Author Archives: Sylvia

About Sylvia

Vini, vidi, Paris... I look forward to sharing the fun, flavours and fashion of living in Paris with two teen Parisiennes and Mr French. A true Californian in search of that certain je ne sais quoi, I came to Paris an over weight, under-shod vegetarian. I've since learned to shave my legs, wear a bra, and act like a grown up. A lot of work, but I'm loving it, and my teens are oh so thankful now that I am infinitely less embarrassing.

Cancale can cook

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Our stay in Cancale was an absolute dream, with unexpected great weather and absolute calm. The weather, of course, was pure luck, but the peace and tranquility was thanks to  Les Maisons de Bricourt. We stayed at their Cottage Les Rimains, which is delightfully far from the maddening crowd, over looking the bay. Each of the four rooms has paned windows which frame a spectacular view of the bay, reminding us that nature is the ultimate masterpiece.

I was a bit surprised that no one offered to take our bags upstairs. This is a Relais et Châteaux, after all, but it was the only hitch of our entire stay and not being a whimp, it was not a big deal, but being a reporter, I feel the need to mention it in case it would bother others. After getting over the spectacular view, we saw that there were treats waiting for us; home baked biscuits, fresh apples, exotic dried fruits and Chouchen, a local honey-based liqueur.

Every morning we’d rise and head through the garden, beyond the white picket gate to begin our run on the GR34, water lapping the foot of the cliff.

Breakfasts were spectacular, whether served in our room with country ham and local cheese, or enjoyed after a run in the town square at the Grain de Vanille, Les Maisons de Bricourt’s salon de thé. Our taste buds were dancing with new discoveries; from the first bite of the morning’s pommé pastry to the bulgar powder we added to our yogurts.

On Saturday night we had reservations at LMdB’s Michelin starred restaurant, Le Coquillage, set in a 1930’s Chateau Richeux, several kilometers from the Cottage. We were familiar with the chef thanks to his spice shop in St Malo, which we had discovered on our last visit to the region. Being a spice loving, chili pepper-heat deprived Californian, I was an Olivier Roellinger fan before we took the five steps up to the front door.

A basket of fresh autumn squashes greeted us, with an invitation from the kitchen’s gardener to help ourselves. If I’d dared, they’d have been the perfect decoration for this week’s Thanksgiving dinner, but they were somewhat larger than my elegant little clutch, and I’m ultimately a fashion first kind of gal.

The place was literally jumping with staff and diners. Everyone happy and relaxed, fashion ranging from jeans and boyfriends sweaters to Chanel suits. The food phenomenal. We both chose the a St Jacques (sea scallop) tartare for our entrées and I’m still getting a thrill from the hit of crunch and flavour I’d get as bits of citrus exploded between my teeth. Mr French’s plat was abalone, fished from the bay by a certain Phillipe, while I spoiled myself with lobster grilled in the chateau’s fireplace.

There was an entire cart of mini pastries to choose from, most of them featuring excitingly fresh flavours and spices, with a few traditional rich offerings thrown in for good measure.

After the meal we curled up in leather club chairs, sipping herbal teas and digestifs, by a fireplace in the salon before being escorted “home” by our driver. Yes, we had a driver. The Chateau Richeux has 13 rooms and suites just above the dining rooms, but for guests staying further afield at LMdB’s cottage, they offer a free driving service for dinner, keeping the roads safe for everyone. Not a bad idea after an apéro, a bottle of wine and the digestifs!

We ended the night lulled to sleep by the melody of the sea. Sweet dreams afloat.

Les Maisons de Bricourt / +33 (0)2 99 89 64 76 |

Sally sells seashells

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One year ago last week, Mr French and I PACSed, which is to say we entered into a civil union, which is hard to explain, but basically, we’re officially almost-married and since I’ll jump on any excuse to party, it seemed the perfect excuse for a celebration.

