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.

A hot night out

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Mr French’s daughter was born in July, so we often celebrate her birthday here in Hossegor. The restaurants in town are fantastic, but a couple of years ago we were looking for something particularly special to celebrate her 30th birthday. Lucky for us, that very same year the Michelin starred chef, Coussu, from the Relais de la Poste in nearby Magesqc (that is not a typo, just a town with an oddly written name), was invited to open a restaurant in Hossegor.

It seemed like the perfect place to celebrate. The restaurant is in a beautiful, eco-friendly, contemporary building of raw wood and canvas on the dunes over looking the beach. The westerly walls are sliding glass and there is a large, protected terrasse bordered with wild grasses that add a sweet perfume to the typical restaurant aromas.

Coussu is famous for what he does with foie gras, but here it is all about seafood and vegetables. There were flowers in our food, with clovers decorating our plates. A crab entrée (“starter” for anglophones) was a play on sensations, with a bit of crab infused ice floating over the warm meat and a bit of room temperature crab coral cream. Other dishes played with textures; rough, crispy, crunchy falafel bits adding a delightful hit to a fish dish.

This is one of the few, perhaps the only, fine dining experience I’ve ever enjoyed with a show, because as we were served one stunning dish after another the sun began to set. The colors were stupendous and even blasé Parisiens were standing up with their cameras to take pictures of the sensation spectacle.

Then the desserts came out and at that very moment J’s friend, who had her back to the kitchen, started waving her hands wildly in excitement. Her arms flung back, hitting the waiter and his precious cargo. A few plates went flying, the flambéd desserts with them and in an instant our table was on fire. Everyone’s attention was on putting out the flames when I started to feel a bit warm derrière. My seat was on fire, and my skirt too…

Astonishingly, the waiter scampered off, never to been seen or heard from again. We were too drunk on the happiness of the moment to care, a flamboyant end to a truly brilliant evening.

What the chef has to say; “Born in the terroir of Les Landes, cradled between land and sea, I wanted this “place”, a unique setting to serve an incomparable cuisine to the perpetual chatter of the sea”

St Jean de Luz

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La maison de l'Infante

After a few days at the beach, I am ready for a break. Hossegor is the perfect place for a curious traveler, because it offers a fantastic range of day trips. We can go hiking in the Pyrenées, visiting quaint Basque villages like Espelette, or Sares. Or we can head south for tapas at the very relaxed, food obsessed Saint Sébastien, Spain. Or even further south for a day of culture and fine art at the Guggenheim in Bilbao. There is the glitzy beach town of Biarritz along the way, the naturally wild Guéthary, and my personal favorite, the very historic and exceptionally picturesque St Jean de Luz.

This is where Louis XIV married the infante Marie Thérèse in 1660. The houses where each stayed awaiting the royal event still tower over the main square at the port. 350 years ago, the baker Monsieur Adam provided macarons for the festivities. These cookies bore little resemblance to the macarons you get in Paris today. They are flat little cookies, without cream and you can try them yourself, because the Maison Adam is still making them today.

When Adam was baking his cookies, and the king was wedding his queen, this was an active fishing port, and despite the tourism, it is still an active port today. Many of the boats boast a traditional Basque decor, with red and green trim, and the Basque flag waving proud in in the marine breeze. Several are so beautiful that they have been named historical monuments.

Another treat are the Muxu cookies at the bakery Pariès, which also has an exceptional gateau Basque and some traditional tourron. Parisiens love these treats so much that Pariès is heading north and will be opening up shop at 9bis rue St Placide in the 6th this fall. I am not sure I like the idea of their delicious, buttery cakes being so close to home. It is very bad news for my ligne.

The church is also worth a visit, with a very traditional Basque decor. This means there is a very large, impressive wooden boat suspended from the ceiling. And if you’re very lucky, they’ll be performing traditional Basque singing on the night you’re in town.

After an afternoon visiting, and shopping and snacking, we head to the beach for a quick swim before going to dinner. Here too, the choices are impressive; Chez Koko, just behind the local Halles, has fantastic tapas, while Chez Maya offers traditional Basque fare that has earned them a Michelin star. Tonight, we opt for Zoko Moko. I like the name and the food is fantastic. Traditional Basque with a modern, but not quite molecularly tortured twist. Even without taking notes, I remember discovering Ajo Blanco and the unique combination of roasted lobster on a bed of mandolin sliced peaches. Mr French’s pigeon confit was delicious and the desert were just as good.

