25 November 2013
Even though I spend most of my time writing about French architecture, there are other things for which France is infamous, and not always in a bad way. One of these wonderful high points of la culture française is la nourriture (food). France is known worldwide for its food, and I kid you not when I say that it is actually difficult to find a bad meal in France. It’s all so good. (It’s also expensive… but usually worth it.) Looking just at my meals between Thursday and Sunday, I had some fairly diverse foods and pretty awesome meals. Let’s discuss.
On Thursday evening I attended an event that celebrated authentic Italian food, being the invited guest of Ann Lawson. Although neither of us is exactly sure what it was, her boss forwarded on to her an email about a “Pop Up Marché” that would feature Italian food and we decided it looked intriguing. In typical American fashion, we showed up at this large, completely inconspicuous, building à l’heure (on time) only to look in the windows and notice that there was nobody there. Because we didn’t want to be those people (you know, the hungry Americans who arrive early, eat lots, and then leave late), we decided to take a little jaunt around the neighborhood. 15 minutes later we found ourselves back at our starting point only to find that there weren’t many more people inside. Well we turned around and took a walk in the opposite direction.
This time as we were walking Ann Lawson started recognizing certain buildings because we were headed in the direction of the school in which she studied in 2012 (she studied with me at Trinity in 2011 but came back in 2012). She (stupidly) mentioned that she didn’t like this particular area because of the abundance of prostitutes and all of a sudden I was on red alert: prostitutes? They're one of my favorite species and she HAD to show them to me. We had hardly even walked across the street before I started seeing them. As far as the eye could see were Asian prostitutes (we were pretty close to Paris’s Chinatown area). For blocks and blocks we walked, passing dozens - maybe even hundreds - of prostitutes. I was fascinated by it all. There they were, just hanging around, and there was NO question what they were doing. Unfortunately, from what we could tell, not many of them were having success.
After our walk to see the working women we both agreed that we were getting hungry and we briefly discussed abandoning the Italian food evening in favor of going into the one of the area brasseries to grab a bite and to celebrate the arrival of the Beaujolais Nouveau (a really terrible wine that is released only 6-8 weeks after the grapes are harvested on a specific day all over the country). Since neither of us likes Beaujolais we decided to try once more to attempt our Italian Dinner.
Well we arrived and noticed that there still wasn’t a huge crowd, but there were many more people inside, and we also saw a woman handing out tall glasses of of some sort of bubbly beverage just inside the door. Well all we had to do was see the champagne flutes to be convinced that we needed to go in and no sooner had we hung our jackets on the coat rack were we passed a small plastic bag of grapes and cheese, a champagne flute of prosecco, and a small pamphlet in French and Italian about what we were going to eat.
While we enjoyed our grapes and really superb Parmigiano-Reggianno we skimmed through the booklet and learned that we were basically attending a tasting of typical Italian foods presented by true Italian artisans and each food was paired with an Italian wine. This was only getting better.
Following our cheese, grape and prosecco appetizer we looked around the room at our other options. Since we couldn’t really tell from a distance what we being served, we went to the next best means of deduction: go to the table with the shortest line. It ended up being a meal that, as I write it, sounds disgusting… but in real life it was delicious: on slices of some sort of homemade bread, heartily slathered in butter (and not that silly unsalted butter), were delicately placed two healthy sized anchovies.
Unfortunately, we felt awkward asking for the accompanying white wine since one of us (and it wasn’t me) hadn’t quite finished her prosecco and since the other wasn’t sure where to dispose of the empty (plastic) champagne flute. Note to self: this was probably the only time in my life when I haven’t jumped at the opportunity for free wine. Fear not, I can promise you it will not happen again.
After our anchovy and butter sandwich (which was actually delicious) we considered our next option. Once again the rule of the crowd came determined our next move and we went over to the side of the room where they were serving some sort of pork, again on bread, with a sweet and sour red sauce. Oh, and a very nice red wine. Pork is not my favorite type of meat, but this was pretty good and the sweet and sour sauce was truly interesting.
Having plowed through this course it was back to searching for more food (we are Americans, after all). Since there was only one area that we had yet to visit, we headed in that direction. Just as before, this kiosk had a fair number of people around it, and as we got closer we realized that there was quite a lot going on. At one end was a man making little pizzas with spinach, veggies, or sausage as well as little tiny bread things. At the other end was a man working very hard in a big wooden tub of very hot water. As he emptied out some of the water to get ready to refill it with even hotter water we realized what was going on.
At the bottom of the wooden tub was the most enormous blob of mozzarella cheese I’d ever seen! It was huge! Before long he added boiling hot water to the tub and went to town working the mozzarella to make sure it was well congealed and malleable. This was done with a giant wooden spatula that sort of looked like a canoe paddle and with his hands. Once the cheese was at the perfect consistency he started divvying it up and tying it into knots or making shapes with it. The most impressive one I saw was when he made a giant pacifying out of mozzarella, but as the cheese lost its shape the work itself was gone and you were left with a white blob.
