Three months in Paris does not make you an expert on the French. Even I am not that presumptuous. But I have tried to learn, to experience, and to understand that most mobile of behaviours: the French psyche. If I have succeeded, only you could say. Perhaps I have, if my friends (and exchangers) Michele and Henri are right. They have been the only available windows into the people here. It is to Henri perhaps, that I will owe a debt of gratitude. He believes my “letters” are well-written and worthy. He thinks they could be published by one of the Paris newspapers, since they are always looking for an outsider’s view. We’ll see.
Meanwhile. The stay goes on. Disappointments I have written about already – failure to “connect” with a local, and failure to improve (beyond marginally) my ability to understand the spoken word delivered at high speed, (My own spoken word has improved quite considerably.
Yesterday at lunch, a small eureka (!) a tiny ray of insight: our waiter spoke to us in perfect English. I have a response. I always say (in French) “When I visit here I want to speak only French. I can speak English every day at home.” It brings a smile and a shrug, sometimes almost patronizing. Except yesterday. If I had been listening more closely it wouldn’t have happened quite the way it did. The waiter slipped back into French. I asked him where he learned English. He lapsed back into a Dublin accent that I should have caught earlier. He has lived here for fifteen years and is quite obviously, more than an ex-pat, he is a Parisian. That seems to happen to people who move here. I am always reminded of another more famous Irishman, Samuel Becket who wrote “Waiting for Godot.” He preferred writing in French. Living in this country includes a kind of contagion. You so enjoy so much, from food to museums to how they exhibit sang-froid when crossing the road in traffic, that you want to join the fun. Would I rather be French? I don’t think so. But if I were to be truly accepted into this society, I could not maintain a kind of back-home anxiety. Which brings me to a subject I thought I should not discuss.
It is perhaps universal that certain kinds of immigrants have come to the country only for opportunity. We have it in Canada. They have it big time in France. There are millions here who not only do not assimilate into the culture that attracted them in the first place, but they include some very adamant people who rebel and deliberately stand outside French society, even to the extent that they want their own laws supercede French law. It is fine with me that they bring their cultures and habits, but that approval ends when they disrupt the society they so eagerly wanted into. (Am I making sense yet?) I have always been a supporter of multiculturalism, because it enriches the country; because it does not marginalize newcomers by being welcoming and being tolerant and understanding of their differences in style, language, and culture. The true multiculturalist can stand easily in two worlds. It should never be “either – or.”
But it should never be clinging to home country customs to the exclusion of the customs of their adopted country. When that country gives shelter and sustenance to newcomers, it should be rewarded with some kind of allegiance.
Sadly, France has been saddled with more than enough malcontents to go around. There are some who would say that in spite of their acceptance of strangers, the French will always b e xenophobic to some extent. That mistrust of strangers is heightened by reality: many are intractable nationalists who have brought unrelenting national and religious animosities into the culture they have chosen. They may never be French. Of course, the same could be said of that type of immigrant in many countries. Look what groups of them have done in Denmark, in Holland and in North America, where police continue to uncover conspiracy cells.
This is perhaps more political than I wanted to be. But it was the smiling Irishman who made it real. He is unashamedly Irish, and I think, very French. That just can’t happen in three months. I can only stand outside and look in and wonder.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
LETTERS FROM PARIS #40 Discovery
“America is my country. Paris is my hometown.” It might be a bit presumptuous; but Getrude Stein, who said that, put Paris on the map. She made it, more than any other writer, the place to be. Of course, Paris for centuries had been the centre of arts and culture. But it was Stein, who was born in the 1870s who helped transform it to a Mecca for the likes of Hemingway and Wilder. She “discovered” Matisse and Picasso. She created a world of art and culture and she was the centre of that world. Perhaps better than anyone, she would seem to reflect my own Francophilia; of course I have had no effect on Paris. I am of course, no Gertrude Stein.
That may be the way I thought of Paris until – until I visited the Musee Chagall on a hill overlooking Nice. First there is the art. I confess that the power of it brought tears to my eyes. The power and shock of his primary colours, the creatures of myth, the Chagall people and animals floating on air, and the breathtaking sense of reality, mythology, and religious folklore in his work. There is one room dedicated to Biblical stories, from Moses receiving the Ten Commandments to Jacob’s Ladder and the sacrifice of Abraham. Wait – I’m getting to it.
My own Epiphany was quick and easy as easy as standing in front of a Chagall masterpiece and actually gasping. I’m not being melodramatic! I have struggled with my own sense of what Paris means to me, and how the French people seem to have infiltrated my brain, and then I encountered the man who called himself a “citizen of the world” – Chagall. Born in Vitebsk, Russia, his career flourished in that country, both before and after the revolution. He went to Paris, which at the time was where every artist went, and had yet another career. From there to America where he worked with distinction, then back to France where he finished his work and his life in 1985 at the age of 97, working almost to the end.
He said the he would not like to be like the others. He wanted to discover new worlds.
So perhaps I too, taking my cue from Chagall, will realize, not that I am a “citizen of the world” that would be too lofty for me, but that the qualities I ascribe to the French and to Paris exist in many other places.
