Category Archives: 6ème

Happy happy birthday

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Satrapi window at Bon Marche

I have a thing for the Bon Marché. Sounds shallow and frivolous, but lets face it, I grew up listening to Madonna, so I seem to have “Material Girl”. But my crush on this store goes much deeper than that. It begins with Emile Zola and his novel “Au Bonheur des Dames” which chronicles the life and times of the shop girl Denise. It is a romance, but it is also a testament to the times and freedom that industrialization brought women, for better and some times for worse.

Boucicault, the force of nature behind the world’s first department store, was a marketing genius, coming up with ideas to get people into his shop that are still being used today, like the regularly held art exhibits at the Bon Marche. His wife a socialist before socialism, carefully looking after the well-being of their employees. They made a difference in society that is still felt today.

The Bon Marché is 160 years old this year and to celebrate they are throwing a party that seems to have leapt from the pages of Zola’s novel. Some of the most famous brands in the luxury world have created special limited editions to celebrate, all proudly displayed in a pop-up shop designed by the graphic novelist Marjane Satrapi. Satrapi’s illustrations also fly above the large open space, in the form of montgolfieres, bi-planes and Jules Vernes-like contraptions. Inside most of villages there is merchandise for sale. Fabulous designs to celebrate the Bon Marche’s 160th with inspired limited editions. Everything from iPhone covers to handbags, Baccarat crystal to Repetto ballet slippers.

In one area there is a documentary by Loïc Prigent, as he follows the city’s icon, Catherine Deneuve to all of her favorite Left Bank haunts. One of those haunts is Gerard Depardieu’s fish shop, Moby Dick, and its the film I saw them working on earlier in the year. I checked, and nope, I didn’t make it into the background, but it was very fun to see what had made the final cut!!!

Satrapi is the artistic force behind the film Perspolis. Her lines are bold and brilliant, the perfectly modern foil as her art continues outside, featuring more scenes of Catherine at places like her fish monger’s, the Café Fleurus and the Place Saint Sulpice in a specatcle that draws people in, and would make Boucicault proud.

You know you’re in France when…

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This morning I headed out for the weekly shopping, but this time its was a little different because I was shopping for one teen. Mr French’s son is graduating from Columbia Law School, which is pretty amazing for anyone, but even more amazing for a French kid, so he and I are headed to NYC for a week of celebration.

The Bug will be staying with friends, but E is an adult now and I wanted her to taste a bit of what that means, so she’ll be flat sitting for us. My first stop this morning was the butcher. It is one of the first hot days of spring, so I ordered carpaccio for dinner. I love that the local butchers sell pre-sliced, already plated carpaccio. I then asked for a steak or two that would be appropriate for freezing. What froze was my butcher’s expression. I had made a major faux pas. A false step.

“I know,” I back pedaled, “its almost criminal to freeze…” I stalled with a delicate uhm…  as I read the information card on his showcase, telling me the name of the cow that had been slaughtered to become my steak, “Blanche.”

“Oui. It is obvious, you only have to come by more often. You live around the corner. It is not complicted.”

“Yes, I know, but I am leaving for a week and my teen will be home alone and she will be preparing for her BAC.”

Monsieur the Butcher unthawed immediately. The BAC is the French baccalauréat. It is a series of major exams taken at the end of one’s high school career and the results can be the determining factor for one’s entire future. No pressure there, as your average 17 year old is desperately trying to tame those hormones raging through their body.

“Effectivement, she’ll be needing to eat plenty of meat. Absolutely. I’ll tell you what. Tell her to pass by here after school each day and I’ll prepare something special. Something easy. She won’t have to worry about a thing. Just give me your name and I’ll keep a tab for you.”

You know you are in France when; there is an information card with a photo and the name of the cow you are about to purchase in the form of a steak, you have a butcher, your butcher is so against the idea of you freezing his meat that he is willing to set up a running tab for a client who has been in his shop exactly four times in the last six months. Yes, we are definitely in France.

And it is time I started thinking more like a French mom; I rounded up my caddie, swallowed my guilt and headed home to tell E that she would have to do her own grocery shopping for the week. Mom was clicking her red ruby slippers and heading “home” for the non-holidays.

 My Butcher

 

Rooms with a view

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This is the view that greets me as I open my eyes each morning. My very own guardian angel. She is here because I live in an 18th century convent. A modern Jewish girl living out of wedlock in an 18th century convent. Irony…

The Bug no longer notices our angels, but our view has captured her attention recently. Wednesday, April 4, she was at home studying for her mid-term exams when she heard a rather loud clanging bell. Peeking her head into my studio she asked what was going on. I followed the sound back to her window and looking out, I saw that it was the rémouleur. I had forgotten that this neighborhood had its very own knife sharpener. He passes by the first Wednesday of every month, ringing a large brass bell in his left hand to tell us that it is time to affûte our blades.

photo courtesy of the Rémouleur blog

The profession has existed since the middle ages and they still have a guild mentality, with a French blog of their very own, featuring images of rémouleurs, past and present, from across the globe. The French singer, André Claveau even wrote a whimsical song about these men and their work in 1952.

