Monthly Archives: March 2012

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

Feeling crab-y?

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OOoooohhhhh….. a lovely weekend in a luxury hotel, just off the Champs Elysées! Mr French and I couldn’t wait to be out exploring, but first we were starving. Taxi, check-in, room check, luggage. We were in such a rush we barely took the time to admire our gorgeous suite (although I did have the time to notice the Jacques Genin chocolates on our pillows, AND the JG caramels on the desk).

According to the menu posted across the street, we were at “The Indian restaurant in Paris”, Annapurna. We went in. Really fresh, really spicy, over priced. I wouldn’t return.

We were ready for a stroll. Past the Hustler Club, near the Crystal Bar and through the Queen nightclub crowd, we arrived on a Champs Elysées teeming with humanity from across the globe. It was not our Paris scene, and it was kind of fun watching the staid German families walking out of the Lido cabaret, unaware burka clad ladies passing drug dealers and young girls hobbling comically by on stilts disguised as shoes.

The next day we decided to play it Rive Droite, lunching at an anonymous café, checking out the illuminating Neon exhibit at La Maison Rouge, exploring the Village St Paul and ending up at Auld Alliance to catch the final match of the Six Nations rugby tournament (excuse me while I stop to polish my girlfriend halo.)

Inside Le Crabe MarteauAnd I wrote all that just to get you to dinner. Dinner. I’d been wanting to try this restaurant ever since I first read about it in FigaroScope a year ago. Wood-lined walls with fishing nets, newspapers on the tables, slop buckets on the floor and sailor clad waiters… these guys had Parisiennes wearing bibs and eating with their fingers! Le Crabe Marteau specializes in crab and anger management, which explains the wooden mallets on every table. You’re served a large stone crab and authorized to whack it open, sending bits flying before picking out the succulent meat. When you’re ready for a break from the physical labour, there is a wooden pail full of the sweetest, steamed new potatoes with raw milk butter to melt away in your mouth, chewing optional. I felt like I’d died and gone to Brittany….

Weapons of mass digestion

Le Crabe Marteau

ps… a major THANK YOU to Elle, who made this weekend possible. Bises!!!

Weekend away?

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our room awaits....

Last week, a friend emailed asking if I’d like to stay in a 5 star hotel near the Champs Elysées for free. No joke, and no strings attached. Hmmm…. Didn’t really have to think about this one. It was a resounding, hopefully not too whiny, “Yes, please, I beg of you….”

Mr French was just as thrilled as I had been, lets face it, moving is exhausting and we’d just moved two households into one. We needed a break. But with so much still to do and energy levels running low, it hadn’t actually occurred to us to plan one.

Friday night, 21h. My Valentine’s Day gift from Eres (blue, silk) is packed, the champagne is cold and my feet are imprisoned in a lovely pair of very high heels. I am ready to go. No word from Mr French. No response to my calls and not a single text. Génial. Since he usually calls as he leaves the office, which is generally around 20h, and this was supposed to be a special night, I was getting a bit miffed. Then worried. Then miffed again. My inner-Jewish mother having it out on the wrestling match with my inner femme.

Five minutes later Mr French walks in the door; clearly exhausted and not a little stressed. But still smelling delicious. It can be hard to stay angry with a man who smells so good. Before I even have a chance to express my irritation, he sighs, announcing,

“The strike is over, we signed 30 minutes before I left the office.”

Plaza Champs Elysées bathroom

did someone say bubble bath?

My eyes pop out of my head, as I stand there looking like a Hanna Barbara character, the gears tumbling around up there. The implications of those first four words starts to unfold. Our get away had been in jeopardy and I hadn’t even realized it. If the strike had continued Mr French would have had to work all weekend trying to find a solution. Not sure how I’d dropped the ball on the game. I had just been on strike myself, yet it hadn’t even occurred to me!

Cultural lesson #168 – In France, if your company goes on strike, you don’t go on holiday.

Lesson learned, we were off on holidays, now with even more to celebrate!

Hotel Plaza Champs Elysées

The solution

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from the book, Un Proletariat Rêve © Jean-Claude Seine

“Une seule solution, une manifestation!!!”

That is the first song my five and eight year old children learned when we moved to Paris.  No farms à la Old McDonald, or Little Piggies for this crowd, Parisian kids sing about going on strike!

Once had I finally made friends with these kids’ Moms, a pattern arose; every afternoon, around 4-ish, my phone would ring, with a harried woman asking me, “What are you making for dinner?” Nobody was calling because I have any particular skill at the stove top, they wanted fresh ideas. As a recent immigrant, I was happy to be exploring the French repertoire, excited to be cooking their beloved dishes, dishes they hadn’t thought of in ages. And I had lots of “new” ideas that were standards from my California kitchen. As time went on and I, too, started to loose inspiration, I turned to other European recipes, gleaning ideas from Greek, Italian and Spanish cooking. Then my inner Californian re-emerged and needed some heat. I quickly found supplies for Mexican, Vietnamese, Thai, Indian and just about any other spicy cuisine, maintaining my place as an inspirational source of new cooking ideas in the quartier.