Maybe what I am in search of, and this is getting far too adolescent (I am starting to sound like Sylvia Plath) is a reason to love Paris and its people and history. The revelation may be that what I find in Paris is not unique to Paris. It was for Gertrude Stein, but not for Chagall. It is simply that Paris personifies the passion for culture and the arts. But the truth is that I am at home wherever there is that passion; wherever people love the art and their artists; where people can disagree with passion and agree with love; where the government of the country so respects the Arts that it encourages, endows, and supports them. Why do artists come to Paris? Why perhaps equally do they throng to New York, where culture abounds and the federal government is indifferent?
Perhaps any city that pays to keep its museums and galleries, its concert halls and orchestras alive and running is my kind of place. It’s why I love – surprise – Cleveland.
And finally, it is what I would like my own city to be: a Mecca for all that. The fact is that we already support our culture, native or imported, theatrical or musical. I just want more. It’s a kind of greed I suppose. It’s a greed that is satisfied by three months in Paris.
Yesterday in Nice we bought a piece of art glass. Today we will travel to Saint Paul de Vence, and who knows? They have a lot of glass artists there.
Then I think: we have collected wonderful pieces in our own Beaver Valley, in Wellington Prince Edward County and in Elora. Our artists work – they sometimes thrive. It’s Paris all over again and I am perhaps running in dizzy circles.
Welcome home.
That may be the way I thought of Paris until – until I visited the Musee Chagall on a hill overlooking Nice. First there is the art. I confess that the power of it brought tears to my eyes. The power and shock of his primary colours, the creatures of myth, the Chagall people and animals floating on air, and the breathtaking sense of reality, mythology, and religious folklore in his work. There is one room dedicated to Biblical stories, from Moses receiving the Ten Commandments to Jacob’s Ladder and the sacrifice of Abraham. Wait – I’m getting to it.
My own Epiphany was quick and easy as easy as standing in front of a Chagall masterpiece and actually gasping. I’m not being melodramatic! I have struggled with my own sense of what Paris means to me, and how the French people seem to have infiltrated my brain, and then I encountered the man who called himself a “citizen of the world” – Chagall. Born in Vitebsk, Russia, his career flourished in that country, both before and after the revolution. He went to Paris, which at the time was where every artist went, and had yet another career. From there to America where he worked with distinction, then back to France where he finished his work and his life in 1985 at the age of 97, working almost to the end.
He said the he would not like to be like the others. He wanted to discover new worlds.
So perhaps I too, taking my cue from Chagall, will realize, not that I am a “citizen of the world” that would be too lofty for me, but that the qualities I ascribe to the French and to Paris exist in many other places.
Maybe what I am in search of, and this is getting far too adolescent (I am starting to sound like Sylvia Plath) is a reason to love Paris and its people and history. The revelation may be that what I find in Paris is not unique to Paris. It was for Gertrude Stein, but not for Chagall. It is simply that Paris personifies the passion for culture and the arts. But the truth is that I am at home wherever there is that passion; wherever people love the art and their artists; where people can disagree with passion and agree with love; where the government of the country so respects the Arts that it encourages, endows, and supports them. Why do artists come to Paris? Why perhaps equally do they throng to New York, where culture abounds and the federal government is indifferent?
Perhaps any city that pays to keep its museums and galleries, its concert halls and orchestras alive and running is my kind of place. It’s why I love – surprise – Cleveland.
And finally, it is what I would like my own city to be: a Mecca for all that. The fact is that we already support our culture, native or imported, theatrical or musical. I just want more. It’s a kind of greed I suppose. It’s a greed that is satisfied by three months in Paris.
Yesterday in Nice we bought a piece of art glass. Today we will travel to Saint Paul de Vence, and who knows? They have a lot of glass artists there.
Then I think: we have collected wonderful pieces in our own Beaver Valley, in Wellington Prince Edward County and in Elora. Our artists work – they sometimes thrive. It’s Paris all over again and I am perhaps running in dizzy circles.
Welcome home.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
POST SCRIPT TO #39
Apologies to all readers. My wife said I should never send something out in the middle of the night. Rereading it in the light of day there are some glaring misprints and an even worse error: of course, and I know it, the Lone Ranger theme is from William Tell.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #39 my tale of two cities.
I am a devoted reader of Bernard Cornewell, probably the best living historical novelist. I am reading him during my sojourn in France so there is a wonderful resonance for me: I read about 9th century England or the 14th century in France and at the same time I am experiencing the mediaeval setting of some small French towns. I feel like I’m there when I read Cornwell and when I walk mediaeval streets. I am taken back to the Middle Ages.
A UNESCO designation is supposed to preserve a town or city and encourage the residents to maintain all the history. I am not sure who is supposed to pay for all this. Is it the U.N? I think they have their hands full and their pockets next to empty. I presume that it is up to the city or country to supply the funds to preserve the history, the buildings, the setting, the sense of being back in time.
The two towns, both 13th-14th century: Chateau Neuf du Pape and Viviers. There could not be a greater contrast. The former celebrates itself and its heritage. The buildings are beautifully cared for. The latter is literally falling down. If I had my choice, aesthetically and historically, I would place Viviers at the top of the list. Once a bustling little town of several thousand on the banks of the Rhone, it has shrunk to around 600 permanent residents. It is in pathetic disrepair. It is not derelict, like a ghost town, it is just neglected, except for tourists. It is on every river cruise stop. I wonder how many of the casual travelers feel as I do.