I thought this was incredibly charming when I first moved to France. Admittedly, it took me several first Wednesdays of the month and a keen sense of voyeurism before I understood what all the commotion was about. But once I go it, I was IN, running downstairs with a handful of kitchen knives at the first clang that signaled his arrival. We agreed upon a price, then he set down his cart, and started pedaling, putting the whetstone into motion. 15 minutes and 20 euros later he had basically destroyed my entire collection of high-tech cooking knives. It took several years with a proper rémouleur at the Sunday Richard Lenoir market to set things straight. Despite my disappointment, it still thrills me that this man passes by my street each month, as another man once did when my home was first built, and as men have done for the past 300 years.

Marché Richard Lenoir

 

Bakkus

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Last night I was working, waiting for Mr French to get home from the office. The girls are on April holidays so just the adults are dining in this week. The children we live with are mine, so dinner responsibility is mine, as well, turning this week into a mini-holiday for moi. Only half the mouths to feed means only half the mouths to please.

20h30 the phone rings.
“I’m on my way home.” Mr French announces,  “What are we doing for dinner?”

It is late, I am starving and we’ve got another half an hour before Monsieur walks trough the door.

“Raviolis,” I improvise, “the truffle ones from the Maison de la Truffle that I got at Monoprix last week.”

“How about we go across the street to that wine bar they opened last week,” he proposes.

Now, I LOVE truffles. I go to great lengths every winter for my truffles, but I am faithful to my men, not my food. I start doing the happy dance… no kitchen duty for me tonight!!!

Bakkus, the new wine bar, (hey, that’s a pun… Bakkus, Bacchus, only took me three days to get it) reminds me of Semilla; exposed walls, lots of wine and a younger crown than we generally get in this part of Paris. One wall is lined with glass enclosed wine bottles, each bottle attached to some new-fangled digital contraption that serves the exact amount of wine requested by the server. Directly facing that wall is a large chalkboard listing the day’s offering, each dish divided into three; avocado/crab/green apple entrée, or cod/anchovy/green sauce main. Ordering made easy.

Keeping in sync with the über modern serving devices, the wine menu is on an iPad that has information for each wine offered. Which is not a bad idea, because Bakkus offers some heavy hitters and it is probably good to know exactly what you’re ordering before investing in a Montrachet or St Julien. There are friendlier, more reasonable wines available, and there are three different serving sizes, so you can even create your own flight.

The food arrived and it was lovely. Served on slate or white porcelain, the presentation is original without being fussy. The flavours are pure and textures play an important role. The meal was not perfect, the house-made artichoke purée had an unintentional, yet distinctly burnt taste and I think a few of the sides would do well with a bit more seasoning. My favorite dish of the evening was dessert. A thick, perfectly carmalised slice of pineapple clad in a yogurt sorbet beret and a sash of verbena syrup. Light, with a palette pleasing balance of sweet and acid. Mr French nearly applauded for his alarmingly green pear that had been poach in a mint syrup. Secretly, I am afraid that he was thrilled to have found an easy, local joint for those moments when he just can not take another night of my “cooking”.

Bakkus – 97 rue du Cherche Midi, no website, yet.

Hiquily

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Hiquily puzzle

Finding Art

I simply love exploring all the short cuts and secret passages in Paris. At times, I have been known to mortify my entire family by pushing the brass button on a security pad at a random building, hoping to enter an unknown courtyard, totally uninvited. It is beyond my will power to resist the large, wide-open porte cochères. Which is how I happened upon a woman piecing together Hiquily sculptures in a courtyard on the rue des Beaux Arts. While I only recognized the work, Mr French already knew the artist’s name and his background and quickly filled me in.

Hiquily at St Germain

Lady of the ???

Phillipe Hiquily is a 87 year old French artist, famous for his metal, mobile, semi-erotic sculptures that can be found at museums like the Pompidou, MOMA, Guggenheim and Smithsonian. The LOFT gallery has just published a catalogue raisonné, a comprehensive catalogue of an artist’s work, on Hiquily. It exceeds 700 pages. In celebration, Hiquily statues have been installed on the Places St Sulpice and St Germain, with free exhibits open to the public in the Mairie of the 6th arrondissement, and another at the Hotel Lutetia, all running until April 28.

