joyeux noel.

another dining option in paris

A high-end restaurant will be opening this weekend on the second story–a treat for anyone who has ever longed to have a delectable French dining experience with the city of Paris providing the romantic table lighting.

From the AFP article:

But what the diners might like to know is that the kitchen — ovens, sinks and all — had to be squeezed up a tiny service lift in bits and then welded together again…

To begin with, the old Jules Verne had to be picked apart and every piece weighed before being carted down the four-metre-square (43 square feet) service lift clattering up and down the iron-laced tower.

“They were not allowed to add any weight to the existing structure in order to safeguard it,” said an official for the monument’s managers, the SETE. “They had to take into account the weight of partition walls, the fake ceilings, the chairs, the carpet, everything.”

Then the new bits and pieces too had to be weighed and sized up before being squeezed into the tiny service lift, sometimes in bits, and put back together again like Lego toys.

“Ducasse’s restaurant finally turned out to be even lighter, weighing in at 40 kilos (88 pounds) less,” said the official, who asked not to be named.

Then to save kitchen space, some of the total 47 cooks working for the new restaurant were relegated to a large underground centre built in 1908 and located right under the gardens that surround the historical monument.

my first time

The talk of the smoking ban has me feeling a touch nostalgic for my first trip to Paris.

I had never been on a plane before. Funk Family Vacations were car-only affairs. And here I was, seventeen, passport in hand, and headed to Paris.

First flight. First passport. My first time.

It was a 10-day trip intended to be educational. We would spend five days in Paris living with a family, immersing ourselves in French culture and acting as mini ambassadors of American culture (i.e., How much did I love the NBA? What is going to happen in upcoming seasons of Days of Our Lives? What do you mean the Mississippi River and the Appalachian Mountains are nowhere near one another geographically?) and five days with our American class, bouncing through the Loire River Valley, admiring (at times defacing) chateaux and cathedrals, drinking wine, and getting lost in previously unknown French towns.

The days spent with my class are a bit of a blur. A collection of snapshots in my mind. Snap! The bus passing the Arc de Triomphe and my heart skipping a beat as I realized for the first time that I Was There. Snap! Being lost in Blois. Snap! Keying my name on to a chateau in an act of uncharacteristic rebellion, subconciously trying to leave a bit of myself in the country. And snap! My classmates smoking Cuban cigars in the street and drinking wine in the hotel room in Tours.

It was in the home and cafes that I made my true memories–memories with developed plots and characters and dialogue. How well I can recall that first meal. I had never eaten a meal consisting of more than two courses before. How was I to know that the bread and salad would be followed by spaghetti which would be followed by beef and chicken which would be followed by cheese (yes! an entire course of cheese!!) which would be followed by dessert and a glass of wine. It was a Sunday at lunch in France. The meal took two hours to eat. I was jet lagged and overwhelmed and full after the spaghetti.

My host was a high school student named Melanie, a young woman whose English was luckily far better than my French. She was my window to French culture. She took me to the market and the Champs Elysee and the Louvre. She introduced me to LU cookies, which I still buy just to remember those few days. I attended classes with her. Classes that took smoke breaks–a necessity for students and teachers alike. And classes that operated on a schedule similar to that of American colleges, permitting students to leave the campus for long stretches and spend their afternoons in cafes, mixing coffee and cigarettes between classes.

I should mention that it was my first coffee, too.

And my first coffee was followed by a endless stream of them. I think the caffeine was the only way I survived the jet-lag and French language induced exhaustion that seemed to follow me around. I quickly discovered that the cafe was the only natural way to begin and/or end any event during the course of the day.

I only took a few pictures on this first trip. I spent most of my time overwhelmed, self-conscious of my awkward teenage appearance in a country of beauty and elegance, and in awe of my surroundings. But those hours passed at the dinner table and in cafes simply enjoying food and drink and fellowship were more than snapshots–in my mind or on a 4 x 6 card. No matter how many times I go back, those first few days in Paris will forever stand in my mind as a lesson in the foundation of French culture. Here’s hoping that no number of bans ever change that completely.

will wonders (or smoking) never cease

 

When in Paris this past August, the aspect of the culture that most fascinated my boyfriend is that of the cafe. Along the sidewalks, tiny tables large enough to hold a coffee mug and an ashtray are surrounded by chairs upon chairs, all looking out to the sidewalk, the street, the city. To be in Paris is to watch Paris and watching Paris is best done with a cigarette in one hand and un cafe in the other. Just ask Hemingway or Sartre or Bouvoir.

Or better yet, ask them what they think of the smoking ban that will go into effect on January 1. In a year that has had the world speculating about the downfall of French culture, this seems a bit like adding insult to injury. This ban most recently prompted The International Herald Tribune to run an article titled: “Will the smoking ban in France mean the end of cafe society?” Do we really want to imagine a Paris that isn’t passing the days watching itself from a cafe table?

