Category Archives: au RESTAU

The cutest chef in Paris

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ENGLISH IS BELOW IN BLACK

Normalement, je suis en Laponie avec ce blog, mais hier soir j’ai eu une petite aventure parisienne que j’aimerais partager. Mercredi soir le téléphone sonne.

– Coucou ! Je suis à Paris, ça te dit un déjeuner avec moi demain au Mandarin Oriental? Je t’invite.

– Bonjour, j’aimerais bien déjeuner avec toi. Mais, euh, c’est qui?

C’est une copine qui est journaliste à Tel Aviv et de qui je n’ai pas eu de nouvelle depuis 2 ans. Après notre déjeuner (j’en parlerais plus tard) elle m’a demandé d’être son guide pour les soldes. Fastoche, je m’y connais en shopping. Après 2 heures on a terminé sa liste.

-Tu sais, j’ai un dîner ce soir au restaurant de mon copain, tu veux venir? Tu pourras en faire un papier pour The Girls Guide to Paris.

J’étais partant. Mais je ne comprenais pas pourquoi elle était si pressée, à 18h. Elle m’a expliqué que son copain, c’est Stéphane Jego et qu’on allait passer du temps dans sa cuisine pour apprendre à faire son fameux riz au lait avant le dîner.

Pinch me I’m dreaming. Depuis 10 ans Stéphane Jego est le chef du superbe et plus vieux restaurant Basque à Paris, Chez l’Ami Jean. Dîner chez lui est un plaisir. Entrer dans sa cuisine? J’en ai jamais rêvé.

Lolo age 5, the cutest chef in Paris!!!

Pendant leur explication de leur fameux riz (recette ici) M. Jego m’a montré sa dernière création, une soupe à l’oignon, inspiré par la soupe qu’il avait fait pour ses noces, mais en version moderne, reconstruit. Une purée de la réduction d’oignon avec une croquette de la purée, une réduction du bouillon servi avec une tranche d’encornet et une feuille de moutard. Pendant la construction du plat, il m’a parlé de soirée de noces et de sa femme Sandrine. Il a évoqué le chaudron de nos grandmères avec leurs vapeurs entermêlés ; les arômes de la cuisine et nos souvenirs de jeunesse. La passion pour ce plat, pour sa cuisine et l’amour pour son restaurant étaient presque visibles.

Cette passion est évidente dans son restaurant, avec du graffiti qui représent la muraille de Berlin ou le diable porte michelin et symbolise sa liberté dans sa cuisine. Les couteaux sont fait sur mesure, il n’y a que 136 au monde. Les serviettes ce sont des torchons relookés et les cartes sont de véritables oeuvres d’art original.

Lorsqu’on admirait la salle Lolo s’est assis pour son diner. Petite blonde aux cheveux bouclés elle tourne sa tête quand son père lui sert la soupe qui n’est pas une soupe. Elle ne veut pas la déguster. Il lui rappel que c’était un plat des noces de maman et papa. On continue avec notre visite et 10 minutes plus tard je remarque que le plat est vide. Lolo félicite son père sur sa nouvelle recette et lui rappel qu’elle déteste les épinards.

Cette recherche pour l’unique, pour la qualité est dans ces plats, aussi. Et quels plat son a dégusté ! On a eu doit à un menu sur mesure, commençant par sa terrine campagne mythique qui est offert à toutes les tables. Après il y avait une soupe aux crustacés suivi par des langues d’oiseux à l’encre de seiche avec homard. En ce moment notre serveur nous apporte un bol de pâtes qui nagaient. Ce n’étaient pas des pâtes ; c’était de pibales, une spécialité gastronomique des Pays Basques et ils n’étaient pas pour manger, enfin, pas tout de suite. D’abord, la fameuse soupe à l’oignon reconstruite. Magnifique ! Surtout les croquettes, Lolo avait raison. Les pibales étaient de retour, cette fois-ci sans mouvement, une sautée parfaîtement simple dans sa perfection, de l’ail et une assaisonnement généreuse de piment d’espelette.

Maintenant, le riz au lait. Un gros bol de riz servi avec un caramel au beurre salé et des noix de pecan carmelisés. Pour se refraiîchir, on nous a offert une compote d’agrumes avec une glace au gingembre. Pas mal, mais pour moi, la pièce de resistance était le YoLoLo, un plat concu par Lolo et Yuka, une croustiant de pommes parfaitement carmelisé avec un sorbet à la vanille. Extraordinaire.

