away winter

i need a nose protector

Véronique made “us” a tarte au citron (lemon tart) this past weekend, involving a thin, flat crust making a low-rimmed platter and a lot, and a lot of bright yellow lemon cream. In about two days I devoured all of it. Picture me, caveman-esque, posed over a giant tart. Yeah.

In return, I’ve decided to her bake her some of my infamous apple pie, although this time perhaps with a different crust recipe. We’ll see if this comes out right, since I don’t know how things work in Paris, they don’t have cups and measure everything by weight. Véronique, au contraire, does not have a weighing scale. I’m not promising pictures, but rather a small-scale disaster.

Regardless, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about how nice home-cooking is. I kind of like it. No fancy presentation, just tossing random stuff into a pot and having a hot meal. I did that a couple weeks ago with a curry-based soup I made, full of potatoes, carrots and leeks. I then boiled up some spaghetti, steeped it in the soup, cooked a couple of eggs ¾ done, and spent the rest of the afternoon quite satisfied.

Some afternoons I just have a load of fresh fruit, avocadoes with soya sauce, and tea.

Sometimes just a hot, fresh baguette with some slightly chilled cheese.

This cheese gets its own picture mainly because I have fallen absolutely in love with it. Wherever this cheese goes, I will follow. It’s particularly nice with a glass of wine.

And one night, we just had a tray of snacks and an aperatif in the house, with dried fruit, nuts, a strange French version of guacamole and curry-flavoured tortilla chips. And of course, classy alcohol.

Being a homebody isn’t that bad at all, particularly since it’s so cold out right now my nose gets a little frozen the moment I step out.

dates with my friends

Some of my favourite things to do in Paris aren’t the most touristy things, but just going out to cafés with lovely people and talking over a steaming drink.

Hot chocolate near Vaugirard with Delphine. The lady who owns the café laced the cup with melted chocolate and gave us jugs of steamed milk. We mixed the two to our own proportions.

One evening, I wanted to head to an Italian café for some strong Italian coffee. It was, tragically, closed, and as a result, Myra, Emma, Lara and I found the best accidental discovery.

A café, named Lady 138, filled with old armchairs and a charming waiter. We had the best tiramisu and chocolate mousse, and I had a café au lait with a nice layer of foam.

Other news:

Eating underground beneath l’Eglise de Madeleine, served delicious 3-course meals by homely nuns who would converse with us and lean into our space, asking questions about our food preferences. I had a strange starter with pickled mushrooms, but everything ameliorated rapidly after that. The main course was a side of lightly salted green beans with a serving of pasta, and two half-portions of roasted chicken and broiled fish, each in their own barbecue and cream sauce, which made for an excellent variety.

They also had the best brie I had ever tasted.

An enormous slice that had me stuffed.

And one night, just randomly, Myra got ahold of me and said, “Let’s go somewhere.”

Along the big, modern roads of the 7ème, we found a grand mosque whose doors opened into a garden, cosy as could be. And there, we drank hot mint tea and ate almond cakes, our very own midnight snack. We talked till midnight about art, her art, and why she likes art, and I talked about me not understanding art because I’m a moron.

What better way to end a day than with wonderful company and conversation?

the french macaron

My host mother bought a bunch of roses for Valentine’s Day and the house feels so much more chic than it should. I still love them, although their regality doesn’t really match my personality or my sloppiness, my socks off and my feet curled under me as I type away or read. The roses are certainly not as comfortable as the usual tulips are, but I’d like to think that all flowers are just as wonderful.

While so much has happened in the past couple of weeks, including much nom, I think I’m going to make a few small posts in lieu of an enormous, disorganised one.

Today, my post features the macaron.

Here is a chocolate ganache-y macaron with a tiny fruit centre and a crisp base.

At some point, I knew I had to spend my entire day’s allowance on a few paltry biscuits. I did it this time at Pierre Herme, a chain with a boutique by Pasteur, walking distance from where I live. What I loved about these macarons was the presentation. The gold leaf, the pink sugar crystals and of course the texture, the little bite of the crust sinking into an explosion of flavour.

I requested for a bunch of different flavours, from passionfruit to chocolate to an ambiguously creamy nutty variety. All were good, my favourite being the passionfruit, where biting through the delicate crust into a gel-like filling gave the macaron some oomph, a very welcome shock on a cold, cold winter day.

is hell full of endless guided tours in Bourgogne?

This past week, I was in Bourgogne (Burgundy), a region famous for its wine.

Rather than getting inappropriately tipsy off many bottles, however, I purchased some cider (which remains unopened), and got tipsy instead off happiness. Food-derived happiness.

Before I begin my food post proper, however, just a quick list on things to remember in Bourgogne:

• Many, many hours on a bus.
• Low and intimate conversations on said bus. Things I discovered: inhaling nitrous oxide (a second-hand experience) to homesickness (a first-hand one).
• Word games, sleeping on Jen’s and Kate’s laps.
• Group talks about everything in our hotel rooms at midnight, from exclusive cuddles (a standard by which I’m supposed to abide) to aerobic bodily operations.
• Bitching about the cold.
• Lovely architecture and the history, but that was absolutely secondary. My love for each place was determined rather by how warm and how cold each of our destinations was.

