Monthly Archives: October 2012

Its my treat

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Halloween isn’t exactly a holiday in France, but this week I enjoyed a particularly mouthwatering treat, just the same. Mr French and I went to see Les Saveurs du Palais with Catherine Frot, a good film with some truly fantastic food porn. The movie is loosely based on the true (miss)adventures of a woman chef at the Elysée Palace. It seems that the president of the time, a certain Jacques, was not satisfied with having one head chef. he wanted two. One for official dinners and one for his private meals which created some jealousy and the film shows French male chauvinism at its finest. They say admitting a problem is the first step to solving it. One can only hope that this may be true in France…

After the movie we were hungry and following the film we’d just seen, good food was not going to cut it. We needed something beyond ordinary.

Mr French, being a resourceful guy, looked at his watched, noticed that it was a tad early (19h40) for dinner and suggested we check out Chicha and Simone’s Italian wine bar, Oenosteria.

I met Chicha and Simone when our children were in elementary school together and they owned a fabulous restaurant known for its carpaccio. Casa Bini is still known for their thinly sliced raw beef that draws the likes of Salma Hayek to their Tuscan haunt, but today they’ve added seafood to their expertise, hiring chefs from Southern Italy who are masters with all things fish. If that is not enough they return to their native Tuscany regularly to stock up on prime ingredients; artisanal cheeses, deli meats, olive oils and truffles.

Our children are now grown, and their restaurant kingdom has, too with Primo Piano at the Bon Marché (above the Grand Epicerie) and they chic-ly relaxed wine bar where we were headed, the Oenosteria.

With an open kitchen and fully stocked fridges, this is an Italian food lover’s delight. On the menu are sliced meat platters, cheese plates, seasonal salads and a few other treats like the porchetta with grilled porcini cap that Mr French ordered. The porchini was rich and meaty, while the porchetta was moist and had the lovely aroma of sage. Being true to my funghi leanings, I had the cèpes salad; a mountain of crispy, nutty raw cèpes slices served on a pillow of arugula. Parmesan coated the dish like tinsel on a Christmas tree and as it arrived at our table I was filled with childish glee.

The food was so good that it swept us away; we were on holiday in Italy, glasses around us clinking, hands flying in every direction, it was a delightful escape. It didn’t hurt that three of the 8 tables hosted Italians who were prattling away in the mother tongue. I was so swept away that I didn’t order their traditional tiramisu for dessert, but instead opted for their perfectly crisp, delicately flavored biscotti served with a glass of vino santo. Truly divine. Salute!!!

Casa Bini / 36 rue Grégoire de Tours, 6e / 01 46 34 05 60

Oenosteria / 40 rue Grégoire de Tours, 6e

Primo Piano / au Bon Marché, 1st floor

Raphaël at the Louvre

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Paris Fashion Week is over and I am officially on the mend, so its back to work and real life. Sometimes real life for me includes being Mr French’s date at corporate events. In my past life these were dull, boring affairs, so torturous it could make a girl want to rip her hair out. But in Paris, they often turn out to be fantastic soirées that I am thrilled to attend, even if I’ll be surrounded by lawyers of chicken farmers. Case in point, last week’s sneak preview of the Raphaël exhibit at the Louvre.

Mr French joined me under the pyramid, directly from the office, rain drops dashing off his raincoat. A quick bise and he asked if I knew who Raphaël was. Insulted, I started rattling off the (very) little that I did know.

“Yes, but did you know he was also one of the Ninja turtles. They were Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphaello and… zut, I’ve forgotten the last one.” I was ready for the champagne that just happened to be coming our way on a silver platter.

As much as I love art and can go into near ecstasies talking about a 24 hour long film that watches time go by, I am not a major fan of religious art. A bit too much gore and angst for my personal taste, and they all end up dead in the most gruesome ways. Makes me worry about the human condition and why we are so obsessed with a violent end.

Most art of this genre was commissioned work, so there is rarely any personal statement attached and not a lot of emotion going on. Which makes sense, because the emotion should be coming from the viewers’ religious faith, but it doesn’t do a lot for me, faith-less soul that I am.

I do love color and light, and Raphaël was a master at both. His paintings are pretty and there is often a random servant girl or disgruntled princess in the background, adding a dash of whimsy.