There are of course, differences beyond the preservation issue. Chateau Neuf du Pape, is the same name as the vintage wines that come from the district. The prosperity of the town depends of the popularity and success of the wine. You presume that almost everyone who lives there depends on the wine industry for a living. Even though the French wine industry is suffering seriously from the world -wide competition, Chateauneauf is unique and seems not to be hurting.
Viviers has literally nothing! There is no commercial side to the town. There are a few restaurants, but there is absolutely no other commerce. The residents have to drive to the next town to do their shopping. Not for this reason alone is the town moldering. It fades away because, as far as I know, no one finances its upkeep. The buildings are some of the best examples of mediaeval architecture I have seen. They range from small single-room-wide to multi story mansions embellished with beautifully carved baroque and classical figures.
The streets (in both towns) are narrow and wind around climbing steep hills. In Château Neuf du Pape it maintains everything. I suspect real estate prices probably reflect the conditions of the town. In Viviers, there is more than enough rack and ruin to go around. I asked our guide, Patrice, a man who speaks well but with an accent that makes his English other-worldly, “What is the story with these broken windows?” He shrugged. He looked mournful. He said “No one will pay to have them fixed.”
One of the best examples of the period is a four story home, beautifully embellished. It had been bought many years ago by an American who simply disappeared. The house fell into disrepair. The roof leaked and the splendid interior was damaged and CONTINUES TO BE DAMAGED! Half the windows are broken. It is not the only once-stately home abandoned and with broken windows. The only thing that occurs to me is that the Rhone river floods. Our guide showed is, in the lower part of the town, where the high-water marks were. It was enough to inundate any house that was not on a hill.
Surprise: there is only building that not only survives, it seems to be flourishing: the church. It is a splendid example of Roman/Gothic architecture. (The kind that can’t make up its architectural mind – not as uncommon sight.) The highlight of our visit was an organ concert. A very good organist and a very good organ. Because the crowd was mixed, the concert would try to be popular. It succeeded. After a Couperin Sonata, it became more “pop.” He played the famous Bach Toccata and Fugue, the Adagio of Samuel Barber and a rousing romp through the final portion (The Lone Ranger bit) of the William Tell Overture.
I did like the concert, even though an organ with crashing echoes in a stone church is not my favourite.. While this wonderful music streamed out I was still distracted by what I had seen. My mind kept jumping from the concert to the state of the town, decaying around this beautiful church. It was there I wondered: “Where is UNESCO when you need it?
France has always invested heavily in the enhancement and preservation of its historical buildings. Viviers has fallen through the cracks. It could be that there are a hundred Viviers falling apart throughout France, I’m no authority. They do love their history. I think they need to give some loving to this forgotten town. After all, no one can accuse the French of not having more than enough vanity to go around. Maybe someone there will read this piece. I’m not holding my breath.
A UNESCO designation is supposed to preserve a town or city and encourage the residents to maintain all the history. I am not sure who is supposed to pay for all this. Is it the U.N? I think they have their hands full and their pockets next to empty. I presume that it is up to the city or country to supply the funds to preserve the history, the buildings, the setting, the sense of being back in time.
The two towns, both 13th-14th century: Chateau Neuf du Pape and Viviers. There could not be a greater contrast. The former celebrates itself and its heritage. The buildings are beautifully cared for. The latter is literally falling down. If I had my choice, aesthetically and historically, I would place Viviers at the top of the list. Once a bustling little town of several thousand on the banks of the Rhone, it has shrunk to around 600 permanent residents. It is in pathetic disrepair. It is not derelict, like a ghost town, it is just neglected, except for tourists. It is on every river cruise stop. I wonder how many of the casual travelers feel as I do.
There are of course, differences beyond the preservation issue. Chateau Neuf du Pape, is the same name as the vintage wines that come from the district. The prosperity of the town depends of the popularity and success of the wine. You presume that almost everyone who lives there depends on the wine industry for a living. Even though the French wine industry is suffering seriously from the world -wide competition, Chateauneauf is unique and seems not to be hurting.
Viviers has literally nothing! There is no commercial side to the town. There are a few restaurants, but there is absolutely no other commerce. The residents have to drive to the next town to do their shopping. Not for this reason alone is the town moldering. It fades away because, as far as I know, no one finances its upkeep. The buildings are some of the best examples of mediaeval architecture I have seen. They range from small single-room-wide to multi story mansions embellished with beautifully carved baroque and classical figures.
The streets (in both towns) are narrow and wind around climbing steep hills. In Château Neuf du Pape it maintains everything. I suspect real estate prices probably reflect the conditions of the town. In Viviers, there is more than enough rack and ruin to go around. I asked our guide, Patrice, a man who speaks well but with an accent that makes his English other-worldly, “What is the story with these broken windows?” He shrugged. He looked mournful. He said “No one will pay to have them fixed.”