Après une verveine au comptoir (on devait cèder nos places a des rugbymen qui avait faim) on a salué le chef et on est parti, nos pieds touchaient à peine le sol.

Normally, we’re still in Lapland, but last night I had the most fabulous adventure in a Paris kitchen. So we’re changing dials for today. Wed night the phone rang.

“Sylvia, its M, I’m in Paris! Guess where I’m staying? The Mandarin Oriental! You want to have lunch tomorrow? my treat!”

I hadn’t heard from M in nearly two years, when she moved home to Israel to pursue her career as a journalist and fall in love and become a Mom. I cancelled my plans and we had a date. After lunch at Camélia (later, I promise) she asked me to take her shopping for les soldes because weirdly enough, I have the reputation of being something of a shopping expert. After a very successful two hours, M started to be in a rush.

“I’m having dinner at a friend’s restaurant, would you like to join me? You could write about it for the Girls Guide.”

I was game. I’m always game for food, but I could not understand her rush, at 18h, we had plenty of time. My friend explained that her friend is Stéphane Jego and that she had a date to meet him before dinner to learn how to make his famous rice pudding.

Scratch that record and play that again. Stéphne Jego? He’s the chef of L’Ami Jean, a superb Basuqe restaurant that also happens to be the oldest in Paris. Eating there is a pure joy, entering his kitchen was beyond my wildest dreams.

The kitchen is teeny, but was practically empty when we arrived. Most of the staff was enjoying their dinner and the only two left in the kitchen were the pastry chef, Yuka Hayakawa and her impressively hard working assistant, Lolo, Jego’s 5 year old daughter, the cutest chef in Paris!

Jego's Onion Soup

While they explained riz au lait, Chef Jego started showing me his newest creation, a reconstructed onion soup that had been inspired by the onion soup he had made for his wife Sandrine and guests on their wedding night. The modern version had an onion purée, a soup reduction and fried onion ball, served with a slice of calamar and mustard leaves. As he pulled all the ingredients together he talked on his wedding and his wife, Sandrine. he spoke of our grandmother’s kitchens, where the vapor from their pots entwined the fragrance of cooking with our childhood memories. His passion for this dish, for cooking and his love for this restaurant were palpable in his voice.

This passion comes through in his restaurant, graffiti that represents the Berlin Wall with a Michelin devil is the symbol of his freedom in the kitchen. Custom knives, there are only 136 in the world, napkins are actually designed dishtowels and each menu is an original work of art.

As we admired the details of the dining room Lolo sat down for dinner. Bolnd with bouncing curls she pushed away the dish of onion soup, she wanted nothing to do with it. Her father reminded it her that it was the dish he’d made for her mom on their wedding day and then continued o nwith us. 10 minutes later her dish was clean and she congratulated him, at the same time reminding him that she hates spinach.

Being detailed oriented comes from his years in the kitchen where each dish must be perfect. And what dishes we tasted! Chef Jego prepared a special menu for us, beginning with the reknowned country pâté that is offered to all the diners. Then there was a seafood soup with crunchy bits of croutons and red onion followed but “bird’s tongue” pasta in squid ink with lobster. At this point our waiter brought us a bowl of squiggling pasta. But it wasn’t pasta, they were pibale, baby eels and a Basque delicacy. Only these ones were only for us to admire, at least for now. It was time for the recontructed onion soup. Lolo was right, delicious, especially the onion balls! The pibale s were back, this time totally still in a porcelaine bowl with three wooden spoons and perfectly sauteed with garlic and a healthy seasoning of Piment d’espelette.

It was a breathtaking moment during a breathtaking meal. Then came rabbit, pigeon and calf kidney with a mix of different purées and sauces all with incredible flavours and textures. I could taste the memories of my holidays in Ciboure, I was in my grandfather’s kitchen, I was traveling through the memory of my palette, just as the chef intended. Two glasses of an excellent poully fumé accompanied the meal

After all that, it was time for the rice pudding. A large bowl is served with a small bowl of caramel au beurre salé and another with carmelised pecans. There was a refreshing dessert of citrus fruit with ginger ice cream and it was all very good, but the pièce de résistance was the YoLoLo, a perfectly marmalised apple croustillant with vanilla sorbet created by Yuka and Lolo. Exceptional.