One more flûte and I was ready to enter the exhibit. There were docents to greet us and educate us in every gallery. Our first docent talked about Raphaël’s background and I was absolutely floored when she informed us that he had been greatly influenced by the other Ninja’s; Leo and Mic. She pointed out how he copied da Vinci’s triangle layout and the way Michelangelo interpreted movement. “Yes, but who was the 4th turtle?” Mr French hissed in my ear.

look at those toes

I’m not sure I was supposed to be fixating on this, but either 16th century Italian women had fingers on their feet, or Raphaël wasn’t so great at depicting the human form. From the classical oil paintings, we moved on to a room with some truly fantastic sketches and then another room with extraordinary tapestries. I really loved the tapestries, even if they were only based on sketches by the artist, and not actually created by the artist. Actually, Raphaël was a busy guy, with several ateliers and lots of students, doing everything from religious art to architectural drawings for buildings, so a lot of the work in this exhibition is not by Raphaël. I can only imagine his production had email existed.

There was one painting of Saint John the Bapstist that I really flipped for, but it was by Michelangelo and it was in the show to demonstrate how much Raphaël copied was inspired by the other masters of his time. You see a lot of it throughout the collection.

The final gallery focused on portraits. At last, great art with intriguing stories of arranged marriages and brothers that pulled the strings. The room was so inspirational that it inspired Mr French to lean over and whisper in my ear, “Donatello”. It was time to leave and get some more champagne.

Raphael is at the Louvre until January 14, 2013

Manic Monday

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As you’re reading this I am Chicago, visiting the eldest in her new digs at the University of Chicago. But last week was a rare, gloriously sunny day in Paris, so I decided to do the French thing and I went on strike. I was protesting the indoors and refused to go in any building until the sun had set. But it didn’t start out that way.

It started with me heading to the ‘burbs to hear a talk with the author of “Inside Apple”. I don’t really know the outskirts of Paris, so I was relying on my iPhone which got me helplessly lost. How ironic is that??, My maps app got me lost, so I missed a lecture on Apple!!!  Following the map had taken me through some creepy underpasses near the periph’ so going back I decided I’d walk towards the center of town and cross over ‘somewhere else’. A set of big, wide cement staircases led between some office buildings towards the center of town.

I started climbing up through this wide open space when I surprised 2 men in their city worker uniforms who were clearly NOT working for the city at that moment. They were working on each other. One guy was on his knees, the other had his pants wide open. I didn’t really want to see more so I sped on up, only to find myself in the middle of an isolated forest. It was a dead end.

I headed back down, coughing loudly and stomping my feet and somewhat relieved to see one of the guys coming back up the stairs towards me. But kind of freaked out, too. Booking back down, I was thrilled when I reached the creepy underpasses and even happier when I got to the nice, open bridge that crosses the périphérique. Bright sunshin with barges and rowing teams passing below, things were looking brighter when I heard the clash of metal and screeching brakes and turned just in time to see a car come careenin directly towards me, on the sidewalk, stopping just 6 cm from my knee cap!!

I was having a bad day, and it was only 11am. Since most fatal accidents happen within the home, I decided to grab my laptop and head next door to the corner café where I could enjoy the UVs and prevent anymore mischief from coming my way.

Friday@Flore

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I’m starting this week with the classic Paris shot. Please accept this as my apology for not being able to offer the real deal, because instead of heading the Café de Flore right now, I am sitting on an airplane with M, headed to Chicago to see our much-missed E for Family Weekend at the University of Chicago. there is no French term for Family Weekend. The idea is so foreign that I have to translate it, and then explain the concept, and they still nod at me vacantly.

Through the past six months I have collected more than photos. I have met charming people, like this lovely German couple who met in Paris as students 20 years ago. They were back for the first time, having left a young son at home so they can celebrate their anniversary.

Others don’t wait twenty years, at all. Others come daily, some even at the exact same time, settling into the same spot, sharpening their crayons and drawing their own conclusions of life @Flore.

 

And not everyone leaves the kids at home. this precious group was traveling en famille, Dad patiently watching the kinder while Mom did a little book shopping at L’Ecume des Pages (excellent bookstore next to the Flore and open until midnight, wahoo!!!)

