Category Archives: la FETE

Wine, not…

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San Francisco is great wine country, but in our little world, wine was a weekend treat to be enjoyed with friends over a good barbeque, or with a picnic at the beach. It was not a beverage, but a special moment.

Then we moved to Paris.

The first month we had an expense account and no kitchen. I got to eat out every day, twice a day. At lunch time I’d notice my neighbors whetting their palate with rich, enticing reds to accompany their confit de canard. It was one of the coldest winters in history and everyone was eating gras. After three days of this, I decided to do something wild and order a glass of wine with my lunch. I was drinking alone, mid-day and it was lovely.

After lunch I’d explore the neighborhood, learning where to shop and finding the men and women who would be making my life livable; a tailor, a cobbler, and a glazier to replace the 150 year old glass window my daughters broke, were priorities. So was a cavist who didn’t try to take advantage of my accent and sell me astronomically expensive grand crus for my coq au vin recipe. Which is how I met Didier, at Ryst Dupeyron, an armagnac specialist operating from a shop that has been in business for over a century. Or, about the year my daughters’ window was first installed.

Didier turned me on to Armagnac, offered Porto tastings and hooked me up with Lillet. He’d introduce me to a new apéritif every week and every week I’d buy a bottle to bring home and try with the girls’ dad. We were developing something of a cellar.

At dinner, we couldn’t resist a glass, or perhaps even 1/2 a carafe with our meals. Did I tell you it was cold out? It was cold out and we were having the time of our lives tasting all these complex, mind pleasing subtle French wines to pair with all of the new French recipes I was testing out and the fabulous cheeses we were savouring. It was wonderful. And we weren’t even gaining weight!

One morning I awoke with a head ache. Like a normal person, I went to take a pain killer from the medicine cabinet. In a moment of bizarre inspiration, I decided to test my reading skills and read the warning label on my Tylenol (Doliprane). It read,

“If you consume three, or more glasses of alcohol each day, consult a physician before taking this medication.”

I scoffed. Then I hesitated and counted. One glass at lunch, an apéro, one, maybe two glasses with dinner. 1+1+2=4. Holy moly, TinTin, I was an alcoholic!!!

I was shocked, and a bit disappointed to realize that I had been destroying my liver without really having had the fun of being drunk. I have since matured and (try to) limit myself to a glass at dinner only a couple nights a week, with a touch of folie on the weekends. Not an easy task, but a working girl must work.

MY SUPPLIER/ Ryst Dupeyron

A Royal Opera

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Opera by (electric) candlelight

I’m a writer. I love a good story. The stories in operas are not good; Mimi wasting away of consumption in a Paris garret, Norma climbing the funeral pyre, Carmen’s ranting ex… the ending is always the same. She dies tragically.

Violetta dies tragically (photo courtesy of the Opéra de Versailles)

And to my ears, these gloomy tales us are told by hysterical screechers, their voices grating on my nerves like dry erase on a white board. I spend most of the show wishing they’d stop singing so I could hear the music! There have been some performances I have truly enjoyed, but more for the moment; seeing an outdoor performance of The Magic Flute with the Château de Sceaux as a backdrop (at last, a happy ending… although that high F6 drove me mad for days), or watching Carmen at Christmas, cuddled-up with Mr French over a steaming mug of hot chocolate (spoiler alert; she dies tragically). Someone once told me that it was a question of maturity and that I’d learn to love it when I was older which has only left me dreading the fit of depression I’ll fall into if I ever do start liking opera…

The King's Loge

So it was an incredible act of selflessness when I chose to give Mr French tickets to see La Traviata (you know the ending) at the Royal Opera House of Versailles for Christmas. The Royal Opera House was inaugurated in 1770 as part of the wedding celebrations for Louis XIV and his charming little Austrian, Marie-Antoinette. The Opera house was closed for restoration in 2007 and Mr French has had a hard time getting tickets since its re-opening in 2009. In walks moi. I was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice and attend an opera, even if it meant taking the risk of actually liking it and spiraling into a fit of depression as I ponder my mortality.

Only a few souls were left haunting the château

The sacrifice was large when you consider the sumptuous beauty of the setting; royal seats designed for a king, exquisite chandeliers and ornately painted wood. And we had the entire palace to ourselves, with just 1000 other, well-dressed guests. Versailles at its best. I can’t say that I was suffering.

The show was spectacular, and even if I don’t yet love opera, I do love the music and I could appreciate that the soprano, Nathalie Manfrino, was truly fantastic. The purity of her voice moved even me during her final aria. But I’ll be honest; the best part was spending the two intermissions haunting the wings, watching the sunset over the deserted gardens, and entering the King’s loge, feeling like a princesse as I sat in the royal seats.

MORE INFO/ Opéra Royal de Versailles

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

 

Party’s over

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As I mentioned earlier, E’s primary gift for 18th birthday was a night at the Opera Garnier. I came up with brilliant idea last month when Mr French and I were invited to the opera house to see Orphée and Eurydice by the choreographer Pina Bausch.

