bread. You are exictied about trying these sandwiches, but Mon Dieu! the shop is closed on Wednesdays. Who ever hear of closing on Wednesdays? Another lesson learned. So we drag our attention away from the bread and across the steet to these darling shops that have the cutest shoes....

Les Flics

We had a lovely morning, walking around the Saint Germaine area, having an Ina Garten kind of day. The Grand Épicierie, Poulâine, lots of shoe shops. Stopping for lunch at the Café Saint Germaine, we had escargot and poulet, avec vin rouge et Coca Lite. Chatting and eating, looking at the people passing by, relaxing. When suddenly, eight police vans pull up and out jump 30 French swat team guys in full riot gear. Streets are blocked off. Armed men are pacing here and there. And god are they good looking. But I digress.

It seems the recent arguments about the CPE, that silly law about French labor for young people, had been settled and the young people actually won. The government gave in. Everyone, including the young, can have a job for life. The police expected a riotous celebration. Pacing. Waiting. Standing. Finally they all got back in their vans and went away. That was that. No riot. No celebration. It was if a movie scene ended in mid-stream.

Then I read "A Year in the Merde" by Stephen Clarke, who saw the same thing:

"You see them all over the city practicing their unique skills. You'll walk into a street and find it jammed solid with traffic because the police have decided to double-park two of their buses there. Inside, whole brigades of riot police will be sitting, apparently having got prior warning of a riot about to break out on that very street. They might spend a morning there, getting out occassionally to stretch their legs, nip off to the boulangerie, or compare body armor, and then when the riot doesn't occur (of course not, too many police about) they go and sit in another street."

It's as if Les Miz is being re-created several times a day. Liberté. Egalité. Get outta my way.

Then you remember that there is always some kind of disturbance or strike in Paris. When you arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport, you had to sit on the runway for 30 minutes, as the baggage handlers were having a 30-minute strike. You hear about 1 hour taxi strikes. Prostitute strikes. Thank heavens there was not a bakery strike, or the whole city would shut down. And everytime you've been there, there have been policement pooling around intersections or guarding streets with serious-looking guns, or just looking mean. Les flics. Less Clouseau. More Dirty Harry. Duck and cover. C'est la vie.

Le Cordon Bleu

Le Cordon Bleu. Ask anyone. Ask a cab driver, for heaven's sake. The most famous cooking school in the world. Le Cordon Bleu. Julia Child went there. LE CORDON BLEU.

And you'll get a look of dismay from the cab driver. Never heard of it. Ask another cab driver. The Cordon what? You really can't believe this. So how did you grow up hearing about the Cordon Bleu when even the taxi drivers don't know where it is. You've signed up for a class, for god's sake. It's today. At the Cordon Bleu. LE CORDON BLEU. BLEU. BLEU. Rue Delhomme. 15th arrondisment. Vite. Vite.

And then you remember. Karin and Jeremy. When you were in high school. In a rural town that had more cows than people. They found a French restaurant nearby, called The Postillion, run by a woman named Madame Cluny. They raved about the food. They never invited you, but you could just imagine. Then they tempted you more by introducing you to caviar. Good caviar, not the runny lumpy stuff that seems to be painted with squid ink, but the really really good stuff. They added stories about Jeremy's mother bringing over a dressmaker from Paris every year. They went to Paris on their honeymoon. They spoke French. And you, a little high school girl in the middle of a corn field, fell in love.




So here you are at Le Cordon Bleu. There's Julia Child's picture on the stairway wall. Young graduates are having their pictures taken with famous chefs. They serve you breakfast. You all go to the Boulevard Raspail Market. They serve you lunch. And then they cook. The chef is a charming, handsome Frenchman who has a sly sense of humor. You want to have his baby. The translator, a young woman from Australia, has the job of a lifetime, hanging out there and learning stuff. You want that job.

The chef begins. He mashes fingerling potatoes with $150 worth of black truffles. You gasp. He puts the potatoes into a ring mold so they hold a pretty shape. Then he bakes cod, for heaven's sake, and then removes each flake of the fish as if it were a rose petal and scatters it around the top of the potatoes. You gasp again. Then he assembles asparagus with mouseline sauce, which come to find out is hollandaise sauce to which you add great gobs of whipped fresh cream and then go directly to the emergency room. The dessert, home made French vanilla ice cream with brandied baby bananas, ends this fantasy day. You crawl down the stairs with creeky knees and a full tummy and try to get back to your hotel for a short gourmet nap.

And then you tell everyone in the hotel what you did that day. You took a class at the Cordon Bleu. And they are all jealous. And it is worth it.

Do You Remember Your First Friend?

My very first friend was Patsy B. Her parents, Warren and Jake, were good friends with my parents, Al and Camille. Warren and Al worked together. Later in life, Camille and Jake worked together. Patsy and I played. We would compare Christmas presents. We would "sleep over." When we were at her house, she would ask me if "I wanted the rubber piddle or the feather piddle." I never knew how to answer that. Although we rarely see each other anymore, I hold very fond thoughts of Patsy, now Pat, and hope her life is all she hoped.

France was America's first friend. During the War of Independence, France was the first country to be on America's side. According to the US State Department web site,

"The single most important success of American diplomacy during the War for Independence was the critical link forged with France. The first and only alliance established by America until the 20th century, this partnership was built in good part by the efforts of the French Foreign Minister, Comte de Vergennes, and Benjamin Franklin...After the signing of treaties of alliance and commerce between America and France on February 6, 1778, King Louis XVI opened his considerable coffers in support of the American cause."

At the end of the war, France brokered the peace. The Treaty of Paris, in 1783, forced Britain to recognize the United States of America and to end all agression toward her.