Regardless, the first night, we settled into a little restaurant, in a room the size of a cavern. Yellow lamps were lit low and there was a lot of obnoxious yelling, albeit about occasionally gripping subjects. I switched between the cavern and the open restaurant space a doorway away, where I shared a seat with Sarah and she fed me morsels of potato.

My dinner – a foie gras salad. It wasn’t as good as I had hoped it would be, the paté was a little too mushy and the flavour less foie gras than ambiguous blended meat. The salad proper, au contraire, was rather good.

Daylight passed quickly. In between clouds and momentary patches of sun, Tim and I found a fudge store.

Fudge, too expensive for poor students.

And a bakery.

Where everything was rather cheap.

A florentine. I never said I had any self-control.

While the raisins were slightly burnt, the rest of the florentine was crisp, the caramel clinging to my molars and the chocolate crust breaking off in giant chunks.

Now for the meals.

The first place we went to for a proper dinner came with four courses, not including:

A basket of fresh bread. While the first basket was a little old, baked possibly that morning, the next one they brought was fresh out of the oven. The inside was a drier texture, much like brioche, but the outside crusty as a baguette.

The starter, one of my favourite dishes of the weekend. Two delicately poached eggs, the insides just moist enough not to be fully boiled, coated in a minimal sauce, strong mushrooms, baby onions and a crisp tartine.

Bourguignon beef. I only ate about half of this, since I only eat my meats à point.

Some people thought this dessert was half-assed; I loved it. Sorbet with real frozen strawberry chunks on a bed of preserved fruit.

The next day, for lunch, we hit up another restaurant, where some surprises were in store. The restaurant itself was rather chic, with couples sitting around, looking alternately romantic and serious or a bit of both. I missed the appetisers, but got back in time for the

Cheese starter. Molten cheese in a puff pastry, with a tomato/salad side.

The main course,

A massive Andouille sausage. Few people dared to eat it, with reasons ranging from the smell to the phallic look of it. I, being a bit of a pig, finished the whole darn thing. It felt like a massive animal had crawled into my stomach approximately five minutes after, but in any case, I still had space for:

One of the best desserts, alternate layers of mousse and light sponge, chocolate sandwiching a very delicate mocha. At the very base was a crisp wafer which made my heart flutter with joy. Who needs vin when one has nom?

Although to be honest, I definitely did have my share of vin. Rage on!

“je t’aime très fort,” agnès said to her father.

The past week has been full of aerial views of Paris at sunset, from the George Pompidou to Montmartre. I allow myself a grace period being touristy, which of course results in photographs full of clichés.

A colourless sunset from the top floor of the Pompidou. This was just after having just sat through an intense video exhibition by Nan Goldin, entitled Heartbeat. Heartbeat was a series of photographs, where Goldin photographed pictures of lovers: lovers with their children, naked, having sex, kissing, and sometimes just holding one another. I loved looking at the different bodies, the butch, the voluptuous, the petite, the ugly. Somewhat surprisingly, the copious number of extremely hairy men didn’t detract from the exhibition’s beauty. I enjoyed the knowledge Goldin was giving us, a surprising insight into individual permutations of romance and intimacy, and that really put me at odds with my position as a voyeur, and the fact that I was outside this love and happiness. What a strange opposition. Somewhat masochistically, I’m going to sit and watch those string of images again.

A sunset from Montmartre, with Lara, Jen, Mark, André and Harley. I finally went into the cathedral, something I’d not done before, and stood awkwardly in the gift shop, running my fingers through metal pendants. That night, we went into numerous thrift stores, another trend of the past week.

Jen finding a hat.

And finally, food.

I’ve been spending quite a lot of time at a little café called Chez Marie-Madeleine, two steps from the Pompidou on rue St. Martin. To be honest, part of the charm is the grumpy old lady who runs the store, barely big enough to fit five people. Occasionally she flashes me a quick half-smile, which, in its rarity, is always surprising.

That’s her.

Coffee. They come in tiny cups with sugar cubes and a little jar of milk. I still can’t drink mine black, and this coffee isn’t fantastic anyway, so I fill my cup to the brim with milk and sip away.

A crazy apple tart of the day, which she made with crèpe skins, folded over and grilled to the consistency of a tart, with a generous spread of preserved apples on top. It wasn’t the best, but good and made better by how homey the place felt.

In other dessert news:

Brownies. Fantastically fudgey, from right by ISEP.

And my favourite drink, a café crème, in a bar that looks like an American diner run by an old man who smiles toothily and says, “Are you American?” when we bustled obnoxiously.

There’s also plenty of fresh food.

Where I learned that Emma liked looking at dead fish and where she was struck by a desire to buy an entire roasted chicken for lunch.

And one weekend dinner with Timmy.

