More cheese

Today, a group of factory workers at Sargento Cheese in Wisconsin won over $208 million on the Wisconsin lottery.

Hooray for them!

Hooray for Wisconsin!

Hooray for cheese!

Just say smile.

Le Troc

I grew up watching old movies on TV. Betty Davis, Ann Sheridan, Cary Grant, David Niven. I loved them all. Still do. So when I first heard "Trocadero," it was the name of a nightclub in New York in an old movie. Men in tuxedos would dance effortlessly with women in long satin gowns. Everyone smoked cigarettes, and life was good.

So imagine my surprise when the concierge at the hotel, when asked for a recommendation for a restaurant our last night in Paris, said Muse de l'homme, Trocadero. And she booked us a table in the msueum cafe with a view of the Eiffel Tower.

Now here was a whole section of Paris that I hadn't explored. The 16th, I think. And we did have a spot-on spectacular view of the Tour Eiffel from the restaurant at the Musee de l'home, Trocadero. As the sun set and the City of Light lighted up, the Eiffel Tower sparkled. It sparkled every few minutes. Real sparkles. I don't have any idea how they do that. Maybe fiber optics. I just know that it was sparkly. Most of Paris is sparkly, come to think of it.

One lady I know was so entranced by the sparkling Eiffel Tower that she strpped off a curb and broke her foot.

That's sparkly!

And the Eiffel Tower at night really does look like this, right from the restaurant at the Muse de l'homme, Trocadero.

Vive la France!

Cheese, Cheese, Cheese

I grew up in Wisconsin. They make a lot of cheese there. Cheese was the after school snack. Cheese was a good source of protein, Everyone said so, because Wisconsin is the Dairy State.

So you can impagine my delight to find a country that has nearly three hundred kinds of cheese! Mon Dieu! Even De Galle said,

"How can you govern a country that has 256 different kinds of cheese?"

Now in Wisconsin, we were heavy into cheddar. They don't call us cheddar-heads for nothing, you know. We had a cheese factory in a little town not far from home that made the very best extra sharp, aged cheddar. I still crave it and look for it whenever I am near the border. When I was little, there were still local cheese factories, set by the side of the road, run by the farmers who got the milk from their cows. EVentually, the corporate conglomerates spelled the end to artisinal cheeses in Wisconsin.

But not in France.

Dorling Kindersley has a book, "French Cheese," that is 288 pages long! With Pictures. Did you know there are ten (10) kinds of Brie? That Roquefort is made from moulding bread? That goat cheese should only be made between Easter and All Saint's Day in November?

So when my friend at work told me about Astier, a Paris restaurrant with an incredible cheese service, I was all over it. From his description, I pictured a restaurant in a tent with formica tables and surley waiters. I don't know why. The reality is very different. Located in the Marais, it is a lovely, small, local, storefront restaurant with wood panelling and a nice bar. They try to seat the tourists upstairs, but don't let them do that to you. Sit downstairs, with the Parisians. They will all enjoy your astonishment and awe when the cheese arrives.

So here's what happens:

You order a lovely prix fixe dinner (around $30 without drinks). You have a lovely multi-course meal. And then they bring the cheese tray. This is a flat woven basket as big around as you can stretch your arms. Go ahead. Stretch your arms out into the biggest circle you can make. That's the size of this cheese tray. And then they leave it on your table. They just leave it there. You can have as much as you like.

Don't be shy. Just jump in and take a bit of everything. Just remember the etiquette - cut the cheese so it retains its original shape. So if it's a triangle, don't chop off the pointy end. Cut along the side, so it still remains a triangle.

My friend favored the hard cheeses. She said they were wonderful. I favored the runny, stinky cheeses. They were magnificent. I have no idea what I ws eating. I just knew I was very happy.

There was a stylish Parisian party sitting at a table kitty-corner from me. The woman had silver har, cut in a geometric cut, and was wearing a blackleather skirt and vest. She was wonderfully cool. She just stared at me and laughed as I ate my way through cheese heaven. I didn't care. I was having a wonderful time.

If you go to Paris, please go to

Astier
44 rue de j. p. tambaud
11th arrondisement

Just don't say to the maitre'd that you've come for the cheese. He gets offended.

Monty Python - French Sketch

Bonjour

Read any of the guide books. They say something like this:

"The French are polite. You, as an American, are not. When you go into a French shop, say in your very nicest voice, 'Bonjour.' Smile. This is a simple way to advance the troubled Franco-American relations. The other is to impeach Bush."

So I am on my best American behavior. I enter the charming Paris shop. I look at the proprietress. I smile. And I completely forget to say, "bonjour," because it is not a habit. It just slips my mind. But somewhere before I leave the shop, it does occur to me. "Ohmygod. I forgot to say 'bonjour.'" So, to make sure I have been polite, as I leave the shop I say in my best sing-songy fake French, 'Bonjour, madame," and leave knowing that I have done the right thing. I have aided wolrd peace. I am very proud.