Even though I love cheese, I’m not usually a huge fan of mozzarella. Well we both agreed that this stuff was the bee’s knees and we went back for seconds (luckily we watched other groups doing the same, so we didn’t feel as American as we might have). It was delicious and we decided to go refill our wine glasses, grab some more anchovies, and partake of a bit more cheese.
The masses.
Just when we were beginning to feel like whales we came to the ugly realization that there were dessert chocolates. And worse yet, the dessert was placed next to the prosecco table. Well you can figure out what happened next. Let’s just say we had a great time at the Italian gathering in France and definitely enjoyed the ambiance and food!
The next day, Friday, is one of my favorite days of the week. I’m sure it the preferred day of many people, but for me it has nothing to do with working. (You’d have to actually have a job to care about the end of the work week, after all…) For me Friday is one of my favorite days because it’s market day in my neighborhood. Twice a week (Tuesday and Friday) the marchands (merchats) set up shop beneath these lean-to like structures and sell their products and it’s always a blast to go and see what’s being offered. Oh and to buy, of course.
When I’m able, I love to go to the market with Alexis, my host brother, who knows EVERYBODY there. It’s like walking around with the ambassador himself! Since he works part time, he only gets to go to the market once a week, but even when he works and is rushing to get on the bus he always makes sure to stop by and say hello to all of his friends. The merchants are all incredibly nice to him and play with him, talking about the always elusive attractive woman who came by asking after him the other day or asking how his work is going. It’s so nice to see another side of the French (and especially the Parisians, who can be a little, mhm… cold, from time to time). With Alexis driving the pousette (the little cart that holds the day’s purchases) and carrying the money, and me in charge of the list, we take on the market like Grant took on Richmond.
On this particular Friday we had to stop at the fish dealer to buy some fish for dinner that night. Alexis greeted everybody and in turn, one by one, all of the people behind the counter came over to shake his hand to to say bonjour to him. Of course as they came over they all politely greeted me as well, but it was clear who the true guest of honor was. Not me. Although it’s not always easy to get photos without seeming like a tacky tourist, I did manage to get a few of the market and I think it’s impressive to show them because it really is a completely different way of shopping than what we do in the US.
At the poissonière (the fish dealer) you explain what you’d like for fish, how you’d like to cook it (or in some cases you ask how it is cooked), and explain how many people you’re feeding. After that the man or woman behind the counter goes to work picking out the fish which is laying uncovered on ice, poking it to see which one feels best, and then cutting it up and de-boning it. It’s done with the utmost efficiency because there is usually quite a line and obviously each client has a fair amount of shopping to do.
After the fish is taken care of we walked across the street to the fruit man, who also sells some vegetables, but the more extensive veggie stand is the very last one in the market. There we bought a ton of apples (Alexis loves apple sauce) and other fruits. At the fruit stand you can touch and poke the fruits, smell them if you like, but at the end it’s always the man behind the counter who picks them up and puts them in the bag for you. It seems to me, and maybe it’s just my luck, that I always have the same man attend to my needs at the fruit stand, and he’s wonderful. He tells me which apples will combine to make a better compote (sauce) with the best flavors. Of course while I’m dealing with the merchant himself, Alexis is socializing with the other fruit vendors, discussing what’s new in his life or asking about where the lady is who is missing that particular day. This is all well and good until I realize that he’s off at the far end of the fruit stand chatting away with the money while I have nothing in my pockets with which to pay!
From there we walk to the very end of the market, which is L shaped, to the vegetable dealer. It’s important to mention that there are multiple fish dealers, and veggie stands, and fruit stands, and so forth, but each family has their specific dealers to whom they are loyal. I would never think of going to another fruit stand. Likewise, I wouldn’t think of changing veggie vendors. The vegetable stand is interesting to me because there are so many strange vegetables, often heirloom varieties, that I’ve never seen and because it forces me to learn new vocabulary words. For example, on my list was written “2 bottes carottes.” I had no idea was a botte was before that day and apparently that is the French word for the clumps in which carrots are shipped. Who knew! At the vegetable stand, which is HUGE, you take a pannier (a green plastic basket) and walk around and gather all the things you want. Or, if you don’t want to do that, you can wait your turn and direct the person who serves you to fetch what you’d like. Usually I gather the things that I can access easily and then get in line. By the time it’s my turn to have my veggies weighed I’ve found a few other things I need or want, and mention them, as well as the vegetables that I couldn’t get on my own, and they are obtained for me. Then everything is weighed, and I pay.
The colorful carrot collection
From there it’s off to the olive man, who also sells the best pesto ever. I didn’t get a photo about him and his products, but he might be the topic of his own blog another day, so we won’t talk about that today.
