Sure, the French Will Quit Smoking...

Pardon

My mistake. France is quitting smoking. According to an article in the Sunday Atlanta Journal-Constitution, smoking will be banned from offices, schools and public buildings in February. Bars and restaurants will follow in 2008.

And George Bush is smart.

Ne pas pouvoir se passe de tabac

"Since everyone gave up cigarettes, France is about as exciting as Switzerland."


That is the exact caption for this French cartoon. "Since everyone gave up cigarettes....?" Since when? Since April?

Now I gave up cigarettes. I didn't smoke in Paris. I wanted to but I didn't. I can't say the same for most of the French. They were puffing away as if there were no tomorrow. Even at Le Grand Colbert, the young girls next to our table were hazily seen in a cloud of smoke. I wanted to reach over and grab their cigarettes and smoke every one of them. I did not.

When EVERYONE in France gives up smoking, I will give up this blog. Addictions are nightmares.

Chocolat

Here are three magnificent chocolate shops in Paris. These are by no means the only chocolate shops. Paris is full of chocolate shops. You could do a chocolate tour of Paris and never run out of shops. These are three that I like.


This first one is really my favorite. It is on the Ile St. Louis, that charming island in the middle of the Seine, right behind Notre Dame. This tiny little place is home to outrageously expensive apartments, boutiques, the best ice cream in the city, and the best chocolate. Here in this yellow and brown shop you will find the best 70% cacao dark chocolate you can imagine. It doesn't just melt on your tongue. It glides. It simpers. It slides. Go ahead. Buy lots. You won't regret it.



Fauchon, in the Place de la Madeline on the right Bank, is a Paris insititution. It's been in business since the 1800's and is known for its gourmet foods and chocolates. It has a lovely restaurant upstairs if you are in the area around lunch time. The shop has changed mightily since I first discovered it 25 years ago. Then it had a massive pastry and chocolate counter and small tall tables scattered around where people ate pasteries and drank coffee standing up. I thought that was swell - standing up to eat and drink. Now all of that seems to be gone. There are two separate shops now, next to each other. One has gourmet foods (think a barrel of morels) and the other has chocolates. While the chocolate bars were just fine, I do miss the old place.



For really fancy-dancy chocolates, go over to the Left Bank in the Saint Germaine du Pres. Just to the left of the Flore/Duex Magot, down the side street, is Debauve and Gallais, the chocolatier to Louis the XVI, thank you very much. It is incredibly snooty and very busy. The women clerks are officious but fast. I did buy a box of tasting chocolate there (for around $40, mind you) that had a hundred chocolate leaves of all varieties, from very sweet to very bitter. Some of them tasted like lillacs. M-m-m-m.

I envy the French their chocolates. We visited just before Easter week. In another shop they displayed the chocolate treats that the children would receive. Magnificent bouquets of chocolate. Incredible arrangements and fantasies in chocolate. Puts the hollow chocolate bunny and the bagged candies to shame. Lucky kids.

Betty Bijoux

We all know a Betty Bijoux. A tall, thin, stylish, blonde with an outrageous streak. She is there, somewhere in our lives, hiding or flaunting, slinking or striking, simmering or steaming. Betty, the jewel. Betty, the fashionista. Betty. Betty. Betty.

Yves Staint Laurent had a jewel of a betty. Betty Catroux was his muse, his friend, his confidant for more years than you can spell "perfume." Tom Ford has a betty. Betty Catroux. Deep background icon of Chanel. The real Nicole. Betty of a Certain Age.

If you want to red a dishy book about Paris fashion, get a copy of "The Beautiful Fall," by Alicia Drake. Karl Lagerfeld, Yves Saint Laurent, and a fight to the death, or the death of couture, to be precise. There you will find the Paris Betty. Liaisons. Drugs. Marrakesh. Fabric. Detox. Gossip. Film at eleven.

You can still see Betty today as you walk around Paris. Look in the store windows. There she is. Outrageous clothes. Things you love but could never wear to work. Things, frankly, that would never fit. Shoes to die for, pointy toes and all. And the jewelry. The jewelry. The bijoux. And the scarves. What is it with the scarves? Betty is there. Your Betty is there. You'll look in those store windows and say, "That would look great on....[Betty}, wouldn't it?" And your friend will say, "I believe it would." And you'll walk on, past the girls in jeans and the older women in storm coats and wonder where the fashionable ladies are these days. For they are surely not on the streets of Paris anymore.