After an herbal tea at the zinc bar (we’d stayed too long and a rather serious looking rugby man had claims to our table) we rolled out the door, our feet barely touching the ground.

 

Costes

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Last week I mentioned a luxurious soirée over cocktails at the Hotel Costes. A sometimes reader asked if I’d be writing about my evening and I replied that sadly, no, I didn’t have any photos. This happens often. I get so caught up in the moment I don’t think of whipping out my camera and clicking away. She said this wouldn’t be a problem, so I’ve borrowed the photos from the official site and dedicate this to my reader.

I was meeting la Fashionista, aka my step daughter, Mlle French for cocktails. Tall, full figured, with crystalline blue eyes and porcelain skin that is perfectly framed by her nearly black hair, Mlle is a trend setter. Last year when she had a back problem and had to wear one of those wide, medical support belts, she decided to wrap it outside her clothing like an accessory. The next Monday three coworkers were wearing the same belt, lauding its practicality (great for stashing your Marlboros) and the flattering silhouette it created!  Nothing but a trendy, fashion forward address would do. I suggested we meet at the Hotel Costes. She was thrilled.

I don’t exactly look like an international jet setter, but I walked up the stairs full of confidence, trying to look like I owned the place as I stepped into the entirely black entry. The greeter bowed his head and welcomed me with a bonjour that was as warm as the very practical Uniqlo Heat Tech jeans I was wearing.

A size 0, barely clad hostess with long, flowing hair, was busy on the phone, but a host quickly came to my aid asking if I’d like to sit in the half-full, very boudoir looking bar that was plush with red velvet settees, heavy chandeliers and copies of old world portraits or in the red lit, covered courtyard. The bar felt rather hushed and romantic, opulent bouquets of roses everywhere, so I opted for the more spartan, livelier terrace and settled myself at a marble topped bistrot table.

Mlle arrived and was thrilled with the Christmas feel of the space. We set to talking as I nursed a mojito and she savoured a Ladoucette Pouilly Fumé. We occasionally stopped to watch the crowd, but mostly we were chatting, and so wrapped up in our conversation that we were surprised when waiter came over to announce that it was dinner time. They were fully booked for the night, he explained, but they had one table left if we’d like to stay and have a meal.

We shrugged. Her beaux was playing sports, Mr French was in China and M had already stepped out with her BFFs for the evening. Inertia took hold and we decided to stay, both secretly suspecting the now empty restaurant was not really fully booked.

We were moved to a cozy nook overlooking the terrace, and instantly felt like two princesses presiding over a grand party, an entire row of (empty) tables stretching out at our feet. The waiter handed us our menus and we turned to see that a line had formed, flowing out the door onto the cold street. Richly clad folk were waiting patiently to announce their reservations and be seated for the evening. We were astounded as the tables at our feet were filled in a matter of minutes.

I ordered the Tom Yum sea bass, while Mlle opted for the grilled eggplant with burrata. Costes is the kind of place where they serve the thin and beautiful; without asking I was warned that my meal was served with rice, but they’d be happy to substitute spinach instead, while Mlle was informed that her dish, a starter, really was large enough to serve as a meal.

Sitting near the entryway gave us lots and lots of people watching opportunities. Sometimes we had a hard time keeping a straight face, like when a rather petite lady whooshed in totally engulfed in her camel colored, hooded cape, trimmed in white fur. Or the 60 something British-looking gentleman with a yellow silk scarf and a 20 something plaything on his arm. There were some interesting looking boob jobs, and only one botched plastic surgery. There were the terribly attractive, carefully disheveled Frenchmen and the gorgeous Moms with their equally gorgeous teens, young couples too busy gazing into each others’ eyes to notice the rest of the world and older couples exchanging holiday/birthday/I love you gifts in the boudoir.

We loved our regal seats, but joked about getting the table near the entry where no one else would want to sit. The next day, Mr French, crumpled with jet lag and smelling of  canned air looked at me in amazement. “Are you kidding? That’s where they put the beautiful people: assures everyone else that they’re with the right crowd and attracts men.” Wow. Mr French deserves something special for that one! Love must be is blind…

St Malo

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photo from the restaurant's webpage

Two weekends ago we went to Cancale, and I raved about our trip, and it was fantastic, but then life happened and I start writing about more timely stuff, like the Paris Photo Festival, which I really encourage you to go see, which means I got side tracked and didn’t fully finish talking about our trip, which is fine, because, well, do you really care about every little thing we saw and tasted and experienced? I hope not, for your sake! On the other hand, I do like food an awful lot and we had some great meals on this trip that I really want to remember so I can book places for our next trip, so today, I am indulging myself and making a list of my St Malo favorite foods. First, the fish that got away.