And then there are those who are out and about exploring the boulevard with man’s best friend, les chiens that even the French understand is (wo)man’s best friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

French food for real folk

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Its mushroom season, and I am a girl with a thing for fungi. Truffles, chanterelles, morels, girolles, it all make my head go into a spin and my mouth start watering. Right now the markets have baskets over flowing with cèpes, the large fat mushrooms (sometimes crawling with worms) that look something like a porcini and are simply heavenly.

Sunday Mr French went out for a baguette for our lunch and came back with an entire kilo of the little beasties for our dinner. I was over the moon, not only would be I be having one of my favorite treats, but I would be offer dinner duty. I knew this because I have been banned from being anywhere near the spore bearing plants and an open flame. Something about my energy instantly turns them into a rubber mush, disappointing everyone, especially me. Mr French has tried to teach me how to prepare them, but I simply can not seem to learn. And maybe I don’t want to, because it is kind of nice being served your favorite dish from time to time.

This week I was granted kitchen access on the condition the camera stay in my hands at all times and I touch nothing related to food. So this is how you prepare a poêlée de cèpes bourgignon. The bourgignon part is important, because that means you get to serve it with wine. Carefully select a kilo of the beauties (any ‘shroom will do, doesn’t really have to be cèpes). Wash them lightly and brush off the dirt. If they’re large, cut them in 1/4. Then dice up an onion, 2 cloves of garlic and a bunch of flat leafed celery. Sautée the onion and garlic in a pan until almost golden. Set aside.

 

In another pan, sautée the mushrooms at high heat. This is important because they give off a ton of water. In fact, that is where I ruin the dish. I forget to drain the pan from time to time, removing any excess liquid. If you do this into a small bowl you can then save the ‘shroom juice for a risotto some other night. But if that’s complicated, but be sure to drain regularly. Just as the mushrooms look done, toss them in the pan with the onion and garlic. Heat through and sprinkle with the parsley.

If you’ve been very good all week, get your self a lovely automn fruit tart to finish your feast. Apples are in season, pears, too, but we went for figs this week…

 

mixed media

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Yesterday I left you just before describing the powerful work of the Catalan born, NYC based, multi-media artist Muntadas.

Muntadas started his career as a painter and discovered multi-media in the 1970‘s.  Unlike many photographers, he is not just recording the “decisive moment”, he is creating the moment.

Questioning art

This artist has something to say. So much to say that he often uses the images of words that come across his path, or adds the words himself, to create potent messages.

Like the words “Power Symbol” in the windows of a limousine, with the Brooklyn Bridge looming over the background, or the brightly quilted banners that read, “difference between dying and living” with black and white footage rolling nearby. Or the three words, “look”, “see”, and “perceive” highlighted under office lights.

I was particularly moved by a series of three films projected in a bare, white room. The wall to the left and the wall to the right show hands clapping loudly while the images on the central screen pass from an applauding crowd to scenes of war and nuclear reactors and back to the crowd then on to some more news footage. I stood there transfixed. Its a dark world we discover through Muntadas’ lens, but there is a sense of hope and the possibility of redemption that is often absent in art today.

And because my day had not been fantastic enough, just as I was ready to drag myself away, one of the PR gals pulled me to the side to say Muntadas was in the café giving a talk. I took a seat, front row center and sat there listening to his point of view on the art market and the creative process. At some point there was a lull and he asked what we had thought of his work, but this is Paris and the journalists were French, so no one dared offer their point of view. Not wanting to make a stir, I waited until after the talk to go up and share how powerful I’d found his work.

He was impressed, incredibly impressed. Not with my insightful revelations about his art, but with my accent. My accent!!!

“I am very interested in accents lately.” he shared with me, which seems a natural subject for a man who speaks no less than 5 languages fluently, comes from a region with two official languages and lives in a city where you can hear every accent on planet earth, with perhaps even an ET accent or two.

As we spoke, and I revealed that I was from San Francisco, he paused. “I think its time I did a piece on accents; Yes, I am definitely going to start an accent project.” I was thrilled to have brought a-muse-ment to the moment.

Sunshine!!!

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Exactly one week ago today, I had a wonderful day. To begin with, it was the first sunny day we’d had in weeks. I was ecstatic as I pulled on some long underwear and headed out the door. Long underwear? In October? Yes, I know that was probably overkill, but the lack of sunshine seems to have addled my brain.