With Picard, Chinatown, Passage Brady and countless other international sources, I was still full of ideas. Then, over a three week span, we moved, combining two households into one. And it was the holidays and my daughter was frantically writing college essays and my French ”mother-in-law” came to stay and wouldn’t leave, and my parents came to town and my Dad got ill and my step-son came for a visit and my brain short circuited and I could not, for the life of me figure out what to make for dinner…

Don’t you just love those humbling moments when you are finally in someone else’s shoes and can not see the forest for the trees any better than they could?

I began to realize that French women have to worry about cooking for the kids every night of the week. With long school days, plenty of homework and late dinner times, family friendly restaurants are really only family friendly on weekends. Take-out is not common and delivery is limited to Pizza Hut and bad sushi. I’d cooked nearly every day for nearly a decade and had not really noticed. Well, I was noticing now and I simply could not go on. SO, I did the French thing… I went on strike! A cooking strike! Heating, yes, but preparing, mixing, sautéing, steaming or roasting were off the negotiating table.

Here is how our family survived the month the chef lost it;
Soups. Pretty much every other night I was heating up a soup. The fish soup, Ile de Ré style from Monoprix, the Thai chicken from Picard or Covent Garden. Carrot, mushroom, and tomato soups, also from Covent Garden. Gaspacho, anyone?
I even found a few take out options that go beyond a slice of quiche from the bakery downstairs, our favorites being;
Clasico – Argentinian empanadas
Evi Evane – Great Greek
Mai Do – Bo Bun

Now I have to worry about the family striking against Mom’s cooking!

* Only one solution, protest!

Mirror, mirror…

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Mr French and I moved in together in December. I’m a photographer and art director, he reads every design magazine on the racks and studies art. We each have our own, extremely diverse opinions. Decorating our joint abode is going to take some time. Years, probably.

One of our key suppliers is turning out to be the Marché aux Puces at St Ouen, aka the Clignancourt flea market, just north of the city. I know the market well because I used to help art and antique collectors from the US purchase their treasures here and ship them home. My clients collected everything from antique books to Louis XVI furniture, oriental carpets to contemporary art. This trip was personal.

Our mission; a mirror for over the sink in our water closet. The space is awkward because the sink is very close to a wall, but the ceilings are high, requiring something very long and narrow. We had in mind something very traditional; an ornate carved wood, gilded frame from the 19th century; accessories with some serious patina, to balance out our mostly modern apartment.

The visit began at the Vernaison market, where we soon came across Stand 29, run by the adorable Marie B, from Brittany, and her SO. On the walls a collection of 1970’s rattan framed mirrors had caught our eyes. On a facing wall were similar mirrors in a stained, darker rattan. The effect was whimsically quirky. I seemed to recall having seem them in one of Mr French’s design mags. Yes, confirmed Monsieur SO, they were in ELLE Deco, but the stylist purchased the entire collection for herself after the photoshoot, so these were others. I smell a rat. Did she buy this for her own flat, for a gift, or as an investment she could then sell on eBay for a considerable profit, “as seen in ELLE”? Knowing  journalist salaries, I’m guessing its door number 3.

We liked the effect a lot, but didn’t think it was exactly what we were looking for. Nobody seemed to have what we were looking for. Across the same allée, two or three stands later we came to another stand with another 70’s display, this time plaster suns, painted in gold. They looked rich and elegant without being extravagant and the price was right. But we’d only just arrived and wanted to see what else was available.

Back on the rue des Rosiers (St Ouen, not the Marais) we visited a truly Louis, gilded boutique with a remarkably extraordinary, ornate porcelain bucket; this bucket was the very bucket used by Marie Antoinette at her Hameau at Versailles. True? I don’t know. The dealer has a shop, and a certificate, and is herself a certified dealer, so I choose to  believing I touched Marie A’s bucket. I love the living museum aspect of Paris flea markets!

There were lots of 19th century mirror vendors along the way. All of them told us that what we were looking for would be very difficult to find.

At the Marché Paul Bert we saw a few more rattan mirrors. They were really beginning to grow on me. Then we came across a stand with some very cool 1960’s Italian designed mirrors. Gorgeous, exaggerated ovals framed in a smooth, refined raised wood frame. The only problem was the rough, unfinished hemp cord that was fixed to each mirror for hanging. I found the style incongruous and removing the cord would damage the frame.

Still no traditional gilded frames. We went back to the beginning and bought our rattan mirrors, heading home, ready for the next challenge. The next weekend I was at the Village St Paul. There was an entire boutique FULL of 19th century gilded frames small enough for our bathroom sink. I can now confirm that I love my somewhat kitsch, very fun rattan mirrors.

ps Found the narrow gilt framed mirrors at the Village St Paul a few weeks later… in case anyone is looking!

Les Puces St Ouen

Marché Vernaison

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

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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