Given last month’s schedule with family obligations, holiday plans and business trips that kept us apart for nearly three weeks, the only real way to celebrate was to escape to a place where we could calmly sit and gaze lovingly into one another’s eyes sleep, preferably far from our children and their constant reminders of what pathetic old saps we are.

Remembering a good friend and his excitement over his 50th birthday weekend at Olivier Roellinger’s hotel and restaurant, Les Maisons de Bricourt, I called up the folks in Cancale. They had a cottage room available, perched on the cliffs over looking the oyster farms. Sounded good to me, so I booked.

The folks in Cancale? Can what? Canale is a charming little fishing village on the Brittany coast, but few people ever hear of it because it is forever in the shadow of its two imposing neighbors; St Malo and the Mont St Michel. This is too bad for all those who merely drive through on their way from one Heritage site to the next, but fantastic for those who stop and can have the place to themselves.

acres of oysters, slurp!!!

In France, the town is known for its oyster production with farms that stretch out for miles and miles into the bay. The beds disappear completely at high tide and then reappear., *poof*, like magic!

The GR 34, an idyllic hiking trail with stupendous views, follows the coast from here to St Malo and we could see the trail head tempting us with promises of health and well-being, like Ursula tempted Ariel. Instead of going for a walk, we opted for only restaurant still serving lunch, Au Vieux Safran. Tourist central with a line of restaurants, I was not expecting much, so I was floored by the perfection coming from the kitchen. My shrimp entrée melted on my palette with hits of bay and a touch of salt, the moules were beyond reproach, while my fries were crisp on the outside and utterly creamy on the inside. I didn’t try Mr French’s meal because he chose andouille, and I will never be French enough to enjoy ammoniac notes of urine with my pork products. When I complimented the waitress on the incredibly good freshness of our meal, she reminded me of Cancale’s privileged situation ‘entre terre et mer‘ and made it clear that there could be no excuse for bad food in this part of Brittany.

Properly fed, and no longer terrified that we’d return to a town with absolutely no dining options, we at last headed to the GR34, our silhouettes hand in hand, disappearing into the woods.

Au Vieux Safran / 2 Quai Gambetta / 02 99 89 92 42

 

Going Home

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This is not going to be a maudlin post about how you can never go home again. After three years from the Bay, I was home. Okay, my second home. But home, none the less.

Mostly, I just hung with my peeps and lived the life I used to live. Wonderfully magical for me, can’t believe you’d find it interesting. But there were highlights that may have you clicking onto Kayak to plan your own little holiday by the Bay. So I’ve taken the best of’s shaken, not stirred and poured them into one serving for you to savour.

In the morning, I rise early so that I can make the 8:30 Rhythm & Motion dance class with Wendy or Ryan at the ODC. This is a drop-in class for both professional modern dancers and lay people, even the soft flabby ones like me. This year, as I extended, step one, two, three-ed across the wooden floor, sweat pooling in every curve, including between my knuckles, my mind kept telling me that this was America’s solution to 50 Shades of Grey. Who needs a book when you could be in a hot, sweaty room, surrounded by a fair number of particularly fit, good looking guys, all of them completely unavailable to women? You’ve got your groove on, feeling 20 years younger as you bump and grind to music that has your blood pumping, taking care of yourself in a way you rarely do. Grrrr….. where was Mr French when I really needed him? (ps, they’ve got classes in Cincinnati, too, it anyone is interested…)

I know this is the place for me, because the class is full of friends from my past life, some of them totally unconnected; a girlfriend from high school, several moms from my daughters’ old school and writer friends.

M and I head to Haight-Ashbury, where there is something of a mix and because she is a teen. This area is teen heaven with all its cheap vintage shopping, albums stores (we’re looking for the Runaways lp… anyone?) and the thrill of walking past head shops as hippies sing, barefoot in the streets, totally enthralling my little Parisienne. We bump into a friend from my high school days and make an improptu visit to her home, just around the corner.