One of the best examples of the period is a four story home, beautifully embellished. It had been bought many years ago by an American who simply disappeared. The house fell into disrepair. The roof leaked and the splendid interior was damaged and CONTINUES TO BE DAMAGED! Half the windows are broken. It is not the only once-stately home abandoned and with broken windows. The only thing that occurs to me is that the Rhone river floods. Our guide showed is, in the lower part of the town, where the high-water marks were. It was enough to inundate any house that was not on a hill.
Surprise: there is only building that not only survives, it seems to be flourishing: the church. It is a splendid example of Roman/Gothic architecture. (The kind that can’t make up its architectural mind – not as uncommon sight.) The highlight of our visit was an organ concert. A very good organist and a very good organ. Because the crowd was mixed, the concert would try to be popular. It succeeded. After a Couperin Sonata, it became more “pop.” He played the famous Bach Toccata and Fugue, the Adagio of Samuel Barber and a rousing romp through the final portion (The Lone Ranger bit) of the William Tell Overture.
I did like the concert, even though an organ with crashing echoes in a stone church is not my favourite.. While this wonderful music streamed out I was still distracted by what I had seen. My mind kept jumping from the concert to the state of the town, decaying around this beautiful church. It was there I wondered: “Where is UNESCO when you need it?
France has always invested heavily in the enhancement and preservation of its historical buildings. Viviers has fallen through the cracks. It could be that there are a hundred Viviers falling apart throughout France, I’m no authority. They do love their history. I think they need to give some loving to this forgotten town. After all, no one can accuse the French of not having more than enough vanity to go around. Maybe someone there will read this piece. I’m not holding my breath.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #38 - so this is really France.
“The French don’t smile, unless there is really something to smile about.” Bingo! A Frenchman talking about the French with a kind of pungent, humorous take on reality. Everything I was looking for to help me define the French ego, psyche, inner truth – all came out of Christian, the best tour guide I have ever been privileged to be with.
We were on a bus from the Rhone to the little village of Oingt, in the heart of the Beaujolais. It was a wine-tasting trip, but Christian made it a voyage into the French heart and soul. He did it with a fine understanding and a great sense of humour. I suppose I always thought the French took themselves far too seriously. Not Christian.
Because the bus ride was 45 minutes each way, from the boat to the Beaujolais and back, he filled the time with sparkling conversation. He spoke to the 90 or so people who may or may not have been interested in what makes the country French, and what make Frenchmen passionate. He was at his best talking about how the French have, sadly, lost their pre-eminence in the worldwide wine industry, Christian never used the word “arrogance”, but in his assessment of his country and his people, he was both clever and insightful.
I have written in these “letters” that the French found themselves no longer king of the castle in the wine business. It was like General Motors discovering, far too late, that its arrogance was empty self-praise and that people really did want Toyotas and Hondas and Nissans. Here’s how Christian described it: the French have never understood how to market their products because they believe that what they make is the best, so everyone else must agree. (Sort of like the tolerant parent trying to tell a child what is "best for him.")So they continued to market wines that no longer answered the changing tastes of a whole new generation of wine drinkers. And they made the labels so full of information that it rendered them impotent, and even then not telling the drinker what grape they were made from. He said the same thing about the French car industry. He knew that Renault, Peugot, and Citroen were good cars, but the French wouldn’t countenance the idea of putting in air-conditioning which North Americans demand.
He has lived and worked in America, and Australia, and other places far from France. He does understand what other countries want. And he does understand his own people.
But everything he said was loving. He is profoundly French. He makes jokes about his own people, something the French seem not to be good about, at least when surrounded by possibly hostile outsiders. He told of his father, who is now 73, deploring air-conditioning. He spoke lightly about French politics and about how de Gaulle changed the role of president from figure-head to all powerful chief executive. And he said: “It is no wonder we have so many revolutions.” He is so much more than a guide. He was, for me, the key to what I have been floundering around looking for: a way to define that most elusive character: the French. He was able all at once to show their unity as Frenchmen and their ability to be conflicted and to rage against each other. He spoke of how clear the French are about the separation of Church and State and will tolerate no political interference from religious sources. At the same time there was a note of tolerance. He reminded us that public funding supports schools that are faith-based.
I have omitted perhaps the best: his grasp of French wine-making and his own ability to understand and explain what makes a good wine good. I wanted to challenge him just once what he said that when you are having dinner, you start with the best wines and go to lesser wines as the meal progresses. That’s what you do with whisky not wine. He is the only expert I have heard who got it backwards. But I’m not going to quibble. He is bright, knowledgeable and a great communicator.
For me and my indomitable ego, the best of Christian was when he asked me where I had learned my French. He said it was unaccented and very French. I glowed. Praise from a Frenchman. I am still nonplussed by the language when it is spoken with speed. But I’m getting better.
We were on a bus from the Rhone to the little village of Oingt, in the heart of the Beaujolais. It was a wine-tasting trip, but Christian made it a voyage into the French heart and soul. He did it with a fine understanding and a great sense of humour. I suppose I always thought the French took themselves far too seriously. Not Christian.