This is one really good reason to love the French. They were our very first friends.

In the illustration of the Treaty of Paris here, created by the studio of Benjamin West, you see the American patriots who signed the Treaty of Paris: Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, John Jay, Thomas Jefferson. The right side of the illustration is unfinished, because the British diplomats refused to sit for the portrait. This remains a powerful illustration of the split between the British and their former subjects.

Gid Bless America. Vive la France. I'm going to have a glass of wine and some goat cheese.

When Dining in a Parisian Home.....

1. Never arrive early. Never arrrive on time. Arrive late.

2. Never ask for the recipe. These are treasures that have been perfected for years. Get your own show-dishes.

3. Do not talk while eating. Enjoy the meal. Nod and smile.

4. Do talk for three or four hours after eating. Be enthusiastic. Be controversial. That's why you were invited.

5. Do not leave until the orange juice is served.

A Chicago Patisserie

Croissants. Pear Charlotte. Chocolate croissants. Tiramasu. Twelfth Night Cake. Baguettes. Palmiers. Right here in Algonquin, Illinois. Traditional French nuns, in full habits, bake authentic French pasteries. In the Algonquin Commons mall, for heaven's sake.

The nuns are called "traditional" according to my Catholic friends, because their order did not go along with the changes made to the church back in the '60s...mass in the language of the people instead of Latin, the priest facing the congregation instead of the altar, nuns in suits. They run a homeless shelter in Chicago and raise money for the poor by baking these delightful treats. What better reason to head out to Algonquin (or go to Farmers' Markets around Chicago/Elmhurst in the summer).

Go out I-90 towards Rockford. Just after the Elgin toll facility, exit on Randall Road. At the end of the exit ramp, turn right on Randall Road. Go about 5 miles. There is a huge shoping center on your left, with a Barnes & Noble on the near corner. Turn there. The patisserie will be right in front of you.

The nuns speak French, chatting with each other as they fill your order..and perhaps disagreeing, or - can it be - arguing along the way. So following the strict French shopping protocol I learned in Paris, I said "Merci" and "Bonjour" as I left. The nuns replied "Ya. Bye." We all laughed.

And here's a hint for when you get home: Be very clear about what you have bought and what you, personally, expect to have for breakfast tomorrow, or you might wake up to find that both chocolate croissants and one butter croissant are already gone before the coffee is made and you have driven 40 miles for nearly nothing. Sacre bleu.

The Flore

So you arrive in Paris in the morning. You have either been lucky enough to get a couple hours of sleep on the plane, or you stayed awake every single minute watching French movies on the individual seat monitors. You get through customs without a snarle. Dump your bags at the hotel and go straight to the Cafe de Flore on Boulevard Saint-Germaine. Order champage and omelettes. Then have a look around.

This is still the publishing district of Paris, 140 years after the cafe opened, the intellectual Left Bank you read about in school. So if you are in publishing, and you know who you are, this is your spot. While there are strange and interesting people here and there (especially if you sit inside, away from the tourists), there is a small disappointment. Hemingway is not here. Sartre is not here. Hell, Bono is not here.

But they all were.






The Cafe de Flore, and its two cousins, Deux Magot to your left, and Brasserie Lipp across the street, were the troika of cafes in the 1920's and 30s. Writers, artistis, philosophers would nurse a cup of coffee all day. However, you can barely sit for an hour before you have to get up and go someplace.

If you simply must get up and walk around, this is the fashion district. Shop your little heart out. A certain lovely person I know, in the last hour of the last day in Paris, bought six pairs of shoes. I love that story!

There are two fabulous cholocate shops within two blocks (Lauderie and Debauve et Gallais). The first has long lines snaking down the block. The second was the chocolatier to Louis XIV and is too snooty for words. But the chocolate tastes like lilacs.

And the Saint-Germaine is now THE stylish district in Paris. Here you WILL see fashionable women, elegantly attired. And the shops are to die for. But the guidebooks are wrong - more denim, less couture in the rest of Paris. Things change.

If you're really smart, you'll just sit in the Flore, drinking your espresso or wine or Perrier. Chat with somebody. Find the waiter who has been to New York, San Francisco, and Peoria. Call him "Monsieur Peoria" and see what happens.

Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

If It's good enough for Patricia Cornwell, it's good enough for me. I dont' mean absinthe (although who really knows). I mean île St. Louis, the island right behind Notre Dame in the middle of the Seine. I had heard somewhere that she bought an apartment there. She did use the island as a location for her novel, Black Notice, and it is this picture I had in my head. Ancient buildings, luxurious windows, beaucoup de money. So off we go, shopping at one lovely store after another. And then, there it is in the window. Absinthe. The Green Fairy. Oscar Wilde, wormwood, and death. Arrêtz-vous ici.

The old absinthe is no more -

...although Anthony Bourdain found some on his recent trip; and what a trip it was...You can see his Paris show on iTunes/TV shows/Discovery Channel, complete with blood sausage and other nasty bits.

-but the wormwood has been eliminated from the new absinthe, so you won't go insane unless you already are. You do need an absinthe spoon, however. This is a flat spoon with slots in it. You pour some absinthe into a glass, set the spoon aross the top, put a sugar cube on the spoon, and then very slowly drip cold water over the cube to make a sweet, cloudy, somewhat green drink. The Green Fairy. Google it.


Then think kind thoughts of Oscar Wilde, who died at L'Hotel in the St Germaine de Pres area, arguing with his wallpaper. ("My wallpaper and I are having a fight to the death. One of us has got to go.") Rent Room 16, bring absinthe and accoutrements, and have a go.

I will do all of that as soon as I get that damned spoon.