At rue Cler, just by Ecole Militaire, a few stops from my place. The streets covered with a recent rain, the lights up, I think marking the last few memories of the past Christmas. That was the day I had to run home, having forgotten my umbrella. But that was all right. I was wearing my grey wool hat, which protected me well from the cold, and in my belly was Café Marché’s overrated but still delicious:

Confit de canard with roasted potatoes and a light salad. The potatoes were well done, just crisp enough on the outsides, while the lettuce providing a nice, refreshing contrast to the heavier meat and sauce. In the distance one can see the lamb leg with the tagiatelle that we got too. After the meal, I wanted to curl up and die from a meat overload, but for what it was worth, I was quite a happy child.

backlog and a first week of food and pretty things

A quick recap: I hauled ass to Paris after a long, long flight, saved only by:

A chocolate cupcake and water.

I spent a night in the Hyatt, where they had:

Amazing crabcake burgers. Crabmeat coated in breadcrumbs and lightly fried, white bread patties covered in oats, fresh lettuce, tomatoes, a generous pickle, and a side of fries with a ketchup and bacon mayonnaise dip.

Since then, however, I have been eating many an amazing thing. The second day, Agnès held in Véronique’s lap, we had galette des rois, an almond-based pie with ground almonds and a flakey crust. In it are fèves, pieces of porcelain, one fève per galette. The person who gets one in their slice of galette is the queen.

I got one in the first slice I cut into, and I nearly chipped a tooth.

This was followed by many days of galette des rois.

I will probably never willingly eat a galette des rois again.

In between the galettes, there were some beautiful days.

Walking on my own in Jardin Luxembourg, the sunlight pale, the snow bright. Snow melting the next few days made for mud and slush, but nothing really eclipses its beauty, which is an underrated, non-Enya related kind of ethereal.

By the Jardin, I eat great sandwiches and desserts.

Curry chicken sandwich with poppyseed and fresh vegetables.

Flan pistache.

I also went to Sceaux:

Juste à côte de la gare.

A sunset devant le Sacré-Cœur.

The requisite Eiffel Tower.

But more interestingly, while I have yet to really come into contact with the French this time around, it’s nice to know that they’re about as weird as I’d like them to be.

The French, obsessed with pregnancy. And to top off a wonderful first week in Paris, I made some almond blondies.

first real day

Agnès is asleep by half past eight. I’m constantly cold and have my arms scrunched into the body of my sweater which is green and fuzzy and always I seem to eat too much, which involves long walks after dinner, and freezing in the slushy snow with leg warmers up to my thighs.

Today I walked the Jardin Luxembourg, which was white as sheet with snow save for the footprints, brown dots on the path. Everything was frosted over and I was by myself, traipsing around among Nike-clad joggers zooming past. I didn’t really need company; my head frozen a little from the cold and I didn’t have much to say.

I walked even more in the evening from Assemblée Nationale to Tour d’Eiffel, where André and I watched the tower sparkle at midnight. We talked about his sassy life, and we talked about one of my tragic love stories. By thirty past midnight, Mark, Timmy and Paolo were beneath the tower, double fisting bottles of wine.

I finally got home. It is still cold. I’m slowly growing to love this city again, however commercialised and overdone this evening’s image has been. Now if only Parisians were into cuddling.

I don’t know why the Hyatt plays 90’s pop in the lounge

But these fifty year old businessmen sure are liking it.

I’m currently in Washington D.C. waiting for my flight out to Paris. Meanwhile, have some photographs of where I’ve been in the past few months.

*

Owens Valley

Hiking up an ancient bristlecone forest older than Jesus, obsidian littered along the slopes and glittering in the sun.

Desert brushland, middle of nowhere.

I love rocks.

A phD student named Hari, whose parents named him when they were doing yoga.

*

San Mateo

Cole drove me to the top of a hill, where down below lay a big stretch of suburbia and in the distance, some kind of city, possibly San Francisco.

*

Tuba City

Flea market on a Friday, where I ate fry bread, tortilla, filled with mutton and corn and peppers and potato, met three boy friends of Chris’s, all named Lance.

Riding an old mare bareback as her little baby gnawed at my boot. It was nearly sundown on a weekday afternoon.

I still love rocks.

Doing yoga on a sand dune, after having tobaggoned down the other side, screaming in glee before bouncing out of my sled and hurting my bum on a rock.

Sunset at Coal Mine Canyon.

*

Phoenix

And another sunset, for good measure.

Stay tuned for more food and happiness in Paris.

a reminder

“When I’m in the plastic “erotic” world of high, hard tits and long nails and incessant pole dancing - whether I’m at a CAKE party, walking past a billboard of Jenna Jameson in Times Square, or dodging pillows at the Maxim Hot 100 - I don’t feel titillated or liberated or aroused. I feel bored, and kind of tense.

In defense of CAKE parties, Gallagher told a reporter from Elle magazine, “you try getting 800 people to behave in a feminist way!” To be sure, that’s no small project. But we have to wonder how displaying hot chicks onstage in exactly the same kind of miniature outfits they’ve always been in moves things in the right direction. If CAKE is promoting female sexual culture, I can’t believe there aren’t other ways to excite women. I even believe there are other ways to excite men.”

- p80-81, Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture by Ariel Levy