Back in the courtyard we learned from the art assembler that the gallery was presenting a small show of his works available for sale upstairs. I went bounding up. I was charmed by the small 8 inch models of his sculptures (25,000€), but would have really liked one of the three foot tall miniatures (30,000€) for my balcony. If you have a large garden, his monumental pieces are also available, but I didn’t even think to ask the price on those. Its just not practical to have a 5 metre tall work of art in a Paris flat.

A party at the Mairie on the 5th of April kicks off the festivities at 19h. The man himself will be at LOFT on the 19th of April, from 18h to 21h, signing copies of the catalogue (180€ throughout the exhibit, then rising to 220€). Other signings will be held at the Hotel Lutetia on the 18th.

Back in the courtyard I photographed the art dealer, totally amazed at her casual attitude as she dusted off huge chunks of metal that were collectively worth a small fortune. I shared my wonder with Mr French, who replied, “Its not like you’re going to walk off with the piece, its huge.” Which kind of gave me an idea… how much is truck rental in Paris???

Galerie LOFT

THIEF!!!

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Gerard Depardieu

My new pal, Geri!!

 

I am new to my ‘hood and when you’re new in Paris, it takes some time before the locals acknowledge your existence. Especially if you have an accent and they assume that you’re just another visitor who is staying in town for a month before heading back to the ranch.

I have learned some tricks, like informing the butcher that I have a Mr French who is genuinely French and an ex-rugby man and he really would not appreciate it if I told him that the butcher had talked me into a noble pheasant (50€) for my humble coq (12€) au vin. Or informing the wine merchant that despite my accent, I had enough common sense to know that you don’t use a Premier Cru Classé as a cooking wine.

At the cafés I sit at the bar and chat up the staff, sharing jokes and trying to be charming, so that they’ll remember me the next time I stop by. I was doing well at the café downstairs, having bonded with the owner over Les Landes, where we both spend our summer holidays. This morning the bar woman and I progressed from vacation chatter to weight issues and were laughing heartily as we bantered about this summer’s beach fashions while I completed a sudoku in Le Parisien newspaper. I was making a friend and I was starting to feel pretty cool when the owner stomped up from behind me, mumbling something about annoying patrons who hoard the papers to do games, as he swiped the broadsheet from under my pen!

I turned to look at him in utter shock. He saw my face and was immediately embarrassed (at least now I know he recognizes me), and started back pedaling, explaining that a patron on the terrasse wanted to actually read the paper and he’d return it in 3 minutes. He opened some People-like rag and shoved a crossword puzzle under my nose. Great, French crosswords for celebrity stalkers, just my kind of thing.

I threw my coins on the counter and stalked out of the café curious to see who had trumped me.

Gerard Depardieu!!! There he was sitting on the terrasse of my local café with my newspaper perched on his table. He wasn’t even reading it!

“Hey, you’ve deprived me of my sudoku!” I scolded, laughingly.

He looked up, unaccustomed to being yelled at by strange women with a funny accent, then joined in my laughter, offering to let me finish my game.

“Non, non, enjoy” I replied, as I whipped out the iPhone and stole his soul. A theft for a theft, as Hammurabi would say.

Le Bistrot Landais

Le cadeau

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Last Monday, while scrambling around in search of a Paris bar for E’s (aka dear daughter) surprise birthday party, I was still trying to figure out what to get her for a gift. I am a badge holding member of “its the thought that counts” club. Unfortunately, those thoughts don’t always coincide perfectly with birthdays and major holidays. I mess up. I also prefer giving experiences rather than material goods, but that is covered with two tickets to sit in one of those oh-so-romantic, red brocade-lined loges to watch Robbins/Ek at the Opera Garnier later in the week.

The gift solution had been eluding me for months. My Parisiennes were beginning to think I was a bit nuts. Gift giving and birthdays are not a major event here, where Martha is an anonymous nobody and Goop is not yet taunting us with our inadequacies.

I was being Américaine, they warned.

Just get her a blazer, they advised.

Then, the told me about their own childhood gifts… flatware. I can just imagine trying that with a teenager today, “Yes darling, I’ve purchased you a fork. Isn’t that exciting? Mommy’s so thrilled! By the time you get married you’ll have a whole set of sterling flatware for your chéri, and the little ones to follow!” No wonder these women need to smoke!

Deciding they were right, and hoping to put my brain waves to better use, I went to the Bon Marche and checked out the Perle de Lune jewelry counter. I love their casual, elegant style, inspired by India, yet perfectly suited to life in Paris. They use quality stones, with intense colors and cuts that add sparkle, without bling. I quickly found a simple, elegant bracelet, for just over 100€. 18k gold, with intensely colored blue topaz, it is perfectly unique, just like E.

Perle de Lune is available at these Paris stores;  Le Bon Marche, Galeries Lafayette, Franck et Fils, Diamantissimo

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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