Thanks to FaceBook, M still has friends in SF, even though we left when she was 5! For lunch, she’ll be with her copine and I’ve got plans with Auntie J, my BFF since the 9th grade. I’ve requested that we meet at Zuni Café, known for having the best burgers this side of the Atlantic, served with original, house made pickles that I can’t get enough of. It is an unusually sun day, so we get to sit outside, watching antique J trains go by, the homeless with their shopping carts and the nutty lady next to us who spent her entire meal in deep conversation with her dog. Its all great, but the food is even better, with a Meyer lemon meringue something-or-other I am still drooling over.

We’ve got some time left and Auntie J needs some new clothes, so we head to Fillmore Street in the posh Pac Heights district. This is SF, where even the rich shop with a conscious, so Ralph Lauren is next to a charity shop, with Marc Jacobs not far from Goodwill. Truly, something for everyone.

Eventually, I find M and we hit Valencia Street taking photos of murals and stopping to purchase dried chilies. We explore (or walk by blushing) too-cool-for-thou cafés, fantastic vintage shops, original fashion, the woman friendly, anti-sleeze Good Vibrations sex shop, Dave Egger’s Pirate store, Paxton Gate taxidermist and bromeliad florist, and lots of very exciting eateries. Our destination is ¡Venga! Empanadas, where Spanish born, Argentine raised chef Manuel Godina and his crew make everything from scratch, serving up the best empanadas north of the equator with some perfectly blended sangria, all of it served in a sophisticated, fiesta inspired bar where 3O of our local friends will be joining us for a lovely soirée. Most of my friends have younger, kids, so the place is full of giggles and squeals. We all look fantastic, not one of us has aged, except the teen boys who grew a metre in our absence. We stroll home through crowds of the dead. It is Dia de los Muertas and the surreal moment is the perfect note for a most perfect visit to our not-quite home.

 

Friday@Flore

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This week should be titled Friday@Flores, because it sounds so much more espagnol, and last week, while in San Francisco, I stayed in the Spanish speaking part of the city, the Mission District. California started out as part of Mexico, an

d the Mission at Dolores Park was one of the first establishments in the area. The neighbor clings proudly to its hispanic heritage, serving up some of the freshest, most authentic foods, selling wrestling masks, and promoting murals in to the realm of fine art. For All Saint’s Day the Mexican community turns out in force to celebrate Dia de los Muertos.

And in the words of the great Maurice Sendak, “Let the wild rumpus begin

Paris Photo

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Today was the opening of Paris Photo, an annual event, that just like FIAC and the Biennial, draws the best galleries from across the globe. The nice thing about this art show is that photos are relatively affordable investments on the international art scene, so the crowd is younger and more light-hearted, making for a more fun, relaxed event.

iconic work by Irving Penn

Photography as a fine art is a fairly difficult concept because of the negatives. For every photo taken, there may be only one print made, or 100,000. Unlike bronzes or lithographs, the production is not controlled, a photographer, galleriest, or any one with access to the negatives can make as many prints as s/he likes and still call them originals. Photos may be printed in a variety of sizes, or at a wide range of time periods and some are developed long after the photographer has gone. Which explains the more accessible prices.

Another complication is more intellectual and relates to modern technology. At what point is a photo no longer a photo, but an illustration or a piece of multi-media? And does the fact that an image has been copied a million times into postcards and Hallmark calendars, add to its value, or deplete it? And what about the accessibility of the process? When we look at most art forms, we may say to ourselves, or the person next to us, “I could do that” while it is rarely true. With contemporary photography, the odds are on your side. Finally, is there, or should there be a significant difference in the value of photos shot as fine art and commercial photography?

All this was filtering through my mind as I attended the opening of the show. And then I started looking at the pictures and other thoughts started popping up, thoughts like; Why are photographers so obsessed with boobs? What is the vagina to penis ration at this show 100:1? Which reminded me of the days when I had my own studio and would go to the lab and the men would stand around talking to each other like it was an old boy’s club and I’d have to clear my throat really loudly to get their attention. All this yin energy made me particularly pleased to see the number of women photographers being represented at this year’s event. Girl power to the 9th degree.