On our first trip to St Malo, Mr French gave the a list of three restaurants he’d heard were absolutely stupendous and he told me to pick one and book it. I did, and the meal is still one of the best meals we have ever shared (more on that in 30 seconds). Number 3 on the list no longer exist, but number 2 is Le Chalut, a very traditional looking fish restaurant with a chef who once worked at Ledoyen and the Ritz. Michelin, Pudlowski and Mr French’s locally based colleague all rave about this place, so this weekend Mr French was determined to go. Unfortunately he did not share this ambition with me and he is not exactly the ‘plan in advance’ kind of traveler, so we arrived for lunch 20 minutes after the kitchen had closed. which means we absolutely MUST return to St Malo.

Another reason we have to go back is the dinner we had at St Placide, a truly exceptional address well off the beaten path and outside the city’s ramparts. This is the memorable meal I mentioned above. We didn’t make it there this trip. We ate there 3 years ago and we still remember much of the menu in detail. The sea bass with Tonka beans and the lobster with vanilla and ginger are now our benchmarks for inventive cuisine without too much fuss. And the dessert was full of surprises with pop rocks causing flavorful explosions in our mouths, leaving us giggling like school girls. Seeing a 50-something, French, ex-Rugby man giggle like a school girl, well, Mastercard could use the moment in their ad campaigns.

Not every meal can be an orgy of gastronomy. En fin, not for a size 10 body that will be returning to Paris to be surrounded by size 2 friends. A bit of restraint was in order. A simple meal in Brittany means one of two things; fresh oysters by the sea, or crêpes. Cancale has the oyster beds so crêpes were in order. There may be 200 crêperies intra-murs in St Malo. How does one choose? At 15h in the afternoon, you just go to the first place with an open kitchen, so we fell into An Delenn. Having lived in Montréal for 5 years, I was terribly amused by the Québec flag bunting the owner had chosen for his decor. The menu feature maple syrup, blueberries from Lac St Jean, and I suspect they’re working on adding poutine at some point in the near future. In the meantime, the crêpes were truly artisanal and we watched in amazement as he peeled apples for new orders, beat the eggs, galette by galette and flipped some of the best crêpes we’ve ever had.

On the way home that afternoon, Mr French was driving peacefully along when the woman next to him, arms flinging, screeched insanely, “Beurre Bordier, OH MY GOD, this is where beurre Bordier is from.” I had just seen the Cheese Shop run by perhaps the most famous butter churner in all of France. And it must be love, because instead of turning on me and laying into me for my insanity, Mr French calmly found a parking spot and I got to visit butter mecca. I strolled through the place bouncing on the balls of my feet and clapping my hands with joy, even though I couldn’t buy the butter because it would never have survived the trip to Paris and I can get it at my local cheese shop 6 days a week, anyway. A butter geek. Who knew? Yes, we suspected, but nobody really knew for sure until now.

At Bordier they had a flier for L’Ecole du Goût de St Malo. The cooking school that very well be our next excuse for visiting St Malo and the inspiration for another post like this one!
Le Chalut / 8 r. de la Corne-de-Cerf  / 02 99 56 71 58

Le St Placide /6 Place du Poncel / 02 99 81 70 73

An Delenn / 4 rue de la Harpe / 02 99 40 16 53

 

 

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 |

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”

Setting sail

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Mr French and I head to the beach every summer. I find it rather odd and sometimes constraining to return to the same spot year after year, but this seems to be a French tradition, and to be honest, after a very difficult year, I am quite relieved to be heading to a place where I don’t have to think. No planning, no guide books, no angst over where to dine, or hoping to see it all. Been there, done that, if not this year, we’ll be back. We both feel like we’re headed into a safe harbour after a year spent in stormy seas. But we’re not there, yet, we’re still in Paris, slightly on edge as we wait for Mr French’s passport.