After the olive man it’s the bûcher, the butcher, to get some meats. In addition to selling meats (including tripe, tongue, and other strange inedibles) he sells homemade pâtés and other French foods of a meat base that I’ve never eaten. I normally stick the tried and true things: cured sausage for my sandwiches and ham, freshly sliced from the bone, for Alexis. While the butcher is slicing the ham I have a chance to look around at the people and the pre-made meat dishes, some of which really don’t look appetizing (I guess looks can be deceiving, right?).
Sometimes little kids decided that the walkway at the market is a great place to ride their bikes and scooters.
After the butcher it’s the last, and my favorite, stop at the market. Alexis and I have already gotten the fish, the meat, the veggies, the olives, the pesto, and the fruits. What remains in a well-balanced French diet? Cheese of course. I love the fromage stand. Sure it smells a little funky, but it’s as close to heaven as I’ve ever been (except for that one time I was in a 15th century chai full of wine in Bordeaux). Which brie do I want? Do I need some St. Nectaire in my life? What was it my host mother said she wanted for cheese? Is there enough chèvre at home? Does Alexis have enough of his fromage blanc (a nasty tasting substance that can only be compared to sour yogurt)? Is there a new cheese today that looks tempting. I could easily spend 20 minutes at the cheese stand, but instead I only my old standbys before heading home, stopping on the way to take a picture of the pousette with the Eiffel Tower in the background.
That evening I had been invited to a dinner at Cécile and Thierry’s house, to meet friends of theirs who own a gallery near where I went to school. Specializing in furniture of the 40s-60s, they were very interesting people, and I had to laugh when Thierry brought up a television show that he had recently seen about a guy in America who restores old stuff. Before long I figured out what he was talking about: American Restoration with Rick Dale, which - I think - is on the History Channel at home. Apparently it’s relatively new in France. On a side note, France doesn’t get the newest versions of American shows. I ran across Pimp my Ride the other day on TV and I’m sure that’s been off the air for years in the US. Likewise Celebrity Cribs… But here’s they’re still popular here.
Before I get much further, however, I think I should mention the protocol of French dinner parties. I’ve probably mentioned before that dinner in France happens fairly late: NEVER before 8pm, and for dinner parties even later! Cécile told me to show up at 8:30 which, in French terms, means after 8:30. And by after I don’t mean 8:34. I arrived only a few minutes after the first guest at 8:44 and the third, and final guest, arrived around 9:15. That was perfectly fine, however, because we were sitting in the salon sipping our champagne and eating our little raw salmon appetizers (raw salmon is sort of a big thing here right now, I think because I keep seeing it on menus around Paris). A little after 10 we went to the dining room for dinner, and we stayed at the table until sometime after midnight. For dinner Cécile prepared a sauté de veau (veal cooked very slowly in a big iron pot with veggies), carrots (Willie loveeessss carrots), and rice with cèpes (wild mushrooms) mixed it. Delicious! Dessert was, of course, cheese followed by a delicious chocolate tarte with little flakes of gold on top.
The drink selection with dinner. Some of France's finest liquids.
Starting at the bottom and working clockwise: a brebis cheese (sheep's milk), a bleu de chèvre, Camembert, chèvre, Brillat Savarin
Dessert
Eden enjoys coffee after dinner in the salon. At 12:45am....
The best part about eating at Cécile and Theirry’s house, as far as this American is concerned, is the view. She looks directly at the Eiffel Tower and when the tower sparkles the inside of her apartment sparkles as well. Oh how terrible it must be to have to live in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower! Not!
Midnight sparkles from the dining room window. (I had to get up and excuse myself from the cheese course to take this picture. How tacky of me!)
It was a wonderful evening and, when I left the apartment shortly before 1 am after coffee (French dinners alway end with coffee and conversation in the salon) to go home I decided to take a slightly longer route by way of the Champs de Mars so I could walk beneath the Eiffel Tower and see the lights sparkle for the last time of the night at 1am. Sometimes my life really is amazing.
On both Saturday and Sunday Ann Lawson and I went to museums (future blog posts, of course) but, in order to fortify ourselves for a day of intense French culture we had to have lunch before hand.
On Saturday we went to a nice little café in the 8th, near the Parc Monceau, called the Grand Café de la Poste where we both ordered Norvegiens, Eggs Benedict with Smoked Salmon top. Anybody who followed my summer adventures will know that my friend Arthur and I spent a fair amount of time (and money) at Café This Way in Bar Harbor eating Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon. This was very similar… except different. The only difference was the hollandaise sauce, to which had been added ketchup, balsamic, and an herb, which made it both darker and sweeter. It was interesting. Not exactly bad, but interesting. I wish they had stuck with the traditional hollandaise so that I could make an accurate comparison with Café This Way.
On Sunday we went to a café at Place St. Augustin, appropriately called the St. Augustin for that timeless French classic, the Croque Madame: a grilled cheese with ham, covered in toasted cheese and a fried egg. Seriously, how can you go wrong? With meals such as these, by the time you've finished your lunch and the dessert coffee, you’re not only fully fueled, but well caffeinated for a day of culturing.
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