The opera house was designed by Charles Garnier in the 1860’s when Haussmann was tearing up the town. At the inauguration Empress Eugenie cried, “What style is that? That’s not a style…. Its not Greek, Louis XV, or even Louis XVI.” Garnier promptly retorted, “Its Napoleon III! And you’re complaining?” While I appreciate the architecture, it is the ceiling within the opera house that really melts my butter. The chandelier is simply magnificent. All 7-8 tons of it sits as the perfect tiara to the masterpiece painted by Marc Chagall in 1964. I could stare at that painting for hours… the dancers, the Eiffel Tower and all those rich, warm tones. Above it all, invisible to our eyes, is a dance studio for rehearsals. Delicious!.

Bausch at the Garnier was transcendent, it was abundantly clear that an electric energy had enraptured the audience and the performers in the moment. After the show, there was a poignant silence before the audience came back to earth and burst into exuberant applause, including past President of France, Valéry Giscard-d’Estaign, who was sitting a few rows behind me Yes, the past President of the Republic was behind me. Wow, what more can a girl say than Wow? Following the event there was a cocktail in the Grand Foyer, with its eloquent balcony that runs along the façade of the opera house, the dancers drifted in glowing and waif-like. I didn’t need any champagne, I was drunk from the magnificence of it all.

That night, at home, E expressed her desire to see a ballet the opera some day. The timing was right, Robbins/EK was performing during her birthday. I booked the loges this time, the nostalgically romantic, red brocade lined rooms with coat racks and couches that seat an intimate group of six. The doors only open with a key, giving you the impression of stepping back in time before entering the booth, which immediately transported us to the 19th century. Stretching out our necks, to view the audience, we almost believed we’d spot some feather-trimmed, diamond-encrusted aristocracy. We were eventually brought back to the 21st century as the Robbins piece began; it was light, classical and perfect for the spring. EK was something different altogether, a bit dark, and occasionally morbid, but laugh aloud funny throughout, right in step with our birthday celebration.

Bats in the bellfry, Oh, so Phantom.

Palais Garnier

Happy, happy birthday!!!

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This week, my darling daughter turned 18. Being the incredibly organized, absolutely perfect fairy-tale Mom that I am, everything was set and ready to go by last Monday. Or not.

Some time Sunday night, it occurred to me that 18 must be a really big deal for a French kid. Not only does she get to vote this year (twice, thanks to her double nationality) but she can now legally order her own drinks. Wahoo! It was time to throw a party. I SMSed the bff and she started SMSing the clan. Curious messages inquiring “where?” started pouring in. Hmmm… hadn’t really thought of that.

Where do you throw a last minute party on a tight budget for a dozen 18 year olds in Paris? And since they’re just kids I didn’t want to be getting them silly drunk, so there had to be food. My other dear daughter informed me that Parisiennes don’t eat at parties when there were boys present, because it simply isn’t elegant. Pizza, she told me, was out.

Last minute cocktails for 14; Candelaria was my first thought. I’m addicted to their Green Hornet cocktail, the bar is cool and the food fun, yet affordable. They wanted to help me, but there are only 11 seats in the entire restaurant, no food in the bar.

I started scouring 52 Martinis and decided that the Prescription Cocktail Club was my next best shot. Last time I’d been there we’d enjoyed some mini-burgers and other finger foods while sipping some excellent cocktails in a chicer-than-I’ll-ever-be decor. I decided to talk about it with them in person. The bartender loved the idea, he was thrilled to have us, but no food, “Sorry. Our chef left us last night.”

It was now 4 pm, Monday night, with no other easy options, I headed over to one of my personal favorites. With beach shack architecture, La Rhumerie juts out on the boul St Germain, but is generally over-looked by tourists who either want something “French”, or who assume it is a tacky tourist joint because, well, it looks like a tacky tourist join. The drinks are good and I have a soft spot for kitsch, so it works for me. They don’t take reservations, but the waiter assured me that 8pm on a Tuesday night would not be a problem.

The waiter lied. The next night was the first day of spring and spring had sprung so the place was full of locals pretending to be on holidays with their frothy rum drinks and spicy caribbean appetizers. The waiter told me that it was going to be a problem. I assured him that there wasn’t going to be a problem and that I had the utmost confidence in his abilities. I sat there, my back rigid, looking like an uptight school marm, anxiously waiting as all around me people were relaxed and having fun. I think I scared him. I was rewarded for my confidence one hour later, exactly 36 seconds before the first guest was set to arrive. I had earned my cocktail.

The rest of the evening went by splendidly. Dear daughter was completely surprised and absolutely thrilled, her friends were duly impressed and I hear that once I’d made my exit, a good time was had by all.

La Rhumerie, 166 Boulevard Saint-Germain 75006 Paris – Tel : 01 43 54 28 94

 

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