Last night we needed to feel like we were away already, somewhere near the sea, so we headed to La Compagnie de Bretagne, a new-ish crêperie overseen my the Michelin starred chef Olivier Roellinger. At first, I was not a big fan of these new wave, gourmet crêpes, being the traditional girl that I am. But at some point I had to have to get over myself and admit that there are enough meals in a lifetime to enjoy the most excellent, traditional crêpes from my beloved Ty Breizh AND for the scrumptus new fangled ones from LCDB.

I love the ambiance here, especially the sunbeams pouring down from the skylight and the zen of an entirely black and white decor. It feels intimidatingly luxurious, but the prices are reassuringly welcoming.

Tonight I had a galette with grilled sardines and preserved lemons on a bed of steamed spinach. Absolute perfect for my palette and my waistline. My French had some squid with a divine safran cream sauce. Miam! For dessert there was an apricot clafoutis crêpe and the much more traditional caramel au beurre salé, both worth their weight in calories. And the cidres selection is rather impressive, with a serious cellar featuring artisanal bottles for every palette.

Usually you can go into the basement and visit M Roellinger’s cellars in their elegant, glass enclosed clay vaults. there restrooms are down there and they have an area for private events, but all that was inaccessible they day we showed up… there had been an incident involving fire and the basement was closed for the evening. Its seemed we weren’t the only ones needing a holiday!

We sailed home and crawled into bed, feeling like we were already by the sea.

La Compagnie de Bretagne / 9 Rue de l’École de Médecine, 6e / 0143293900 /         (M) Odeon

For something more traditional; Ty Breizh / 52 boulevard Vaugirard, 15e /                          01 43 20 83 72‎ / (M) Montparnasse-Bienvenue

Headed North

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Before moving to Paris I’d fantasize about cycling the city’s cobble-paved streets on a traditional Dutch bike, trench coat and middie skirt batting the wind as my red pumps hooked carelessly onto the wide pedals. That was circa 2000. Now the ugly, clunky, but oh-so-practical Velib’s are available with pedals that unabashedly murder a girl’s shoes, yet sensibility has won out and I am often seen struggling along in whatever happens to be the outfit du jour. I still live the dream from time to time, finding it especially rewarding when men turn their heads, and their handle bars, ending in near fatal accidents.

But that’s during the week. On weekends Mr French keeps me in check. I get serious about my cycling and we head out on some pretty great adventures. Sunday’s adventure began with lunch on the terrace at La Cantine de Quentin where an ageless, artsy crowd mixes with senile old locals and young families to enjoy tradition French cuisine with an original twist, like the steak tartare served with finely minces mushrooms instead of fries. Or the lentil salad with a foie gras chantilly. Delicious.

a pizza truck outside the Fishing Cat ballroom - I've kept the finger in the frame, it's so vintage!

I know that doesn’t sound like serious cycling, but a girl’s got to eat (and maybe enjoy a glass of rosé). Soon enough we were off, heading north up the Canal St Martin to the Canal de l’Ourcq, with its 25 km of reserved cycling path beginning within the city of Paris, running along the Canal, through the lively La Vilette area with its museums, parks and astounding mirrored geodesic dome. At the city outskirts the scenery starts getting very industrial, very quickly, with cement plants and train yards and fantastically graffiti-ed abandoned warehouses.

A picnic break

At one point, among lawn and poplars, a group of very talented taggers was hard at work tagged as they partied to rap music and bbq-ed a picnic to share with another group of fans; severly disabled adults with their caretakers and souped up wheelchairs. Turns out these taggers have been tagged by the city of Bobigny and they were being sponsored to beautify the area. They were doing were doing an astounding job and were remarkably cool to visit with.

The canal was alive: barges went past, Canauxrama boats sped by and trains clamoured along – everyone was on the move. There was a mini-shanty town,  temporary espresso bar, the Chat Qui Peche guinguette, kayaks on loan, and many, many other sportsmen cycling, running, or blading along.

16km later we came to the Parc de Sevrans and its gunpowder museum. Yes, Virginia, there is a gunpowder museum. There is also a teaching farm, apiculture center and a climbing wall, but we were pretty tired by now, so it was time to head back, pedaling directly into the wind the entire 16km to La Villette, before heading home. I can’t say we minded that it was the final match of the Euro Cup Sunday night, providing us with the perfect excuse to sit at home, acting like couch patates. Two happily exhausted souls.

RESTAURANT/ La Cantine de Quentin

52 rue Bichat, 10e /  01 42 02 40 32/ (M) Jacques Bonsergent

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

 

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

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