Because the bus ride was 45 minutes each way, from the boat to the Beaujolais and back, he filled the time with sparkling conversation. He spoke to the 90 or so people who may or may not have been interested in what makes the country French, and what make Frenchmen passionate. He was at his best talking about how the French have, sadly, lost their pre-eminence in the worldwide wine industry, Christian never used the word “arrogance”, but in his assessment of his country and his people, he was both clever and insightful.
I have written in these “letters” that the French found themselves no longer king of the castle in the wine business. It was like General Motors discovering, far too late, that its arrogance was empty self-praise and that people really did want Toyotas and Hondas and Nissans. Here’s how Christian described it: the French have never understood how to market their products because they believe that what they make is the best, so everyone else must agree. (Sort of like the tolerant parent trying to tell a child what is "best for him.")So they continued to market wines that no longer answered the changing tastes of a whole new generation of wine drinkers. And they made the labels so full of information that it rendered them impotent, and even then not telling the drinker what grape they were made from. He said the same thing about the French car industry. He knew that Renault, Peugot, and Citroen were good cars, but the French wouldn’t countenance the idea of putting in air-conditioning which North Americans demand.
He has lived and worked in America, and Australia, and other places far from France. He does understand what other countries want. And he does understand his own people.
But everything he said was loving. He is profoundly French. He makes jokes about his own people, something the French seem not to be good about, at least when surrounded by possibly hostile outsiders. He told of his father, who is now 73, deploring air-conditioning. He spoke lightly about French politics and about how de Gaulle changed the role of president from figure-head to all powerful chief executive. And he said: “It is no wonder we have so many revolutions.” He is so much more than a guide. He was, for me, the key to what I have been floundering around looking for: a way to define that most elusive character: the French. He was able all at once to show their unity as Frenchmen and their ability to be conflicted and to rage against each other. He spoke of how clear the French are about the separation of Church and State and will tolerate no political interference from religious sources. At the same time there was a note of tolerance. He reminded us that public funding supports schools that are faith-based.
I have omitted perhaps the best: his grasp of French wine-making and his own ability to understand and explain what makes a good wine good. I wanted to challenge him just once what he said that when you are having dinner, you start with the best wines and go to lesser wines as the meal progresses. That’s what you do with whisky not wine. He is the only expert I have heard who got it backwards. But I’m not going to quibble. He is bright, knowledgeable and a great communicator.
For me and my indomitable ego, the best of Christian was when he asked me where I had learned my French. He said it was unaccented and very French. I glowed. Praise from a Frenchman. I am still nonplussed by the language when it is spoken with speed. But I’m getting better.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #37 - suckered - and loving it
Experienced travelers know in advance that if, for example, you buy a coffee at Heathrow while you wait for your departure, will cost an arm and a leg. Likewise, when you go to an elegant hotel and order a simple beverage, expect to pay through the nose. Not just in Paris either.
So it should have been no surprise to me when Shirley and I went to the Meridien Hotel in Montparnasse for an orientation meeting for our cruise on the Saone/Rhone ending up in Nice. We were, without apologies for past remarks: tourists. Gaping, gawking, asking dumb questions – tourists. Comforting yourself by being surrounded by people you know and people who speak your language. Cosseted from the possibility of having to deal with the locals at anything but the most superficial level.
Starters: waiting for the “meeting” we stop at the ritzy, chic, minimalist bar, for light refreshment. 13 Euros later – I have a small beer, Shirley has a diet Coke. Bad? No worse that paying $28 dollars for a martini and a coffee at the R.O.M. in Toronto.
.
We had decided to forego dinner, expecting that a meeting where people who had already paid anywhere from 6K to 8K Euro might have a few little hors d’oeuvres. Sure. One glass of wine, and no seconds. Little bowls of peanut/raisin mixes, some olives, and other stuff like what the airlines give you for an in flight “lunch.”
Shirley4y tells me that she’s going to scream if I make one more remark about “cattle” or “herd” mentality.” I shut up. In fact, I confess, not to her, I am enjoying it. I exult in finally being in a very easy comfort zone: everyone speaks English: everyone is from Canada, U.S., England, Australia, or New Zealand. You can wallow in the comfort of the familiar environment. No more threatening surroundings where the language is a challenge and the culture a little bit of a shock.
I have always believed, and many of you probably share the feeling, that people who travel in groups and depend on organized-to-the-last-detail tours, are the most comfortable travelers. There are no challenges. Your hand is being held. Shirley and I have preferred the hazards of just the two of us traveling in what could be an alien environ men t. There are more of us I know,
So here I am writing this from Chalon-sur-Saone. Our bus took us from Paris to Beaune.
Lovely, wine-sotted Beaune. I was in oenophile heaven. The bus, with appropriate commentary, took us past the legends of wine: Puligny Montrachet, Cote de Beanie Villages, Merseult, Pommard, and Nuit St. Georges.