Yesterday, I went into a L'Occitaine in my local shopping mall. This is the store with delicious, sweet-smelling facial products from Provence. The woman who waits on me is French. She is gorgeous. Crinkly blond hair (not her original color, but she must have paid a pretty penny because the highlights are fabulous). Thin. Stylish. No scarf, but it is hot out. So I chat. She chats. Somehow it comes up that I don't speak French. I say something like, "I only know sassy things, like 'Slow down or die,' and 'Your mother is Belgian.'

This strange look shoots across her face. It looks like she is having a miniscule stroke. Then it disappears.

"My father was Italian, my mother was Belgian, and I am from Provence," she says. She is standing very straight. So I have offened her. I said something sassy about the Belgians. I don't even know any Belgians. I was in Belgium once, but I swear I did not meet her mother.

So I inch towards the door, smiling and sweating, and then aha! I remember! Be polite!

"Bonjour," I say as I walk out the door.

"No, madame," she says with a smile. "Bonjour is for ze coming in. Au revoir is for ze going out."

And I am mortified. I went all over Paris trying to be polite but was simply just gauche.

Merde.

Wicked French

I have this little book called "Wicked French." It is full of sassy remarks in English and French with a phonetic French pronunciation guide alongside. You can learn how to say sassy things like "Your mother is Belgian," or, to a reckless cab driver, "Slow down or die." I love this book. It makes me laugh outloud. Everytime I open it, I find something totally outrageous to say in French.

"What a delightful aroma of hazelnuts and sardines."

"This Sauternes has socialist tendencies."

"Sir, are you ashamed of your menu?"

"Who do you think you are, an Italian?"

"Holy Saint Yves, sacred designer of haute couture, I beseech you to create one of your heavenly dresses in my size."

And my all-timer personal favorite:

"This is a hotel room for a dwarf."

I try very hard to memorize these smart remarks in French, since I don't really speak French, I only pretend. So far, I have memorized "Moins vite, ou crève," and "Ta mère est belge!" But I haven't had the nerve to use them.

Until now.

There is a wonderful digital newsletter, wrtieen by TG in Mill Valley, called "Paris through Expats Eyes." It's full of all kinds of interesting things, especially books and films you can get here which are about Paris. There are also swell sounding tours with ExPats who still love Paris that sound like lots of fun. You can sign up at:

http://www.paris-expat.com/

But I digress.

So one day I opened the digital newsletter and saw an article about a new novel called "The Alibi Club." The first ten people who responded could get a free copy. So I responded. Only to get a mildly sassy reply from TG that you had to be a member, excuse me, to get the book and I wasn't a memember but if I gave him $35 he would send me this $25 book for free. This sounded like a good deal. So I did. And got another reply. Partially in French. So I replied, again, partially in French because I don't really speak French, I just pretend. And I got back a reply" that translated into something like "How is it that you speak French when you live in such a hellhole and totall disgusting place such as ____, Illinois, while I, Grande Expat with Taste, live in the center of cool MIll Valley." Or something close to that. I really don't speak French. I pretend.

So out comes "Wicked French."

My reply, in French:

"May your rash be as virulent as mine."

That ought to hold him for a bit. At least, take him down a peg or two, given that they still have pegs in Mill Valley, which foats above the earth by several inches.

ExPat: "Wow! I am totally impressed with your command oof the language" (close translation)

My reply:

"I think, therfore I am French. The less I think, the more I am. Whatever."

This is getting fun.

Expat: "A Polish philosophy."

My reply (in English):

"Ohmygod. A Polish joke."

Anyway, I finally did fine a good use for this marvelous book. I hope to be able to use it again sometime. I'll let you know if I do.

In the meantime:

"D'accord, Pierre, mais garde-toi d'ébouriffer ma coiffure."

Something's Gotta Give

So why is a Jack Nicolson/Diane Keaton movie on a blog abou Paris?

There is a scene...in Paris...at a bistro to die for...with golden light and warm charm and steamy meals.You want to go there. And it's your turn to pick the restaurant. This is looking good. Your Stanford friend sends you a list of fine restaurants he got from another professor. This bistro is on the list. This is now looking fabulous. You look it up in your book of historic Paris bistros. It is there - and the review is fabulous. You look it up online. It still looks fabulous. Fabulous.

You ask your friend if she has seen "Something's Gotta Give." Nope. So you just don't mention that you want to go to a restaurant that was in a Hollywood movie that your Stanford friend recommended that was in a great Paris bistro book.

You ask the concierge to make reservations. He says, "So you are going looking for Jack, then?" You pretend you don't know what he's talking about. Because you are, of course, above going to a restaurant because it was in a movie. You are above thinking that you will see a typical bistro. You are above thinking that you will meet someone romantic there, too. You are not, by anyone's definition, Diane Keaton. Although you do have her glasses..

So you and your friend get all dressed up, because this is the place you plan to spend some serious money. You get in the cab. The cab driver, once again, has never heard of the restaurant or the street. What is it with you and Paris? No Cordon Bleu. No trendy bistro. He drives around aimlessly, eventually turning down a tiny street behind the gardens of the Palais Royale. There it is. Le Grand Colbert. Fabulous.