We headed “home” truly savouring our holidays.

On the run…

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Every morning, before heading out to face the waves, Mr French and I go for an 8 kilometer run around the marine lake that is the natural jewel of Hossegor. Just 500 meters from the sea, this salt lake is fed by the sea, with the accompanying tides and a sandy shore.

As the sunrises above the lake, the pines form a dramatic silhouette, looking like a Japanese wood block print. The egret and herons fly in for an early morning snack as the sky turns a dramatic pink. Within a kilometer we are at the Plage Blanche, where there is a day camp for the very young and a fantastic little Breton crêperie where at night, you can dine by candle light, enjoy the perfectly grilled catch of the day, your bare feet digging into the sand.

We push on, as fishermen cast their lines, and others run, swim, paddle their wide surf boards, or row their kayaks along the canal that connects the lake to the sea. Over the bridge, and back to the first bridge . passing the bridge that joins centre ville to the beach, we are half way there.

Back along the lake, there are catamaran and sail boat rentals and an oyster farm where cormorants guard the pier, drying their wings in the early morning sun. At the tip of the lake the oyster farmers are busy at their “production labs” preparing the days harvest for the hungry diners who will soon be flooding their lakeside stands for cheap oyster (5€ a dozen) and refreshing white wines.

At  the same spot is La Station. A 1950’s American style gas station that really was a gas station until 3 years ago when it became an very trendy restaurant, serving cheap, but delicious tapas and grilled fish with broccoli to the hipper than hip Hossegordians.

We are now running south, at the foot of stately estates owned by the rich and I-don’t-want-to-be-famous who vacation here, happily avoiding the paparazzi on the Côte d’Azur.

In 56 minutes (my best time yet) we are back at the hotel, savouring yet another beautiful day in the Algarve (inside joke, I know I’m in the Landes)…

At sea

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I don’t leap into things. It took me decades of dreaming to get myself and my family to Paris, and it takes me nearly that long before leaping into large bodies of water, many thanks to my fellow Californian Steven and his film Jaws. I need to take my sweet time, wading in slowly; first the toes get wet, then the ankles, shins, mid-calves. You get the idea. Very slowly. As if I was getting swallowed by the boa constrictor in that famous nursery school song.

Once I am in, I’m ready to go. Mr French has taught me to boogie board and I LOVE it.  First, because it is incredibly fun and exhilarating. As the wave rises you have the anticipation that comes from hoping you’ll be ready to go at exactly the right place at exactly the right moment to catch the ride back to shore. Then, once you’re going, the wave lifts you up and propels you with thrilling speed; you get the feeling that you’re flying without the accompanying fear of falling that one may feel when doing something like hang gliding. Its absolute freedom.

I also love the effort it takes to get out to the waves themselves. It is something of a struggle and gives my legs a tremendous work out that feels fantastic.

But mostly, I love it because it seems to be the Frenchwoman’s not-so-secret cure for cellulite. They don’t even boogie board, they just stand in the waves and give it a fancy name like Thalasso therapy. It was started by promoters in the 1800’s when the chemin de fer made getting around France easy and Princesse Eugènie was soon addicted. Before promoters knew what was happening, the French were investing a great deal of time and money going to the shore, getting themselves wet at large spas all along the Atlantic coast. I’ve heard rumours that today, certain doctors will even prescribe Thalasso therapy so their patients get it subsidized by the state. This is particularly popular in September, when exhausted grandmothers, who have been chasing after their grandchildren all summer, finally take a break. It is refreshingly relaxing, but works its wonder on fat, as well. After just a few hours in the sea, my cellulite is gone. I don’t know if it is the motion of the waves, the invigoratingly cool water, or a combination of the two, but after a week, I know that my lovely orange peel thighs look will look smooth and sleek for at least a month.

So I grab my board and brave the wave, assured that there will be a gain for my pain.

Friday@Flore

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Friday@Flore goes to Hossegor and shows you the sights from the Café de Paris. The Café de Paris is an institution around here. Set in a classic 1920’s building, at the main intersection, the lazy come here to see and be seen throughout the day, then around 19h, the active set, just back from a day catching the waves, or cycling the hills, spills in to enjoy the live music and refreshing cocktails.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am really on holidays, so I only have a few moments to take the briefest of snapshots… but sitting here for a morning coffee before a ride along the coast, I was really wishing I had the time to write more about all the fashions being sported by Parisiennes on holidays.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even on their bicycles, they are looking fairly chic, yet sportive. Hossegor is a cycling town, with the town’s center reduced to one way streets and wide cycling paths.