Before the wine-tasting was lunch. I had spotted what looked like a nice café. We had acquired two couples from the States, both from South Florida by way of New York. Amiable, friendly, and without a word of French among the four of them. Delighted to be escorted by someone who spoke the language. I took charge. We tramped together into a restaurant that had neither of the two tourist no-nos: a menu in English and pictures of the food. We ordered. I won’t stop to praise the food. My dessert, two “coupes” of ice cream was served with a large piece of something cold. Thinking it was just ice, I bit down. Nothing happened. I popped it out of my mouth, thankful that I had not swallowed it: a large and jagged piece of glass. Our host was horrified, but not so horrified that he refunded one cent of the charge, even for the ice cream which of course I would not finish. Now I have truly been anointed as a tourist. The restaurant owner knew he would never see me again and that in the short time I had before the boat departed, I would not have time for a lawsuit. But wait – he was very sympathetic.
Best was the wine tasting. We were herded, following a guide with a hand in the air to a tasting. So many took the tour it was divided into three manageable groups. / We were each given what looked like a sommelier’s cup. We tasted and tasted and tasted. After about eight I was not only tasted, I was getting quietly wasted.
I dared ask the woman who guided us whether or not the Beaune area, and the whole Burgundy district, used any grape other than the traditional chardonnay for all white wines and the Pinot Noir (for all reds. There were two variants, Aligote for the white, Gsamay for the red. I asked, idly I thought, if she knew about other varietals like say – San Giovese. She looked at me liked I’d just told her that God was dead! Another person in the group knew why I had asked. She, (her father was a Kentucky Bourbon whisky distiller) said it was part of the French problem: They did not recognize that there were wines from many other countries. The lofty; pretension bordered on arrogance, and explains in part why French wines are in deep trouble. (Remember when the English motorcycle manufacturers stuck with kick starters and died under the impact of the Japanese battery-starters.) Same stuff. Failure to change until it is too late. It is at once both sad and brave of the French to take a stand.
Which again says something about the pride of being French. It is not bravado. It is not a kind of mindless jingoistic patriotism. It is a deeply felt, profound sense of themselves. In spite of the conflicted quality that I wrote about earlier, there is still, under it all, a sense of “being”” a sense perhaps of Cartesian truth – that “I think therefore I am” – or I am French and I think I do know who I am. My wine is supreme. Take that Australia and Chile!
So it should have been no surprise to me when Shirley and I went to the Meridien Hotel in Montparnasse for an orientation meeting for our cruise on the Saone/Rhone ending up in Nice. We were, without apologies for past remarks: tourists. Gaping, gawking, asking dumb questions – tourists. Comforting yourself by being surrounded by people you know and people who speak your language. Cosseted from the possibility of having to deal with the locals at anything but the most superficial level.
Starters: waiting for the “meeting” we stop at the ritzy, chic, minimalist bar, for light refreshment. 13 Euros later – I have a small beer, Shirley has a diet Coke. Bad? No worse that paying $28 dollars for a martini and a coffee at the R.O.M. in Toronto.
.
We had decided to forego dinner, expecting that a meeting where people who had already paid anywhere from 6K to 8K Euro might have a few little hors d’oeuvres. Sure. One glass of wine, and no seconds. Little bowls of peanut/raisin mixes, some olives, and other stuff like what the airlines give you for an in flight “lunch.”
Shirley4y tells me that she’s going to scream if I make one more remark about “cattle” or “herd” mentality.” I shut up. In fact, I confess, not to her, I am enjoying it. I exult in finally being in a very easy comfort zone: everyone speaks English: everyone is from Canada, U.S., England, Australia, or New Zealand. You can wallow in the comfort of the familiar environment. No more threatening surroundings where the language is a challenge and the culture a little bit of a shock.
I have always believed, and many of you probably share the feeling, that people who travel in groups and depend on organized-to-the-last-detail tours, are the most comfortable travelers. There are no challenges. Your hand is being held. Shirley and I have preferred the hazards of just the two of us traveling in what could be an alien environ men t. There are more of us I know,
So here I am writing this from Chalon-sur-Saone. Our bus took us from Paris to Beaune.
Lovely, wine-sotted Beaune. I was in oenophile heaven. The bus, with appropriate commentary, took us past the legends of wine: Puligny Montrachet, Cote de Beanie Villages, Merseult, Pommard, and Nuit St. Georges.
Before the wine-tasting was lunch. I had spotted what looked like a nice café. We had acquired two couples from the States, both from South Florida by way of New York. Amiable, friendly, and without a word of French among the four of them. Delighted to be escorted by someone who spoke the language. I took charge. We tramped together into a restaurant that had neither of the two tourist no-nos: a menu in English and pictures of the food. We ordered. I won’t stop to praise the food. My dessert, two “coupes” of ice cream was served with a large piece of something cold. Thinking it was just ice, I bit down. Nothing happened. I popped it out of my mouth, thankful that I had not swallowed it: a large and jagged piece of glass. Our host was horrified, but not so horrified that he refunded one cent of the charge, even for the ice cream which of course I would not finish. Now I have truly been anointed as a tourist. The restaurant owner knew he would never see me again and that in the short time I had before the boat departed, I would not have time for a lawsuit. But wait – he was very sympathetic.
Best was the wine tasting. We were herded, following a guide with a hand in the air to a tasting. So many took the tour it was divided into three manageable groups. / We were each given what looked like a sommelier’s cup. We tasted and tasted and tasted. After about eight I was not only tasted, I was getting quietly wasted.