This year’s show has been curated by David Lynch. He has visited all the kiosks, putting a small black sign, signed “vu par David Lynch” on his favorite photos, which makes for a fun way to visit the show. He’ll be there this weekend, participating in various conferences, while photographers like Martin Parr (Friday at 18h) and Jane Evelyn Atwood (Saturday at 16h) will be there signing recent books.

As you stroll the aisles you’ll recognize iconic works by masters like Henri Cartier-Bresson, Irving Penn and Annie Leibovitz. I was particularly enthralled with the collections at the East European galleries like the photos at the Asymetra Gallery (A42) from Warsaw or Vintage (B31) from Budapest.

Paris Photo is at the Grand Palais and runs until Nov 18.

Paris by the Bay

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I wrote this for The Girls Guide to Paris in 2010, but it was all still true last week…

French lilacs for a scent of Paris.

When San Francisco grows up, she wants to be French. Yes, I know the city has an extraordinary Italian food, an Asian museum, a historic Jewish community and a rich Latino heritage. But Italians, Asians, Jews and Latinos have all lived in San Francisco since it frst sprouted, while the French, well, the French culture was imported to The City by locals.

Take the building that houses city hall. The 1915 architecture was inspired by Mansart’s Invalides, in Paris. The Legion of Honor, a fine-arts museum that houses a monumental Thinker, by Auguste Rodin, and a series of works by Monet, is a replica of the Palais de la Légion d’Honneur, also in Paris. And if you’ve ever had San Francisco sourdough, you know that it is a cousin to the French pain au levain.

The French feel so at home in SF that there are two private schools where they can ensure a French education for their children. An entire community has grown around the French Even the most traditional raclette can be had at the 24th Street Cheese Shop.American International School on Oak Street, in Hayes Valley, where you can head to Tartine Café Français to savor a proper café crème and a real tartine while French teachers, high-school students and moms chatter away, the melody of the language transporting you back to the Seine, before a stroll past French-inspired art, antique and gift shops on neighboring Hayes Street. San Francisco is an ideal destination for those needing a quick Paris fix without the hassles of trans-Atlantic travel. My favorite Paris-like neighborhood is Noe Valley. A bit off the tourist trail, in the sunniest part of the city, Noe Valley has a cheese monger, 24th Street Cheese Company; a butcher, Drewes Bros., a bistro, Le Zinc; and two bakeries featuring French-style breads, Noe Valley Bakery and La Boulange.

For culture, the Alliance Française is a dynamic center that has a library, holds art exhibitions and offers classes on topics like cinema. You can also find reading material from the Continent downtown at Café de la Presse.

If all of this has you craving a proper confit, there are numerous French restaurants in the city, from the formal and very elegant Fleur de Lys to the casual, incredibly authentic Butler and the Chef. There is a small alley, Belden Place, with so many French restaurants that it has become famous for its Bastille Day block party, where “La Marseillaise” is played so loudly that you think you really are in Paris. Pinch me.

Tartine Café Français  / 244 Gough Street. / (415) 553-4595.

24th Street Cheese Company  / 3893 24th Street / (415) 821-6658.

Pictours Paris

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In case you haven’t heard, I just went to the US to visit my beloved daughter, friends and family, and because I’ve probably only said it 60 million times, it has been THREE years. Uh hunh, I’m shouting it out because it was fantastic.

Even more fantastic is that my Dad, the “Grandpa” joined us in Chicago before we headed to SF. The girls and I love his silly jokes, contagious curiosity and outrageous eating habits. This trip, we were also looking forward to giving him his 70th birthday present, which we had prepared in early September. The American cliché, my Dad has everything, which made coming up with a thoughtful gift challenging.

Then inspiration hit… photos! Photos are always appreciated, especially when the grandkids live thousands of miles away and Mom is a photographer. You know the story about the cobbler’s children going barefoot? Well, it’s true. My family rarely receives photos of my kids and hasn’t seen me on film since the arrival of my first grey hair.