Nevertheless, the ban is supported by a majority of the French people and it perhaps demonstrates a France looking for a more modern, cleaner image. But that doesn’t keep me from longing to buy a pack of cigarettes and duck into my local coffee shop and drink and smoke to the end of an era… but wait, we have a smoking ban, too…

of interest

• This op-ed flew under my radar last week: Postpartum Impression. An interesting look at health care in France after childbirth. It’s worth reading if only because how often do you hear someone say, “The French bureaucracy isn’t so bad either.”
• Posted today on ParisDailyPhoto: 

“Advertisers love Paris, but Paris doesn’t like them… Today, the Paris council decided to reduce by 1/3 the amount of advertising space in the city. This will impact not only the space in general but also the size of posters. Thus the 1,000+ 4 x 3 meters (13 x 10 feet) billboards will soon be banned and so will the 6,000 smaller ones that are on display in the windows of shopkeepers and cafés. It will also be forbidden to advertise within 50 meters (164 feet) of a school, on the embankment, in Montmartre, etc. Needless to say that this measure is pretty controversial…”

• The Kitch[e]n is offering a new look for an old French tradition–Bûche de Noël (Yule log) softie:

“Bûche de Noël is a traditional French dessert served during Christmas holidays. It is usually decorated like a log in the forest and ready for the fire. They are usually made from sponge cake and frosted with chocolate buttercream and decorated with sugar, meringue, and marzipan to resemble snow, tree bark, fresh berries, and forest mushrooms.” (The link also includes recipe recommendations for the more ambitious kitchen folks.)

• Another brick crumbles from the wall of the great French tradition that is Not Working. According to the Wall Street Journal, “France is moving a step closer to allowing shopping on Sundays, with Parliament within the week expected to take up a measure that would permit all furniture stores to stay open on the country’s traditional day of rest.”

south of paris

According to The New York Times, the immigrant situation in Marseille is far better than the unrest that so frequently emerges in the form of riots in Paris. What’s keeping the peace? Rap, says the article.

And thanks to the power of multimedia, you can also check out some French rap for yourself–”The Sounds of Marseille.”

gossip, gossip

Apologies in advance. I usually prefer to stick to the quirky or charming stories out of Paris and ignore the more gossip-y tales, but even I can’t ignore this morning’s chatter about Sarkozy and Carla Bruni on a date.

Carla Bruni! I bought her album Quelqu’un m’a dit at the Virgin store on the Champs-Elysees in 2003 and still consider it one of the finest unresearched purchases I’ve ever made. I’ve never taken it off my iPod (Note: it’s a good idea to have at least one artist willing to serenade you in French on call at all times). It’s that lovely. I can’t say I blame the French president one bit.

But… I feel as if Sarkozy is a step down from Clapton. Someone better strike a deal with her to write her memoirs soon.

un autre plan (another map)

Another way of looking at Paris neighborhoods…

viva la french culture

2007 Golden Globe Nominees

• Best Performance by an Actress, Comedy or Musical: Marion Cotillard, La Vie en Rose
• Best Foreign Language Film: Persepolis and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
• Best Animated Feature: Ratatouille (American film, but a moral victory for French culture)

craving

I just got hit with a strong craving for a Napolean. What can I say? I’m female. These moments happen and are most often inexplicable. Anyway, I thought it might be fun to put together a post about this lovely pastry as I don’t have one handy to snack on at the moment.

I’ve had the pleasure of eating both American-made and French-made Napoleans. And I feel the first thing I should point out (which my French teacher failed to point out to me) is that the French do not call them Napoleans. In Paris, struck with this craving, I would want to order a mille-feuille (literally, a thousand sheets). If you ask for a Napolean, you may very well get a funny look. Believe me. I know. Then again, that could also just be my classically poor accent.

A bit of an etymology lesson straight from the Wiki Wizards:

The name appears to come from napolitain, the French adjective for the Italian city of Naples, but altered by association with the name of Emperor Napolean I of France. There is no evidence to connect the pastry to the emperor himself.

In France, a Napoléon is a kind of mille-feuille filled with almond paste.

Turns out, in actuality, the standard chocolate/vanilla Napoleans that always leap into my mind are only the tip of the iceberg. On NPR, Clotilde of Chocolate & Zucchini shared her recipe for artichoke and goat cheese mille-feuille. If you’re like me and prefer your French food in pastry form and want to test out your French culinary skills, the closest recipe I could find using American measurements was at allrecipes.com for French Vanilla Slices. You know, in case you need a challenge other than another batch of Christmas cookies.

If store-bought is more your speed, in DC, you can find them (among other places, no doubt) at the bakery in Eastern Market. They are currently all rockin’ some green icing in a rather festive manner.