Reading my twitter feed in the metro, somebody posted about a Mastercard campaign and the priceless Paris moment. Every idea I had involved food or chapamgne, both of which come with a price tag, so I was drawing a blank as I walked into the Tuileries Gardens and was greeted with a magical sight of white soaring mobiles in the pond. Free art in Paris with the surprise effect. Priceless.

I was in the gardens headed to the Jeu de Paume for the press opening of their new exhibits of Bravo and Muntadas. The crystal blue skies reflected my exceptionally bright mood, as I was thrilled to be attending my very first official art event as a blogger for Findingnoon, but I knew nothing about the photographers, or their work. A serious error of judgement due to pure snobbery; as a photographer, I don’t seem to appreciate photography.

Sabes, not at Jeu de Paume

Let me explain. I like art that is well beyond my abilities. Something I do not have the skill, imagination or vision to create. With photography exhibitions I’ll sometimes see work that is hauntingly close to my own. Which makes me grumpy.

The Jeu de Paume is the perfect space for an exhibit you’re not dying to see. Easy to navigate (its original use as an old-wave tennis court makes it a simple rectangle) and relatively small, it is an very approachable museum. And there are lockers so you don’t have traipse about with your winter wardrobe (wool coat, umbrella and scarf can weigh a girl down). Because it was a press event, we had the added luxury of being met with trays of viennoiseries from the Patisserie des Rêves. Mmmm… so much for my diet, the stuff was dreamy.

The Bravo exhibit is on the first floor. Nice standard photography with a great eye for geometry, which I appreciate. But nothing particularly ground breaking from my point of view. When explaining it to a friend I said that it reminded me of Henri Cartier-Bresson. Turns out these two cliché artists knew each other and it shows.

I hesitatingly trudged upstairs to see the rest of the exhibition. My intention was to take a few photos and run. Like all best plans, this one went astray, because the work I found upstairs was incredibly powerful and so interesting that even the guards were spending their time actually looking at the art, which is rare. Very rare. So rare that I need another post to share it all with you. See you tomorrow, at noon, on Findingnoon.

Language lessons

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Last night, shortly before falling asleep, I found myself feeling rather uncomfortable. And it just got worse and worse. It was the itchy, burning kind of discomfort that girls rarely talk about, and if they do its in hushed whispers hoping for some girl friendly advice. A situation that makes you wish for a litre of cranberry juice and has you getting out of bed, getting dressed and running (literally) to the late-night pharmacy that is just a short 2 kilometers away, in the pouring rain.

As I slipped my feet into my forest green Hunter boots that do NOT match my purple rain coat, or my shiny red rain hat, I remembered the last time I had to make a similar run. 12 years ago. I had not yet immigrated to France, but was here on a vacation, sharing a Flathotel with my two girls, their Dad and his Mom.

Yes, I brought my mother-in-law with us on holiday. And she wasn’t the most discrete lady on the planet, so 12 years ago, as I got dressed (with a bit more color coordination, I’m sure) for a midnight medical run, I did not really care to discuss with her what was going on down there, despite the fact that she was French and I needed a little vocabulary lesson.  Logic told me that if I could survive malaria, a week in hospital, and an emergency med-ivac in Africa, I could definitely handle a pharmacy run in a big, modern city like Paris.

The little angel on my shoulder must have already been asleep for the evening because she did NOT lean over and whisper into my ear something like, “yes, but English is the official language in E Africa, chérie.”

This pharmacy was also a short 2 kilometre jaunt, and I walked in ready for meds. As luck would have it, the pharmacist was a man. Not overly prudish, I started explaining my symptoms as he just stood there, shaking his head non. Like a sailor manning the sails, I tried another tact, and another. Getting more descriptive and more inventive in about what was goung on. Finally, we got somewhere and he gave me the fungicide I was hoping for. I thanked him and told him the term we use in English, for future reference. His face distorted in disgusted.

“Vraiement? That is what you call it? But that is so disgusting!”

“Sabine, Sabine,” he called his assistant in from the back to share the revelation.

“Ach,” she exclaimed, equally revolted, “but zat is vat we use to make bread.’ We eat bread, that is just so gross.”