 

 

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Those marine stripes I mentioned when packing are still in, although I was wrong about the Wayfarers. They have been replaced by Persols this summer. Any style will do, as long as it has the signature silver at the tips.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then there were the market baskets that I loved coming, and going…. Mr French even got swept away in the fun and spotted this unique little bag, that he thought was fantastic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were even more, some sporting elegant leather trip, others boasting ethnic chic and a handful with polka dot cotton trims and bows.

Other stories, I didn’t get on film; orange or pink neon is THE thing to wear for runners this year; shoes, shoes laces, shorts or tanks, it doesn’t matter as long as it glows. The foutas Maroccan hammam towels are becoming more and more popular this year, being favored by the young surfer dudes as well as their grandmères.

Off to the beach. Bises!!!

Day One

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We arrive at Hossegor early, too early to check in, so we drop off our bags and head for the beach. Mr French is jones-ing to dive right in. Well, ok, its not a swimming pool. He doesn’t dive exactly, he actually va faire du body, which I believe is called boogie boarding in the US. At least that is what we called it the last time I played at the beach in the US, which was around the same time Madonna was a virgin, so things may have changed.

I am just not up for it today, so I decide to stay on my towel, as he heads for a quick dip… just 5 minutes he assures me. Am reading The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. Nothing too serious, and the perfect beach book before a trip to Botswana. Within two minutes I have fallen asleep, confident that Mr French will be right back. Before I know it, he is there shaking me gently.

“Didn’t you put sun screen on?”
“No, its only been five minutes. Why?”
“Uh, well. It’s been closer to an hour. You’re kind of red. Really red. Like strawberries and cream red. I think we need to take you to a pharmacy.”

Sure enough, I am complètement cramée. Unbelievable. I am the only woman on the entire beach who goes in the water wearing a lycra UV protected t-shirt AND long board shorts that go down to my knees. I layer sunblock like a toddler squirts chantilly on his sundaes. I wear a hat. The pharmacienne scolds me, sells me a packet of creams and orders me to stay out of the sun for the next few no days.

On the way back to the hotel, Mr French stops at a local market and picks up the perfect blue and white stripped, UV blocking beach umbrella to protect me for the rest of our stay. Secretly (and please, don’t ever share this with anyone) I am relieved. Sounds nuts, but I have had some pretty serious escapades while traveling. The kind that have you speeding away in an ambulance, or medi-vaced out of the country. I’ve been kind of nervous about this summer and now I am kind of relieved that something has gone incredibly sideways, superstitiously hoping this means the rest of the trip will be a dream.

On the road

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Hossegor is about 7 hours from Paris. We do this ride every summer, swarming in a southerly direction at almost the exact same moment as 1/3 of the Netherlands, Belgium and Northern France. Every family has their secrets for beating the traffic. Some leave a day early, some fly, others take the train. Mr French likes to leave at an un-godly hour, so we get up at 4am and head through the city to the Périph, direction Orléans. Then we start to debate if it is better to take the A6a or A6b. I always opt for the a and it is always the better option, but we have the discussion anyway. This is particularly lively when we are driving separate cars and our kids have to answer our cellphones, acting as go betweens. Its a real highlight for them, and I’m thrilled that we’re creating memories that will last a lifetime.

Then we reach the A10 and it is a straight shot to Bordeaux. I know that we’re really on our way when we see the Fleches des Cathédrals

This is meant to be a vacation, so we try to keep it pleasant, by stopping somewhere for the night along the way. One year we stayed at Dax where there are thermal springs serving the 90+ crowd, creating even more memories that our kids will cherish almost as much as fielding our phone calls.

Last year we headed out on the 14th of July and Bastille Day in Bordeaux, watching the fireworks from the rooftop of our very charming hotel, for memories that will help our kids forgive us for the phones calls and evenings in sleepy towns for the infirm.

Along the road we spot hot air balloons above what were once royal hunting grounds in the Loire. Then sunflower fields start speeding past. Finally, we reach the Condom vineyards of Armagnac (the really is the name of the town… Condom. A great source of childish delight for some). Before we know it (or not soon enough, depending on the mood in the car and the traffic along the way) we are crossing the Gironde river and on the Bordeaux ring road.

Just south of Bordeaux we spot the maritime pines trees of the Landes region, and we have arrived, let the memories roll!!!

Happy Birthday!!!