I dared ask the woman who guided us whether or not the Beaune area, and the whole Burgundy district, used any grape other than the traditional chardonnay for all white wines and the Pinot Noir (for all reds. There were two variants, Aligote for the white, Gsamay for the red. I asked, idly I thought, if she knew about other varietals like say – San Giovese. She looked at me liked I’d just told her that God was dead! Another person in the group knew why I had asked. She, (her father was a Kentucky Bourbon whisky distiller) said it was part of the French problem: They did not recognize that there were wines from many other countries. The lofty; pretension bordered on arrogance, and explains in part why French wines are in deep trouble. (Remember when the English motorcycle manufacturers stuck with kick starters and died under the impact of the Japanese battery-starters.) Same stuff. Failure to change until it is too late. It is at once both sad and brave of the French to take a stand.
Which again says something about the pride of being French. It is not bravado. It is not a kind of mindless jingoistic patriotism. It is a deeply felt, profound sense of themselves. In spite of the conflicted quality that I wrote about earlier, there is still, under it all, a sense of “being”” a sense perhaps of Cartesian truth – that “I think therefore I am” – or I am French and I think I do know who I am. My wine is supreme. Take that Australia and Chile!
Friday, June 11, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #35 the paradox
“There are many restaurants in Paris that are not very good,” said this tall, youngish, very handsome, dark, jeans-wearing “hunk.” Everyone seemed to be waiting on us. The waitress who took our order, an Indian-looking gentleman who bussed and asked how we enjoyed lunch, and this big hulk of a guy who rattled off dessert specials far too quickly for me to grasp anything but the word “chocolat.”
The paradox of Paris: world famous for fine food but with just as many mediocre, verging on bad restaurants, along with perhaps fewer really good places to eat.
Paris the centre of fashion, but in five different shops Shirley could not find any slacks that were not made for tall, slim, young women.
I will try not to dwell on the menu (no promises) but to examine the paradox. For that I will need two restaurants, one we visited yesterday for a very late lunch, and the other where we lunched today and chatted to this good-looking young man. (Shirley guessed he may have been the owner.) He was as passionate about what he served as the waitress in yesterday place was indifferent about what she brought to the table.
We’d been off in the east end at Hopital Saint Louis. (Not to worry, I’m recovering.) Shirley couldn’t take her eyes off the doctor. He was tall, He was dark, He was squarely built, and Hollywood handsome. I throw this in because she can’t stop talking about him. (Which makes me what – chopped liver?)
Among foodies and food critics there are rules about choosing a restaurant. One of them is that you should avoid ones with pictures of their food. (Denny’s is O.K. but they’re not Paris.) We had already visited a couple of places around Place des Ternes. One, on our way to a concert at Salle Pleyel – overpriced and not very good. The other, a spot called “Indiana.” Why I have not idea. Twice we tried. First time we sat at there on the sidewalk for ten minutes being ignored. Then we went inside where you could fire off cannon and not hit anyone but when we declined one of those absurd little tables for two the waitress wouldn’t let us sit at a larger table. AND THERE WAS NO ONE IN THE RESTAURANT!
So we tried the place on the corner: Hippopotamus. You guessed it. The menu was all pictures. It was a steak house, so there were tempting pics of every kind of steak from filet to T Bone. What arrived bore utterly no resemblance to any of the pictures. It was about a quarter of an inch thick and heavily laced with fat and gristle. I had my choice of “sides” so I chose “haricot vertes.” The French are famous for their skinny green beans. What arrived was a large portion of beans that looked like they had languished in a bain Marie since morning, and tasted like it. They didn’t mind replacing the beans with frites. The cost was more than it should have been, but by now, we are used to mediocrity at absurd prices.
One day later we are at “Maison de Campagne,” which is on Rue Bayen just up the street from where we stay. Shirley had a food book called: Hungry for Paris: the ultimate guide to the 102 city’s best restaurants. Good book. I recommend it. written by a man who seems to have tried every restaurant in Paris, He recommended the Bath’s, celebrity chef and all. Where it was supposed to be was where we found Maison de Campagne and the “hunk.” (At this point I suggest to all readers who are tired of my food critiques, to jump ahead a few paragraphs.)
The ambience was county, not unlike Toronto’s Le Papillon but much simpler.
The menu was compact with about six mains and a similar number of entrees.
Shirley chose a “Carre de Veau” which was a sort of cutlet on a bed of pureed carrot. I tasted them. Redolent with cumin and faintly Indian. Mine was a kind Casserole of little lardon and postage-stamp sized ravioli on a delicate sauce. Both were superb. Both looked superb. Pictures were taken before we dug in.
Desserts: mine was a three-scoop portion of different sorbets with a kind of raspberry coulee. Shirley had a Blueberry fondant with sherbet. Both were photo-worthy.
So there’s the paradox. Two restaurants in two days. One verging on insulting. The other verging on heavenly. And the comment from our brawny serveur that boiled down to: Paris is famous for food but not all food in Paris is famous. What is important for us, (and if that sounds like puffery it was not) is good food at a reasonable price.
The Hippopotamus was more than 60 Euro. The Maison de Campagne was 44 Euro, including a large bottle of fizzy Badoit.