Not wanting to be my own worst client, I hired a professional, Lindsey Kent of Pictours Paris. I’d been put in touch with other professionals; a photojournalist from La Liberation, a fashion photographer and an artiste. Their portfolios showed lots of very sad looking Scandanvians. So, I chose Lindsey. Her subjects look happy and I knew that she makes people look their very best because she’d taken a photo of me at a Paris blogger party chez the adorable Un Homme Une Femme and I’d actually looked thin in the shot. Lindsey was in.

Since she generally works with tourists and often with couples, Lindsey specializes in romantic shots in front of Paris’ monuments. This is our home, so we wanted the images to say “Paris” while reflecting our own little slice of the city. After much debate and countless ideas, Mr French suggested we shoot in the metro. Not an easy proposition; the lighting would be dim and keeping other people out of the shot nearly impossible. Lindsey was enthusiastic about the challenge.

Then we wanted to explore the garden where the girls had spent much of their childhoods, getting out their ya-ya’s after school each afternoon. Finally, we’d hit the neighborhood café that had been just downstairs from our first Paris flat, garçon inclus, s’il vous plaît.

For our shoot, we all wore jeans and plain blue tops because mid-tones look best in black and white, and my daughters’ mother can be something of a control freak. Despite the monotone palette, I did let everyone dress in her own style, trying to avoiding the creepy Adamm’s family-style portraits that the Romney clan was so proud of before the elections.

Taking portraits is fascinating. After the shoot, you go back to the lab and start sorting the photos. As you select the best shots, where everyone looks happy and relaxed, a pattern appears and soon you have a very unique, extremely intimate view of the individuals and their relationships. Lindsey nailed it several times; catching M’s exuberance as she spun in the park, E’s radiance at the café and each of our individual styles, as we cross the rue du Bac in full stride, like true Parisienne’s our shoes telling the full story.

My kind of town

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Chi-town, the home of the Bears and for now, my (not so) little E. I was last in Chicago on a high school trip some time between puberty and adulthood, so all I remember of the city is how the Sears Tower sways in the wind. This is a normal occurrence and it is really not necessary to go dashing under the nearest table top performing one’s most humiliating ‘duck and cover’ shouting “earthquake”!!!

I also remember Maury Alchek’s really cute butt and a ton of fantastic monumental contemporary art sculptures throughout the city. I remembered a gi-normous Calder structure and a beautifully soft Chagall mural.

This visit, I was in town to explore the University of Chicago and E’s new life. As a Californian, from the new region of a very new country, I was really surprised by all the old, European style architecture. There is a reading room that looks like the dining hall at Hogwart’s and a chapel that is a gothic monument that would do any French city proud. The quad is intimate, surrounded by 19th century brick buildings and during our visit, golden-tinged autumn leaves from the ginko trees littered the manicured lawns. The girls rolled their eyes when I squealed in delight over the sighting of a squirrel, warning me that I’d been in France for much too long. I kept my enthusiasm at the sighting of an American yellow school bus to myself.

I hadn’t taken E to college when she first moved, so this trip was mostly about Target runs and furniture building. We met new friends, tested the cafeteria and spent hours in bookshops. Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture and the campus museums will have to wait for the next visit. But we did make time for what may be the most beautiful library on earth. The Mansueto library sits on a corner, looking like a dew drop from the land of giants. You enter through the main library into a reading room with no walls, no ceiling. Just tables, with perfectly designed chairs and the sky above you. It is inspiration.

While visiting we stayed downtown, where we did have the opportunity to see a bit of the city. We drove by the Calder and Chagall art that are is impressive as I remember, but they have lost their power to astonish ever since the city built ‘The Bean’ which is the  knickname of Anish Kapoor’s Cloud Gate sculpture in Millennium Park. The bean gets its name from its kidney-like shape. 13 metres high, and 20 metres long, this mirrored structure enthralls and disorients, forcing the viewer to redefine her own reality. It gets even better as you walk under the sculpture and view yourself through the naval. It is Kapoor at his best and art how I love it the most; approachable, playful and an experience that enriches you.

