Lutetia

And now we know why the Hotel Lutetia has its name.


Paris was originally called "Lutetia," and consisted of a small enclave on the island where Notre Dame stands today. Parisians were called "Lutetians."

Sometimes change is good. "Evening in Lutetia" jus doesn't have the same ring to it.

And thus endeth the lesson for today.

Ghosts in Paris

It kept catching my eye as we sped by. A clean, prosperous beige hotel with grand windows and a tea room. Perhaps it was the tea room that caught my eye. One day, another day, "That looks like a nice place," I would comment as our cab darted off on another adventure. We were always passing, going somewhere else. but for whatever reason, that somewhere else seemed to be in line with the hotel.

My friend had gone off on a train to see a castle that stretched from one side of a river to the other. During WWII, if you could make it to one side, you were safe, as the other side came out in Free France.

She would be a bit late getting back to Paris, and would I just pick something near and quick for dinner?

That is how we came to dine at the Hotel Lutetia, a clean, prosperous beige hotel with a cafe that was black and white and just a bit deco. We talked about her visit to the castle and the stories she heard about WWII. But for some reason I was antsy. I couldn't seem to settle. I ordered veal, which I never eat because I grew up in Wisconsin and I know what they do to those poor calves. The party next to us was loud. The two teenage girls in the party were looking at me and giggling. I knew it was because I was fat and they were thin. I just knew it. The father of the party was a huge man with a red face. He was loud. The teenagers were giggling. I was getting crabby. They were speaking German. Loudly. I was feeling bad about the veal. So I mentally practiced what I would say if the teenagers made some hurtful crack to me.

I would say, "I can lose the weight, but you will always be German."

Now where did THAT come from? That was rude. That was way out of line. What in the world would make me think such horrid thoughts? I didn't know these people. I don't speak German, so I didn't really know what the teenagers were going on about. I was having a great vacation in Paris. My friend was a wonderful traveling pal. The cafe was just fine. It was a mystery.

And then, when I got home, I read somewhere that the Hotel Lutetia was the rendevous point for French Jews who had survived the camps and had returned to Paris. Their families came to the Lutetia to re-connect with them and take them home. Prior to that, it was one of the headquarter hotels for the German Army.

Maybe it was all just a coincidence.

Or maybe not. Maybe you can feel the sorrows in a place many years later. Maybe something does linger. If I do get back to Paris, I'll go to the Hotel Lutetia again and just sit quietly. I'll let you know what happens.

Comic Relief

The ability to laugh out loud is the sign of a great soul.
- Jean Cocteau.

Les Truffes de Provence

Toujours Provence. Encoure Provence. A Year in Provence. Provence A-Z. And more and more. Peter Mayle actually did receive an award from the French government for his books about Provence. For he did put the place on the map. For good or ill. Everyone has Provence-envy. Did you say you have a house in Provence? Shall we vacation in Provence? You need help bringing in the grapes in your vineyard in Provence?

Of all the tales from Monsieur Mayle, none are more intriguing that the ones about the truffles of Provence. Big, brown, smelly, lumpy hunks of pure gold. Not the white truffles of Italy, a few short miles away. Black gold. Candy in a bowl. For many years, the men of Provence used giant pigs to hunt the truffles. The pigs can smell them under the leaves and the dirt and the limbs. And these truffle pigs love truffles. The men had to be mighty fast to steal a truffle away from a ravenous, lustful, 2,000 pound behemouth. This picture is of a Provence cochon called Petite. Petite indeed.


Today, to save energy and a few torn ligaments, they use dogs. Truffle dogs. And now we know two animals that have exquisite taste. For there is nothing quite like a truffle. Except for a morel, that is.

So we dream of going to Provence. The fresh markets. The light. The clean air. The quite. The hundred year old farm houses. The characters. I hope, if I ever do actually get to Provence, I'm not disappointed. I hope it still looks just like this.

Truffles

This is a test.

Which is the truffle? Which is the morel?

Here's a hint: two are truffles.

Here's another hint: a morel looks like a johnson with a skin disease.

And you don't really need a translation of "johnson," now do you?

When I was a little girl growing up in Wisconsin, my mom would tell me all about morels, wild mushrooms that grew in very woodsy, leafy areas on farms. Her teacher friend had just such a farm. Dottie invited us out to look at what she found under some tress in the back forty. Morels! Mom exclaimed! I whooped! Dottie got two grocery bags. We filled them up. That night Mom grilled a sirloin strak and fried the morels in sweet butter. The steak was smothered in morels. I rarely remember such a good meal.

Forty years later Mom and I had just such a meal again. I ordered fresh morels from Dean and Deluca in New York City. Fifty dollars for a pound of morels! And it was worth every penny. That sirloin was smothered. We fond them again at the grocery store in the Stanford Shopping Center in Palo Alto, CA. We found a mushroom farm in Wisconsin that sells morels for only two week in May. We tried to grow our own in the basement. I bought Mom a bronze-cast morel from a Wisconsin artist.

