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.

Working girls…

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 Lunch is laid out to whet our appetites before entering the cantine.


A stylish cantine for a stylish crowd

This week I am working freelance from one of the large international advertising agencies that hire me to write their campaigns. This does not happen very often. At least, not the working in-house part. Most weeks I get a call, often from somebody I have never met, working from an agency I have never visited, asking me to write text for an ad campaign I will never see as it runs in countries I have never visited. Like Azerbaijan, or Croatia.

I used to have an issue with this. Should I really be working to convince poor, underprivileged farmers in Azerbaijan that they can not live without some “powder or paste or wax or bleach, To help with the housework”?  Do farmers in Azerbaijan really needed to be wearing whites that are whiter than white? Of course not. And I have to believe that they’re smart enough to know it, so I got over myself and got to work.

The company café

I love what I do and I managing my own schedule gives me time for odd projects, like ironing my underwear and Friday@Flore. But I’m usually alone, working in an empty void. Without feedback or input from others, I miss playing campaign badminton with a creative team; batting around words and concepts, our conceptual rackets swatting ideas as we come up with the winning play. And frankly, the chat around the water cooler; its astounding how boring I can be, don’t get me started on my conversations at lunch…

Well fed & ready to work

Which is why I was thrilled to be in-house this week and even more thrilled to discover the company cafeteria. Bright, light and colorful, with some serious design, the cafeteria offers employees a chance to chat and get to know each other, as well as choice of several main dishes that range from über-healthy grilled fish with steamed cabbage, to filling, carbo-loaded meals like gnocci and plenty of steak for the boys. A brief FYI; the totally cute, ultra skinny Parisiennes chose the gnocci, while I sat down with the “I don’t want to be the fat girl” fish option on my tray. There is a choice of 4 starters with dishes like salad of sliced duck breast or foie gras with gingerbread followed by a rather standard choice of desserts; chocolate mousse, blueberry clafoutis or jelled fruit in a verrine (we call it jello where I come from, although this one is made with real fruit, not a lot of sugar and is served with crème fraîche). Oh, and there is wine. Sold by the half bottle. Which sounds decadent, but is actually quite tame by industry standards. Think MadMen!
* from the musical Free To Be You and Me, I memorized this monologue when I was about 15. I still chant the line as I do my chores, “Housework is just no fun.”

Bonne fête, Maman

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Yesterday was Mother’s Day in France. In the US it is known as a Hallmark holiday, pushed into popularity by marketing campaigns hoping to sell more cards and silly gifts. But, it turns out that Europeans have been honoring mothers since the citizens of ancient Greece would get together, celebrating Rhea, Zeus’ mom.

In the 15th century the British named it Mothering Sunday, tying it into the Lent calendar, but it was only in 1908 that the US established the holiday and it started being adopted across the globe in its modern format.In France, it is the last Sunday in May, UNLESS the last Sunday happens to be Pentacost, in which case the Minister of Health, who is responsible for this holiday, moves it to the first Sunday in June (laïc government?).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I try not to buy into all those Hallmark holidays. Mr French and I don’t even have an anniversary and my children are the ones who remind me that my birthday is coming. On the other hand, it is great to be spoiled for a day. And this year I got TWO Mother’s Days, so I was really spoiled rotten.

The first was in NYC last month when my daughters sent me their wishes and some funny emails. After living in France for most of my motherhood I was surprised by what a public holiday it is in the US. Total strangers were wishing me a HMD. The grandmother in the hotel elevator, the busboy at our local café. I felt like a character in a Dr Seuss book, “No, I am not your mother.” I know that the sentiment is kind, but I can’t help sympathizing for all those women who never wanted to be moms, or those who desperately want to be moms, but can’t.

My second Mother’s Day was back home in Paris. Mr French spent the weekend spoiling his own mother, so I had my girls to myself. E joined me for a standard café breakfast, which I hadn’t done in ages, and which I loved. Then M came home 20 minutes late. She was late because she’d been standing in line for 1/2 an hour waiting for a gorgeous strawberry/raspberry tart for her maman. She walked in the door with the cake and a sumptuous bouquet of pink roses.