Almost as wonderful as watching your daughter sprout wings and come into her own.

Friday@Flore

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I have not posted for the last two days. No warnings, no advance notice, just *poof* I disappeared. There are no official rules in the blogosphere, but I find this to be ultimate un-cool. My apologies to all. Now for the good stuff. I disappeared to Chicago, then San Francisco where I lost myself in a sun-soaked glorious week of friends and family.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Which brings me to this week’s Friday@Flore. Before the Flore became I regular part of my life’s routine, there was the Dolores Café. Located on a busy neighborhood corner, just below Dolores Park with its historic California mission. There are basketball courts, a high-tech kiddie park, rolling green hills and a spectacular view of downtown, the entire scene perfumed with the aromas of medical marijuana.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was not falling into hyperbole when I spoke of a sun-soaked SF visit. Its unusual, but it happened and every local with the slightest excuse to procrastinate had hit the slopes. I often joke that I do not know how to dress, because California has no sense of style, but my afternoon spent following the local street fashion scene proves me woefully wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Couples of every combination were putting on their fashionable best – a relaxed adult grandson with his super cool grandma, LGBT trendsetters, woefully hipster couples, true next generation hippies, and vintage vamps. It was a kaleidoscope of style and design that left me feeling like a kid who had just devoured her favorites from her plastic pumpkin Halloween goodie bag. Well, to be honest, I HAD just devoured some of my childhood, but that’s another adventure…

Quiet

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As I was out gift shopping, I spotted something new. When you live in a neighborhood that is several hundred years old, spotted with cafés and shops that have been around just as long, you tend to do that. You notice the new.

On the boulevard St Germain, nestled between les Deux Magots and my beloved Café de Flore, was the iconic bookstore, La Hune, which had been around since the 1950’s. Open Sundays and until midnight, it was key addresses in the local literary scene, not to mention a major pick-up place for those who prefer books to beers. So I was somewhat stunned when I read that it was closing earlier this year. Not only were they closing their doors, but the space was being taken over by LVMH and NOONE seemed particularly upset about it. As an organic eating, leftist militant from a California village that successfully prevented Starbucks from setting up shop, I was actually more than upset, I was devastated. How had I managed to convince myselves (that was a typo, but I love it, so it’s staying) that Parisiennes were any more immune to globalization than the rest of the world? Why weren’t they hitting the streets to protect this icon and their patrimoine?

In the following weeks, the answer became clear. Noone was protesting, because they all knew something I didn’t. La Hune was not closing shop to leave the neighborhood. Quite the opposite, they were reclaiming a larger, brighter space just steps away. And they were giving DIOR the boot, a very elegant leather boot, I imagine, to do so. The tide of culture flooding out international labels. I’m down with that.

Which is how the prime real estate at the corner of the rue St Benoit and boul St Germain became vacant. Managed by LVMH you’d expect them open yet another luxury store, or expand the one next door. Instead, they launched a completely new concept. They opened a literary space.

A literary space? What is a literary space you ask? I had no idea either, and drawn in by the beauty of the space, I went to inquire. The quiet haven of casual elegance, with chocolate colored walls, mid-century designer furniture, and an art exhibit dedicated to Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road” is simply a space to read. Tables are stacked with books, comfortable seats with good lighting are available and people are invited to discover literature. Occasionally, there will be lectures. Nothing is for sale.

L’ecriture est un voyage (writing is a journey) is the current theme, with a collection of memoirs, fiction and adventures from across the globe. If you just happen to fall in love the book you started, and absolutely must know how it ends, you are welcome to walk the 49 steps it takes to get to La Hune to purchase a copy for yourself. Still open Sundays and until midnight.

L’ecriture est un voyage / 170 boul St Germain

La Hune / 18 rue de l’Abbye

 

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