I realized that this family eating adventure might not be a common one when a dear friend came to the house for dinner one spring evening. Again, we had scored some morels. Out came the grill. On went the sirloin. The morels sizzled in the butter. And Carolyn would have nothing to do with them. She pushed them off to the side of her plate quietly, not causing any trouble, but determinedly. She would not eat them. I thought this was Unamerican.

So I have a weaknes for mushrooms. My good friend in Los Angeles added to my repetoire one evening when we ordered risotto with truffles in Beverly Hills. I had never had truffles. I was willing to try truffles. And then, oh my god, oh my god, they tasted like candy. I was eating a whole bowl full of candy. For the first time in my life, I would not share with others at the table. It was a magical experience, that bowl full of truffles.

So last April I find myself on the Place de la Madeleine in Paris, at Fauchon. There, right in the window, in the Fauchon black and white signature box, a big box, really big, was an entire box of morels. I thought I had come to the Place for chocolate. I was wrong. But, I looked longingly at the morels - and moved on. My American Exoress card breathed a sigh of relief.

So my friend and I are walking along, walking along, walking along and then - The House of Truflles. Right in front of us. Just past the House of Caviar. Truffles. And not the chocolate candy ones, either. The real thing. Lumpy disgusting-looking little pieces of coal worth more than your gold inlays. I turned to my friend. "I could buy a truffle," I said, the shock registering on my face. "I believe you could," she replied.

And that's how I came to make a gigantic bowl of risotto with truffles right in my own kitchen. "That's was rather tasty," my brother said, after polishing off a vegetable dish-sized serving. "Well, I hope you did enjoy it," I said, "since you'll probably never get it again."

But you never know. These mushroom stories just keep popping up in this family. When Mom died and I had a celebration of her life for her friends, Dottie showed up and told everyone the story about the morels under the tree. Maybe someday my friend will tell the story about the truffles on the Madeleine.

l'abondance

As Thanksgiving approaches, we think of all our blessings. It is a time here to celebrate our good fortune, our security, our cornucopia of food, shelter, light. We give thanks for our abundance. Even those of us with little.

Then there are the others. Those whose lives are defined by abundance. The wealthiest. The most regal. The ladies who lunch and the men who support them. What must it be like to live a life of abundance? What would happen to the you that you know if you were defined by the content of your closets instead of the content of your character? Would you survive?

Two case studies: both women who came to their jobs early in life - both women who lived apart from the world around them - both women with royal duties and royal responsibilities - both women who faced a crisis of the monarchy. How did they respond?

Marie Antoinette, the original "peel me a grape" gal, played shepardess at the Petit Trianon whie the French were starving. She ignored the warning signs and paid for it with her life. As Marie goes through a political make-over now, due to a book and a movie, and we learn that she never did really say "let them eat cake," we do need to remember that she was the original Valley Girl. She partied. She spent. She drank. She fooled around. She was only 14, for heaven's sake, when thrust by her mother, the Empress of Austria, into Louis XVI's cold and impotent bed. But still, even after24 years of French Royalty, she ignored the signs. Mothers from Paris stormed Versaille because their childen were starving. France was out of bread. And Marie just partied on. She ignored a crisis of the monarchy and did not survive. "Off with her head," they shouted.




Another royal, who also came to her job at a young age, is the current Queen Elizabeth, And here the lesson begins. She has always done her job. She meets her responsibilities. She doesn't spend lavishly or party-hardy. And when faced with a crisis of the monarchy, at the death of Princess Di, she did what she had to do - she met the people and read their stinging critiques, and made peace with them. The monarchy was saved and so was she.

What can we learn from this?

It's tough to be Queen?

Or better yet, when faced with your own responsibilities, meet them head-on. As Spike Lee said, "Do the right thing."

And save the pastries for later.

Shoes

Shopping should be an Olympic event. Women from all over the world could participate in different shopping events...Finding the Best Bargain, Speed and Acuracy, Resistance - the list continues...

My friend and I discovered that we would have been entered into two different shopping events.

I would enter and probably place in the Speed and Accuracy category. My philosophy is - if you see what you want, get it now because chances are you won't be back. So I easily found the things I wanted - quickly with no fuss. Chocolate bars at a number of places. Those little metal Eiffel Towers that I adore. A scarf, d'accord. Foie gras. Truffles. Herbs de Provence. Chevre and baguette. Nothing big. Just little things that make me happy.

My friend would enter and WIN in the Resistance category. She resisted most things. It was quite marvelous to watch. She would look at a biggger Eiffel Tower and put her hand to her forehead and say something like, "I think I'm just in the moment," and then move on. Jewelry. Clothes. Purses. She just moved on. She did get a lovely antique glass container, which will look lovely on her dresser. A few metal Eiffle Towers the last night near the Trocadero. Looking, looking, looking - but no buying. I began to despair.

But then, as I was relaxing in my room the last hour of the last day in Paris, the phone rang. My friend could not stand it anymore. She was going to get shoes.

She bought six pairs of shoes in the last hour of the last day in Paris.

Six.

I just love that story!!!

And God Bless her, she says every single pair fits. Vive la France!

www.blogthings.com

Your French Name is:

Bedelia Guerin

What's Your French Name?

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.

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?

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.