At lunch M and I had some of my favorite Vietnamese food from Mai Do, just downstairs and we ran into her BFF celebrating with her Mom, so it was a party. Finally, the girls gut me a funny, comic book style card all the way from London, then they took me out to one of the very few Chinese restaurants I can eat at in the city. Most places use so much MSG that I end up with an incapacitating migraine for the next 36 hours, so Chinese has become a treat that I rarely indulge in.

Lao Tseu - chinese chic

One of the ticks I have adopted as a Mom is that I simply LOVE when someone else picks what we’ll be eating for a meal. It is such a relief! If somebody doesn’t like it, I am not responsible. As a result, I particularly loved that they chose and organized Sunday night dinner. Coming home to a clean kitchen wasn’t half bad, either!

Merci les filles !

RESTAURANT/ Lao Tseu

 

Friday@Flore

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Last week New York, this week Clichy. FindingNoon has been busy this month. This week I am Clichy parachuted in for freelance gig writing some copy. This stuff is confidential until it goes live, so I can’t tell you who I am working for, but I can say that I’ve been tackling beauty products. Due to some irrational shyness and an incredibly dense workload, I don’t have “my” café just yet.

Instead of a rerun, I thought I’d share a theme I didn’t get to use from previous shoots at the Flore. BFFs get ready, this post is for you. I am not the only one who thinks that Paris is an extremely feminine kind of town.

And while the fashions these girls are wearing are decidedly too warm for the gorgeous spring weather that finally came, better late than never this year. You may notice a common thread.

Because everyone, with a few saintly exceptions, is wearing red this spring. Rain, or shine. Sweaters, scarves, and even, or especially jeans.

Red jeans, in every tone from deep bordeaux to dust pink, for women and men, Parisiens are dressing in warm tones, just the opposite of the New Yorkers and their obsession with blue.

Others are less discreet, opting for the all-out red look.

And then, there are the rebels, aschewing (wrong word, poor spelling… did I mention the work load around here?) red altogether, sticking to traditional black. Because after all, nothing flatters a woman more than being with her friends.

PS, Friday@Flore is developing quite the fan club, with this group of Paris regulars showing up to share a coupe and watch me at work. I love, simply love the support. It was lovely ladies. Thank you!

 

 

Jerome Dreyfuss

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My New Yorker has lots of Jeromes in her life. There is a man in her yoga class, our crazy hair dresser and her favorite handbag designer, Jerome Dreyfuss. Some how she has gotten on to this Jerome’s VIP press sale list and being a smart girl, every now and again, My New Yorker will drag me along, telling me that I need to benefit from the sale to freshen up my handbag wardrobe.

Jerome works with luxury leathers; lamb, calf and snake skins that have been hand tanned, then colored into rich earth tones with natural dyes. He creates practical, modern bags with an elegant art deco touch. Practical, as in mini-flashlights on a leather lanyard so that girls can find their goods, pockets inside and out and double straps that fit the shoulder or the elbow. The bags come in a large array of sizes, making them perfect for everything from lugging your sportswear to the gym to a swanky night out clubbing. Small evening bags are even kitted out to double as wallets, which has been very helpful on naughty weekends with Mr French: fits perfectly into my Billy when out visiting châteaux or exploring museums for the day, then transforms into a sexy, chic bag for our nocturnal adventures.

Last week I brought Oscar with me on holiday to New York City. I loved that I didn’t see a gazillion other women sporting the same bag and was happy to have it with crowds as diverse as the after-work, yuppy business folk sipping cocktails on expense accounts at the Mandarin Oriental to  the hipster crowd as I worked my way through the Brooklyn flea market in Williamsburg.

Giving us girls a bit of fantasy, each model has a name which is engraved inside. Before heading out I get to play master of my destiny, deciding whether Oscar or Billy will be joining me for the day (or night!)

Jerome Dreyfuss

A table

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I was going to stop talking about dating Frenchmen after explaining the choreography of getting through the door on the first date. But last week, Mr French and I went out for a lovely meal and I was reminded that the dance continues while you’re at the table.

Okay, you’re sitting down, so it is not really a dance, but there is a routine. And you may, or may not want to follow this routine, that is totally up to you and your personal style, but like any skilled rancher, it is best to know the lay of the land before you start wrangling cattle (really bad analogie, but I’m having fun with it).