Really? REALLY? They were busy chatting away while I was in physical discomfort? I mean, maybe they had a point, but I didn’t really care. So I put my francs on the counter, grabbed my meds and started to storm out the door. Just as the glass doors slid open I turned to ask the French term for my own future reference. He replied with yet another gaellic shrug and the comment, “beh, champignons*.”

*Mushrooms, because apparently we eat yeast, but we don’t eat mushrooms !?!

Friday@Flore

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I feel like it has been ages since I’ve done a real Friday@Flore, so it felt great to out and back at my favorite haunt, eavesdropping on the Italian gentleman and his very elegant lady friend who was wearing a gorgeous dress that looked like it had walked off the Céline runway on to the Paris streets. She was from Colombia and they were both here to look at the FIAC contemporary art show. Beautiful people doing beautiful things. Sigh…

But the real people were fun to watch, too. The girls in their jaunty scarves, choosing bright colors to stave off the winter blues. It has been grey in Paris, folks. Very grey. So grey we’re all starting to feel like a pair of warm flannel pants rotting away in the bottom of the wardrobe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And just to give you an idea of how much cheering we’re needing, everyone seemed to lighting up the scene with a splash of red. Of the 36 photos I shot 1/3 had people wearing a bit of red. Who knew? Time to run out and do a little wardrobe cherry picking!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But even more popular than the color red, the true look du jour requires a scarf. Any scarf will do, from the big and bulky cosy look to the light jaunty bohemian style. Because its not just about fashion, it is scarf weather for one and all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And after all that fashion, I was happy to get this quintessential Paris shot, even if there was no red in sight.

 

 

FIAC

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This weekend is the Foire Internationale d’Art Contemporain. The whaaaahh? The FIAC, or FEE ACK, as the locals pronounce it. It is the contemporary art event of the Paris season, held in one of the most under-rated attractions of Paris, the Grand Nef of the Grand Palais, a recently renovated, immensely grandiose steel and glass structure built for the 1900 World’s Fair.

a little Calder for Jr's room?

Modern art galleries from l’Afrique du Sud to Uruguay pack up crates full of master pieces available for purchase. Today, I saw a whimsical little mobile from Calder that is available for a reasonable 3.5€ million. There are works by Picasso, Basquiat, Warhol, Twombly and my fetish du moment, Anish Kapoor. It is like being in a extremely luxurious flea market.

Love this Kapoor piece!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Art comes to life

And the crowd is a work of art in itself. Literally. Today I met Alexandra Fly, a Polish artist who attends these international art fairs dressed up in a bright pink outfit covered with rag sculpted penis and vaginas that is supposed to help defend Women’s Rights. There was a European couple, a man and a woman, both shaved completely bald and wearing identical fur coats with identical dresses underneath, identical black patent leather pumps and identical make-up jobs. I can’t even begin to imagine how they negotiate their wardrobe decisions before their morning coffee and I would really love to be a fly (not the Alexandra type) on the wall as they do their more mundane shopping.

I was afraid to ask what this was made of...

Beyond the household names there is a lot of art out there from artist’s I’ve never heard of, and some of it looks like crap. Again, I am being literal here. To be really honest, I don’t get about 90% of the art that is on display and I often wonder how much of it really is art and how much of it is some guy in his studio loving the idea of getting some rich folk to shell out a rather large wad of money for a collection of stuff he bought at a thrift shop.

Elias Crespin

And then there is the 10% I do get. Some of it is fun, or thought provoking, or mind boggling, but the pieces I really love are the ones that make me feel something by playing with my sense of perception. Anish Kapoor is a master at this and last year I was enthralled with an automated mobile by the Venezuelan artist, Elias Crespin. I was very excited to see that he is back, with an equally mesmerizing work of art.

Beyond the ultimate shopping opportunity, FIAC awards the Marcel Duchamp prize of 35000€ to a promising young artist, hosts the Young Curators Invitational program and offers a series of art conferences throughout the event. You can imagine that all of this comes with a price and attending the FIAC does involve long lines for expensive tickets. But not for everything.

Free FIAC

Because some of the best parts of FIAC are free. The Nocturne des Galeries is tonight and you can visit open houses being hosted in the city’s galleries until 23h. Click here for a map of what is open and where.  Hors les Murs is a collection of monumental pieces on display in public gardens like the Tuileries and the Jardin des Plantes. Making this the perfect weekend to head out and see some art, rain or (please god) shine!

 

 

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