So here is your fabulous evening out at a Paris bistro.

1. They tarted the place up. There are theatre posters all over the place. It looks tacky.

2. There is a banquettte to your left that has a movie clap-board next to it. This is where they sat, making the movie. The seat is now occupied by, not Diane Keaton, but an 80-year-old tiny silver-haired French woman holding a tiny, yippy dog. She is wearing a silver fox jacket. She is the best-dressed person in the place.

3. People behind you are wearing jogging suits with the white stripe down the pants, or jeans and T-shirts, and generally looking K-Mart-ish.

4. The girls across from you are smoking. Heavily. This is bothering you. You want to go over to them and snatch their cigarettes and smoke them all yourself.

5. You order lamb because you adjore it. Upon arrival, it looks like an incinerated pack of playing cards.

6. Your friend orders "ragnon de veau." She knew it was some kind of veal. What kind is a mystery, as this is perhaps the foulest tasting thing you have ever had. Later, back home, while reading Julia Child's book, My Life In France, you realize that it wasn't "ragnon," but rather "rognon," which to your very great dismay is translated as kidney. Veal kidney.

So your Big Night was a bust. You feel terrible, as this choice was yours and neither you nor your friend had a good time. You both did get a good story to tell, though. And a great many laughs.

And to my friend: I am sorry I didn't tell you what I was up to. It just didn't seem important at the time. I hope your feelings were not hurt when you found out.

And here is the travel tip of the day: Skip Le Grand Colbert. Life is not like the movies, no matter how hard you try.

Down and Out at the Hotel de Crillon

One lovely April day in Paris, I got all dressed up in my best black suit and went to the Hotel de Crillon for tea. The Hotel de Crillon faces the Place de la Concorde. The President of France has an official residence next door. You get the idea. Nice neighborhood.

The hotel is easily confused with a palace. No doubt, although I haven't check, it was. And what a nice view of the guillotine it must have had. Today, it is remarkably discrete. The major door is a tiny one on the left of the frontage. No big, gaudy, gold-paned windows and concrete lions here. Just a doorman and a welcome.

Naturally, I arrived an hour too early. Disappointed, I was going to get up out of the comfy chair near the Baccarrat glass table and wander around this lovely marbled palace until the time was right. But the waiter took pity and served me tea early.

I love to go for tea. I don't actually like tea. I love the idea of tea. Lovely scones with Devonshire cream, finger sandwiches, pasteries, all served on lovely tiered china, with napkins, and flowers, and a harpist. It's a girl thing.

So I ordered my tea at the Crillon. Marco Polo tea, described in glowing French on the tea time menu. The tea was marvelous. It tasted like Tahiti. It was the best tea I had ever had. The finger sandwiches were dry, the pastry was nothing to remember, but this tea was remarkable. Luckily, my friend found it at the Grand Epicerie a few days later, or I would have been wandering for the rest of my days looking for this marvelous tea.

While I was enjoying myself, two French women of a certain age came in for tea. You could tell they were French by the scarves. They looked over at me - and smiled! I passed! I can't tell you how happy this little thing made me.

So I enjoyed my $57 dollar afternoon and cherished a smile.

Seventy years earlier, George Orwell wrote about a completely different aspect of the Crillon in his book, "Down and Out in Paris and London." Describing what is argueably the Crillon (what he called the Hotel X near the Place de la Concorde), his character applies for a dishwashing job and has to deal with the Italian manager:

"He led me down a winding staircase into a narrow passage, deep underground, and so hot that I had to stoop in places. It was stiffling hot and very dark, with only the dim yellow bulbs several yards apart. There seemed to be miles of labyrinthine passages - actually I supppose, a few hundred in all - that reminded one queerly of the lower decks of a liner; there were the same heat and cramped space and warm reek of food, and a humming, whirring noise, just like the sound of engines. We passed doorways that let out sometimes a shouting of oaths, sometimes the red glare of fire, once a shuddering draught from an ice chamber. As we went along, something struck me violently on the back. It was a hundred-pound block of ice, carried by a blue-aproned porter. After him came a boy with a great slab of veal on his shoulder, his cheek pressed into the damp, spongy flesh..."

And there you have it. Two views of the Crillon. One dainty and refined and elegant. The other hot and sweaty and disgusting. The difference between them merely a sliver of luck. If I ever really do become a bag lady (my longtime nightmare), I would hope to bag it by the Crillon. Anybody can be down and out. Only a few can do it with style.

13 rue Monsieur

Cole Porter and his wife lived at 13 rue Monsieur, not more than three blocks from Napoleon's Tomb.




Ernest Hemingway and his wife live on rue de Cardinal Lemoine, next to the University of Paris, at the same time.

It was the 1920'a and the ex-pats invaded Paris. Porter lived the elegant life, with champagne, caviar, and decadence.

Hemingway could barely feed his small family and often had no heat in the house.

Doesn't seem fair, eh?

But then the stock market crashed, everyone went back home, and that was that.

Then why do I remain so fascinated with the whole thing?