I realize that the year is 2012, not 1962, but if you are out for an evening with a traditional guy, you should not be surprised if he expects to place your order. Or not. At first, I thought that this was just happening because I am old and dating older guys and assumed that guys in their 20’s and 30’s do not do the same. I was informed otherwise by girls who would know. And because the French tend to love to confuse us (masculine and feminine nouns… ‘nuf said) your date may place your order one evening and expect you to order for yourself the next.

How’s a girl to know? If he asks you what you’re ordering before the waiter arrives, you can guess that he may order for you. Of course, he could just be asking out of sheer politeness and perhaps he is genuinely curious, or looking for a bit of inspiration for his own meal. You can’t be sure. Fortunately, the waiter will generally speak to Monsieur first, so your date will order for himself, and perhaps even for you and you’ll mercifully hear the order, which is your cue to order. Or not.

That bullet dodged, here comes one of those quirks of French etiquette that I have not yet learned to appreciate; a lady never pours for herself. Neither water, no wine. It is expected that she sit there and wait to be served. Love the concept. But in practice, I tend to get very thirsty, particularly at meals and I like to drink A LOT.  At dinner parties I find myself pleaing like Oliver, “Please sir, may I have some more?” Its only water I crave, yet I feel like an incorrigible lush after about the fifth or sixth request. On a date, this can be particularly bothersome. He may be gazing lovingly into your eyes, completely enraptured in the moment when you have to break the mood requesting that he serve you a drop to drink, feeling like a mother reprimanding her negligent son to clean his room. I have yet to find an romantic solution, but I was recently advised that holding up one’s empty water glass and shaking it works for women who have been married a very long time, so perhaps this would work on a date. I have me doubts….

Back to our dinner at Les Garçons. Les Garçons is a local café. Fun and easy with an impressively young crowd for our quartier. We were there for a casual Friday date and were enjoying the ambiance, food and wine immensely. Les Garçons serves traditional bistro fare with a decidedly international, modern twist. The have a burger of the day, with special sauces from across the globe and creative entrées that really follow the seasons. Like any true bistro, the menu tends to rely heavily on the meats. When it is quiet, the chef comes out of his kitchen to chat. He is very proud of his cuisine and it shows in the quality on your plate. We were having a lovely evening and Mr French was being particularly attentive. Which meant, he kept filling my glass. And filling it, and filling it… by the end of the evening I was hiccup-drunk!

If things are going well on a date, you may also let down your guard as he generously serves you glass after glass and before you know it, you’re dancing on the table tops and a complete stranger is sipping champagne from your mercifully new high heels. This is probably not a good idea in the beginning. I had to learn to sip delicately and keep careful tabs on the bar tab, oh, and I’d wear fabulous shoes, just in case things went too far and they ran out of champagne flûtes.

Les Garçons

The 21st

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The 21st arrondisement, that is. What? You didn’t know Paris has 21 arrondisements? Understandable, given that it is never spoken of and not on any of the maps. It must be one of those French things, like knowing that you pronounce the city Paree, but my lawyer friend, Bruno Paris, is Monsieur Pareace. I’ve given up trying to understand.

But I do understand the 21st arrondisement. It’s a joke about the seaside town of Deauville, in Normandie. A short 2 our car ride, or a direct train trip away from central Paris, Deauville is a luxurious burst of fresh air for city rats needing to breath. With a casino, large luxury hotels, horse racing and the American Film festival, Deauville has the reputation of being quite luxurious, indeed. Having an Hermes boutique not far from Bruno Cucinelli and Louis Vuitton does not help dispel the thought. But this is only half the story.

Deauville is really not far from Paris, easy to reach, a great place to picnic and the beach is  free. Running along the beach in the early morning (early morning in France is 10am) this Sunday, we heard Vietnamese, Arab, Yiddish, Portuguese and a few African dialects, mixed with British, German and Dutch from every socio-economic class. Many of the people we passed were unloading their cars, having driven up from Paris that morning. Like us, the were in town for just the day.

Mr French and I do this trip fairly often. Getting up early in the morning, we dress in our running gear, throw two groggy teens into the back seat and head on up. As soon as we arrive the teens set themselves up in a café on the boardwalk, while we run. An hour later they dive in with us at the indoor sea water swimming pool before heading off to lunch.