Of course, for the immortal story of Parisiene style, there is "The Essence of Style: How the French Invented HIgh Fashion, Fine Food, Chic Cafes, Style, Sophistication, and Glamour," by Joan DeJean. Think Louis XIV. Think the Sun King. Think diamonds for buttons. Not buttons covered with diamonds, but diamonds that were big enough to become buttons. Now THAT was style.

And don't despair about the Betty in your life. We all have one. Some of us have more than one, but that's just too sad to think about too much. Just think about this the next time she goes off on you about some silly thing. Think about Betty Catroux. All those years with all that style. And look what happened to her.



Oscar Wilde was right. It's better to have the picture in the closet. And here's the lesson for today: ugly just isn't pretty, no matter how you dress it up.

The Man Who Saved Paris

Although I do re-read some books, there are only two that I have actually read three times. And they are both about Paris. One is Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables," about the French Revolution. The other is "Is Paris Burning?" about the end of WWII.

The first one I admire because Hugo tells five different stories and then manages to weave them all together at the end. I remain in awe of this magnificent accomplishment. I secretly plan to read it again, trying to outline each of the five strands, graphically plotting how the weaving works.

The second one I admire for its true story of The Man Who Saved Paris. At the end of WWII, Hilter, now mad and suffering from Parkinson's, ordered Dietrich von Choltitz to destroy Paris before the Allies arrived. Choltitz refused. Paris was saved.

But it's an interesting adventure when you re-read a book. You find more, not in the book, but in yourself. Your prior experiences, your knowledge, your point of view change with each reading. Sometimes your reactions to the book are the same. And sometimes, very surprisingly, they are not.

Such was the case when I re-read "Is Paris Burning?" I found Hamlet, not Tienneman-Square-Guy, this time around. Choltitz did, indeed, prevent the complete distruction of one of the world's most beautiful cities. But he seemed nearly passive-agressive. Nearly co-dependent. Melancholy. Indecisive. He suspected Hitler was insane, but he still planted massive amounts of dynamite around the city. He would follow orders. He would not follow orders. He was afraid of Hitler. He was afraid of being remembered as the man who destroyed Paris. In the end, he simply ran out of time.

At least, that's what I read this time around.

On the other hand, Major General Spiedel, when ordered to rain down bombs on Paris, decided to forget the message.

Any good historical account always includes snapshots that tickle. Here are some from this grand account of WWII:

Ernest Heminway was one of the first Americans to re-enter Paris, a good two hours ahead of the American Army. He and two colleagues sneaked in silently.

After capturing several German solders, Hemingway also captured their pants, knowing that they would not escape in the raw.

He also liberated the Ritz, his old stompping grounds from the literary '30s. With a very large group of Allies, Hemingway stromed to the bar. The bartender asked him what he would like. Hemingway replied

"How about 72 martinis?"

Parmentier du canard

It was the last night in Paris. I was very tired and just a bit sad. I could see the Eiffle Tower right outside the Cafe de l'homme at Trocadero. And I could already feel my nice soft bed at home.

I ordered parmentier du canard, not having the faintest idea what it was, except it was duck, which I love. And what arrived was a lovely sort of shepard's pie, only with duck. Beautiful mashed potatoes on top with an incised pattern and popped under the broiler for a bit so it was browned in spots and light in others.

It was wonderful. So, canard = duck. Got it.

Parmentier? Here is the translated page from France:

French pharmacist. He is especially known to have given his letters of nobility to potato. In 1772, the academy of Besancon melts a price in the intention discovering plants of replacement for the human consumption. Parmentier contributes and proposes several starch-based plants, of which the potato. He already cultivated several varieties of them and made the chemical examination of it. It is the potato which is chosen by the academy in 1773. In addition to to have popularized this vegetable, Parmentier reformed flour-milling and bakery It is him which made adopt antivariolar vaccination in the army of Bonaparte. It was also interested in the pharmacy, which was its first trade, with hygiene, the food and even with arts.

Isn't that a hoot? Don't you just love this translation software. We should start a contest for the silliest translation via computer.

Anyway, the gentleman enobled in brass is the statue here was the man who popularized the potatoe in France. Three years before the American Revolution. My mother wold have loved him. And Pierre Guiet, who told me long age that "only peasants eat potatoes," was wrong.

And if you look in Epicurious, you'll see this definition for our foodie friends:

parmentier
[par-mawn , -TYAY]
A descriptor for a dish garnished or made with potatoes.

Et voilá!

BTW: it was delicious.