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Just last month I wrote about my Dad and how very, very fortunate I am to have a father like him. An amazingly kind, gentle man.

My Dad did not got to a famous university. He had to work. And work he did, doing everything he could to provide the best possible education for his children so that they could do what ever they chose to do in life. From my earliest childhood memories, I remember him teaching me the importance of a good education. I remember being about five and throwing a Dr Seuss book across my room in a nasty snit. My Dad made me pick up the book and apologize to it before I put it back in my bookshelf. Books were knowledge and you absolutely must respect knowledge.

When I was a little girl, my Dad would take out the painted white baseboards in our houses and put in beautiful oak ones he had prepared. He made our coffee table and he made my mother the most elegant jewelery box that I still use every day.

He would spend entire weekends making pickles and canning spaghetti sauces, teaching the importance of natural, whole foods that are not loaded with preservatives.

When he wasn’t working, or in his shop, he’d be out in his garden, sometimes forcing us to join him in pruning, clipping, weeding, mowing. He has finally retired, but he still gardens, growing beautiful flowers and wonderful fruits and vegetables to enjoy.

When my girls were newly born he went out of his way to bring me cases of strawberries and dungeness crab salad from Swann’s in San Francisco.

When he started to travel, he tried to learn French. He mastered ordering frites like a pro but he created quite the stir one evening when he ordered his steak bien cul, instead of bien cuit (he wanted his meat well done, but asked for it to be Good Ass)!

Today is my Dad’s 70th birthday…..

HAPPY
BIRTHDAY
DAD

and a very joyeux anniversaire.

The girls and I adore you and love you very much.

Packing for adventure…

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I may have mentioned at some point that Mr French and I are very busy packing, eager to be away on holiday. After the beach we are headed to more sand, this time along the banks of the Boro river and in the heart of the Kalahari desert in Botswana, Africa. Which kind of explains why we wear so distressed about his missing passport. Mr French loves the desert and I have been wanting to visit the kalahari ever since reading the Cry of the Kalahari while trekking through East Africa 19 years ago.

One of the rules about traveling in southern Africa is that you don’t wear black, or dark blue. Unlike Paris fashion rules, this is a rule to follow, unless you’re dreaming of being a princess à la Sleeping Beauty. Tse tse flies are drawn to these colors like bees to a honey pot. Bees sting. Tse tse flies painfully chomp out bits of flesh and carry the sleeping sickness. White colors attract seem to disturb wild life, as well. To say that I was fairly motivated to avoid any problems would have to be the understatement of the century. The last time I ignored the African fashion codes, I had to be medi-vaced to Nairobi where I spent a week fairly unconscious in the Aga Khan hospital before being air lifted back to Europe. I set to packing.

These guys do NOT respect the dress code

Turns out my closet reveals a disconcerting lack of imagination and what may be an over attachment to the dictums of fashion. Tanks tops, t-shirts, sweaters, and cotton pants; I need them all for this trip and in my closet they are ALL black, dark blue or white. Not a bit of red in the bunch, forget about a nice neutral like khaki. The only bit of color that I seem to own is limited to some brightly colored tops which would be completely in appropriate for the bush. I needed to do some shopping, preferably some very cheap, sensible shopping. I head to Decathalon, where polar fleeces are 9€ and cheap T-shirts come in packs of three. I am almost ready to go…

On the packing list the travel agent suggests on formal outfit, but I won’t be taking off my protective gear, so what to do? I remember my poncho from the Poncho Gallery. The Poncho Gallery was founded by a pair of Parisienne sisters who developed a serious crush on ponchos and wanted to bring them back into fashion. Their Carré is avaiable in a wide range of colors, including a lovely multi-tomed beige/tan! A simple square of the most luxurious cashmere, the Carré falls in elegant folds once slipped over the head, and it is sure to hide the grungiest safari wear. I head directly to the shop, where there is a soldes and after fifteen minutes I find a dress enough solution that I’ll be able to wear in Paris, something elegant, that will protect me from Mma Nature. I am ready to go.

 

Poncho Gallery / 11 rue de la sourdière Paris 1e / 01 40 20 99 40 / (M) Tuileries

Friday@Flore (rerun)

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Sorry folks, but I am on the rode today, so no Flore for me (or you…)
Here is a rerun of my most popular Friday@Flore to date. Enjoy, and see you Monday for up to the minute content…

 

http://findingnoon.com/?p=351

 

Have a great weekend!!!!

 

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