Lunch always creates a heated debate. I love Les Vapeurs in the neighboring town, Trouville, just a 20 minute stroll away. Mr French is a fan of Les 3 mages in Tourgeville, 12 minutes further down the boardwalk. Les Vapeurs is on a crowded port and Paris socialites squeeze on to the terrasse with tourists and locals, everyone savouring the exceptional butter (butter HAS to be great for a Parisienne to dig, this one is legendary) before digging into perfect moules frites. It you’re feeling flush their grilled lobster is PERFECT.  Les 3 Mages has a large, wind protected deck on the beach, with exceptional seafood platters and good (not great) food. Both are a welcome break after our sporting frenzy.

Lunch is generally followed by a stroll into “town” or a siesta on the sand. This weekend we had a great time on the beach listening to some local (Parisian) kids playing soccer, as they made fun of the yuppy looking bourgeois Parisiens on the boardwalk with their Italian loafers, Lacoste shirts, long pants, Ray Bans and a sweater across the shoulders. These kids were of African decent, with one Arab friend, who they called the Hallal Pig. Who needs tv when you can go to the beach in France?

Les Vapeurs

Ohh la la lingerie…

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Mr French likes to take me shopping. I know, totally weird, huhn? A man who likes to shop? Rumour has it that this is actually pretty common among French men and circumstantial evidence tells me its probably true. That circumstantial evidence being last week’s trip to NYC where every intelligent store seemed to have plenty of seating full of bored to tears (literally, in one instance) men folk.

As a result of all this shopping, my name is on the mailing list of some rather nice boutiques. One of these boutiques is Eres. I know, cool, huhn? I’ve been into an Eres store with Mr French. It was Valentine’s Day their collection had lace. ‘Nuf said about that.

Eres was founded by the Parisienne Irene Leroux in 1968, when she took over her family’s struggling bathing suit business near La Madeleine. At a time when women were liberating themselves and their fashions, Irene decided to revolutionize swimwear design by removing all the internal corsetry. And she started a winter collection for her affluent clients who would spend the colder months in warmer climates. This brilliant move earned her the scorn of the local competition who scoffed at her foolishness, until they realized she had  revitalize the entire industry while ensuring Eres’ foothold in the luxury market.

In 1996 Chanel purchased Eres and two years later they introduced a line of sumptuously rich, incredibly elegant lingerie. This season’s collection is particularly gorgeous; sensible lace trimming iced aqua blue or sunshine yellow silk. Pretty and girlie, yet practical. Things I can wear under my clothing without worrying about weird ruffles popping up or strange ribbons creating a deformed looking silhouette. Stunningly sexy, pleasing not only Mr French but the firemen of the quartier!

A couple of weeks ago I got an other treat from Eres… an invitation to the launch of their new nail polish collection. Sounded like the great way to get our minds thinking of summer sunshine to combat the gloomy spring we’ve had and who doesn’t love a girls night out; champagne, panties and polish!?! I invited my friend Kristen from Un Homme et Une Femme and we were treated to an evening of pampering. About three of the guests had thought to bring along their men folk, who looked very content to ogle the barely clad models as they filtered through the crowd. I was glad Mr French was not around to see these girls in their swimsuits before I get back into mine this summer! There was a lively cocktail bar, but I was too lazy to brave the clamouring crowd, so Kristen and I made do with champagne. And since eating anything substantial in sight of the bathing beauties would be something of a mental challenge, Eres provided fresh sliced mango, melon and strawberries, which went well with our manicures, Kristen chose orange and I went for raspberry.

The best part was leaving. We were given little gift bags and sent out into the balmy night. Balmy? Yes, balmy. The weather had turned and warmth was in the air as dusk settled, the city turned on its gold toned electric light and we strolled down to the Concorde, heading home, ready for summer.

Eres

 

Friday@Flore

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It is not easy to follow fashion from my favorite café in Paris when I am out exploring New York City. Fortunately, NYC is a fashion capital in its own right and there was an overwhelming choice of outdoor terrasses, but I had no way of knowing which would be the perfect place for setting up shop. Finding “your” café is not an easy task. Parisiennes each have their own personal favorite and their choice is about as logical as their ability to eat full fat cheeses while maintaining the longest life expectancy in the western world.

Fortunately, I have friends to guide me. The beautifully bright blogger Kristen, behind Un Homme et Une Femme, is an intrepid NYer who was ready to help, happy to share a private slice of her beloved New York with a Big Apple neophyte like me. Kristen pointed me towards Pastis in the Meatpacking District.

I had a great time sitting there watching the crowd go by. It wasn’t long before I was ready to get up and start firing, très contente that Kristen had aimed so well.

After the shoot I settled back to “my” table, to start looking through the photos, when suddenly, as if hit upside the head, I was transported from 9th Ave to Sesame Street, “One of these things is not like the others…” infusing my thoughts.

Because in NYC, BLUE is IN.

And it would seem, that when something is IN in New York, it is on everyone, in every style imaginable.

 

From traditional business, to casual not-so-chic, NYers were chasing away the rainy day blues with their own shades of blue. Every shade of blue; denim, electric, navy, bright, cornflower… the tones were limitless.

But if the Michel Kors photoshoot, the bright splashes of color and the pink pants on every other man in Paris is any indication, NYers will soon be seeing red!

 Pastis

 

 

Eating New York

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Tipsy cocktailsI’ve been feeling like Godzilla lately, but looking more like the Incredible Hulk as my clothing strains and tears from the incredible pressure that is the result of inhumanly rapid growth.

“Did you have a bagel?” sighed my New Yorker expat friend longingly.

“Did you have a slice?” asked the Chief Parisienne eagerly.

“How were the street vendor dogs?” inquired my teens.

I didn’t try any of it. Unintentionally and completely unwittingly, this trip was all about cocktails and crustaceans. Merde! My nose just grew an inch. That was a lie. The cocktail part was absolutely intentional and completely planned. I didn’t look into restaurants before our trip, I researched bars. Food optional. But the seafood part was not planned, I swear!

When I tell My New Yorker about our food choices she starts to look a bit down, accusing me of searching out my own, native California cuisine. Its true, what I miss the most in Paris are the big, bright flavours of lime juice and coriander with lots of vegetables and plenty of heat. With the East Coast fisheries near by, my taste buds spent the week doing a happy dance; soft shelled crab, lobster and every style crab cake imaginable.

Some of our highlights were;

The Spotted Pig. I didn’t need to know more than the name and I was hooked. Didn’t even mind the 90 minute wait (probably because we spent that time at a wine bar next door) and was absolutely thrilled with their vegetarian plate main dish as well as their spicy cocktails. The rest of our party was bowled over by the shoestring french fries (fried with rosemary, thyme and garlic!) and their cheeseburgers. We were too stuffed to attempt their desserts.

Le Charlot. A bunch of Frenchies going to a French meal in NYC? Pathetic! But we had an excuse… I had reserved at the Central Park Boat House; upon our arrival, on a glorious spring day, with the red geraniums shining like party balloons and the white linen table clothes dancing in the breeze, everything looked perfect for a Pah-Tay. But alas, the restaurant had been closed due to an emergency, the Maître d’ assuring us that our lives would be at risk if we were to dine there that day!!! Mulling over the mystery, (had a sous-chef lost it, stabbing his boss? Did the health department find rotting food?) We headed to Madison Ave where two helpful sales girls directed us to Le Charlot. They had crab cakes on the menu, so our entire party was thrilled and our guest of honor, the French student who was living in NYC for the year, was ecstatic to see French standards that he craved from home. These were the best crab cakes we had all week and the rest was pretty good, too, although we were (again) too stuffed for dessert.

Beauty & Essex. More spicy cocktails. And then a few more. You enter this über swanky establishment through a door at the back of a pawn shop, although the three town cars waiting out front with the blazing marquee lights were a dead give away that we’d arrived. Upstairs, the barmaids wear the shortest little dresses and are only allowed enough fabric to cover one shoulder. It was an after work crowd with a drunken woman surveying which diners had read “The Many Shades of Grey”. I kindly suggested that she stop reading about it, buy herself some sexy lingerie, find herself a lover (preferably French) and start doing it. Oh, the food. Excellent. The ribs were melt in your mouth without being stringy and I could have had seconds of the lobster tacos and spicy greens. By now you can guess what we decided for dessert…

The Lobster Place. Fresh steamed lobster in a busy food court that was once the Premium Saltine cracker factory. Full of locals on lunch break and a sect of Japanese tourists who are obsessed with photographing their food. The lobster? PERFECT.

EAT. A café on Madison Ave. Ridiculously expensive, but really, really good and they had soft shell crab that was swoon worthy. Even the bread was good, which I don’t often say in the USA. Went two days in a row, it was that good (and somewhat convenient to our hotel).

Tipsy Parson. Only had drinks here. And a bourbon soaked dessert. Did I mention that I had planned to drink my way through New York? It was good and the atmosphere charming. Would have loved to have returned for a down home southern meal.

The rooftop bar at the Manadrin OrientalVue at the Mandarin Oriental. We went to this roof top bar for the stupendous view towering above the city and we were not disappointed by that, the thai beef salad, the Asian bento box, or the cheesecake. The cocktails were good enough that we all had a second round as we sat and watched the cars go round at Columbus Circle.

Okay, enough. I am starving now and I’ve just gained another kilo writing about all those calories!!!

 

 

NYC adventures

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There are those who want to wake up in the city that never sleeps, but Monday night, after a fabulous evening enjoying the totally irreverent, absolutely hysterical Book of Mormon, we just wanted something to eat. We left the theater district and headed to our hotel for dinner only to discover that the local kitchens had closed by 10pm. It was 10:10. We were starting to suspect that perhaps the Upper East Side wasn’t really New York City. We went to bed with nothing more than a yogurt and awoke anxious to see the real New York.

In the meat packing district we came upon a couple with stylists, professional lighting and make-up artists all around. Being a photographer, I started shooting. Being a Jewish mother, I started questioning the photographer on the project. “Whatchya doing? Who’s it for? ” I asked as his crew walked casually by with a large aluminum-clad flash reflector, attempting to block my view. It hardly registered. Clearly these folks did not realize they were crossing paths with a almost trained Parisenne.

“Michel Kors’ Fall collection” came the surprisingly helpful reply.

“Oh, really? MK? I was thinking maybe Zadig et Voltaire.” Et voilà. The photographer was no longer writing me off as some lost tourist trying to get a cheap thrill, but acknowledged me as a fashion savvy connaisseur even if I didn’t have ‘the look’. I was in. The crew relaxed, we started firing away in unison and I was rewarded with some great shots with the illusion that I’d been an international fashion photographer for five minutes of my life. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that I haven’t eaten into the 15 minutes of fame we are all guaranteed.

Continuing on our journey we found New Yorkers. Lovely, colorful people, everywhere we turned. From the tatooed dude with his checker-board shaved pooch, to a hipster mending his jeans (I’m guessing they were SF factory sewn 501s) while perusing his iPad. As a native from the Santa Cruz foothills, I’m fairly confident this kid has never been on a surfboard in his life. Real surfers don’t gel.

As we wandered, I’d stop to chat with people, asking permission to take their photos, exchanging stories of where we’re from and what we love about New York. It was a real vacation for me to be in a city where people are open and where I don’t have to think about what I am going to say. Although I am fluent in French, I am not bilingual and this trip made me realize how very much I weigh my words, mentally constructing each sentence before I speak. Studies show this kind of mental gymnastics postpones the onset of alzheimer’s and since I am already fairly forgetful, this is probably very good news, but its also somewhat exhausting and can erode one’s self confidence. I was liking talking to strangers.

And I met some wonderful, really interesting people, like the Harvard Medical school professor who inspires girls to reach their full academic potential and is writing about managing social media in the home.

Another advantage is that being friendly leads to all kinds of adventures. Like in the basement of the Neue Galerie where my curiosity got the better of me and I started ogling the photo studio set-up they were installing. A few questions later and Mr French and I were sitting for a portrait that may possibly be part of an exhibition celebrating the 150th birthday of Gustav Klimt. How cool is that? Of course, the birthday party will be even cooler, but I don’t think I’m on the guest list…

Neue Gallerie

Neue Galerie

 

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