What is perhaps even more interesting is the perception that they have of themselves, and the respect they maintain for their traditions. He was simply, without vanity or pretension, being faithful to his vocation. I like a man with passion.
The paradox of Paris: world famous for fine food but with just as many mediocre, verging on bad restaurants, along with perhaps fewer really good places to eat.
Paris the centre of fashion, but in five different shops Shirley could not find any slacks that were not made for tall, slim, young women.
I will try not to dwell on the menu (no promises) but to examine the paradox. For that I will need two restaurants, one we visited yesterday for a very late lunch, and the other where we lunched today and chatted to this good-looking young man. (Shirley guessed he may have been the owner.) He was as passionate about what he served as the waitress in yesterday place was indifferent about what she brought to the table.
We’d been off in the east end at Hopital Saint Louis. (Not to worry, I’m recovering.) Shirley couldn’t take her eyes off the doctor. He was tall, He was dark, He was squarely built, and Hollywood handsome. I throw this in because she can’t stop talking about him. (Which makes me what – chopped liver?)
Among foodies and food critics there are rules about choosing a restaurant. One of them is that you should avoid ones with pictures of their food. (Denny’s is O.K. but they’re not Paris.) We had already visited a couple of places around Place des Ternes. One, on our way to a concert at Salle Pleyel – overpriced and not very good. The other, a spot called “Indiana.” Why I have not idea. Twice we tried. First time we sat at there on the sidewalk for ten minutes being ignored. Then we went inside where you could fire off cannon and not hit anyone but when we declined one of those absurd little tables for two the waitress wouldn’t let us sit at a larger table. AND THERE WAS NO ONE IN THE RESTAURANT!
So we tried the place on the corner: Hippopotamus. You guessed it. The menu was all pictures. It was a steak house, so there were tempting pics of every kind of steak from filet to T Bone. What arrived bore utterly no resemblance to any of the pictures. It was about a quarter of an inch thick and heavily laced with fat and gristle. I had my choice of “sides” so I chose “haricot vertes.” The French are famous for their skinny green beans. What arrived was a large portion of beans that looked like they had languished in a bain Marie since morning, and tasted like it. They didn’t mind replacing the beans with frites. The cost was more than it should have been, but by now, we are used to mediocrity at absurd prices.
One day later we are at “Maison de Campagne,” which is on Rue Bayen just up the street from where we stay. Shirley had a food book called: Hungry for Paris: the ultimate guide to the 102 city’s best restaurants. Good book. I recommend it. written by a man who seems to have tried every restaurant in Paris, He recommended the Bath’s, celebrity chef and all. Where it was supposed to be was where we found Maison de Campagne and the “hunk.” (At this point I suggest to all readers who are tired of my food critiques, to jump ahead a few paragraphs.)
The ambience was county, not unlike Toronto’s Le Papillon but much simpler.
The menu was compact with about six mains and a similar number of entrees.
Shirley chose a “Carre de Veau” which was a sort of cutlet on a bed of pureed carrot. I tasted them. Redolent with cumin and faintly Indian. Mine was a kind Casserole of little lardon and postage-stamp sized ravioli on a delicate sauce. Both were superb. Both looked superb. Pictures were taken before we dug in.
Desserts: mine was a three-scoop portion of different sorbets with a kind of raspberry coulee. Shirley had a Blueberry fondant with sherbet. Both were photo-worthy.
So there’s the paradox. Two restaurants in two days. One verging on insulting. The other verging on heavenly. And the comment from our brawny serveur that boiled down to: Paris is famous for food but not all food in Paris is famous. What is important for us, (and if that sounds like puffery it was not) is good food at a reasonable price.
The Hippopotamus was more than 60 Euro. The Maison de Campagne was 44 Euro, including a large bottle of fizzy Badoit.
What is perhaps even more interesting is the perception that they have of themselves, and the respect they maintain for their traditions. He was simply, without vanity or pretension, being faithful to his vocation. I like a man with passion.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #3 - old haunts, new pleasures
Our waiter said he spoke five languages. If you work around Montmartre you have to. Everyone is from somewhere else. We sat at one of the dozens of helter-skelter sidewalk bistros and there were people from everywhere. There was a gang of the kind of fun-rowdy kids you see when too many of them get together. Americans I think and full of spirit showing each other the pencil drawings they had sat for. Beside us, first a German couple, then two very pretty young women from Denmark. Two tables down a youngish couple whose total weight had to be close to 500 pounds. Definitely not French, although I have seen a few Gallic fatties.
As our meal progressed (I am elevating it to that status because I don’t want to tell you how bad it was) people came and went. Suddenly the square resounded to jungle drumming. (It may not have been jungle, but for us tourists everything should be exotic.) A group of Africans, one drumming enthusiastically, the other banging a tambourine and two others doing acrobatics. They worked hard, but it was a tough crowd. The tambourine player came around using his instrument as a hat and asked for contributions. I was ready to drop a few coins in, but he didn’t seem either to understand or to have the patience to wait while I rooted around in my pocket. I watched him stop at a table where two youngish women dropped some coins. He looked. He reached into his tambourine, and disdainfully gave the coins back, with what sounded like “here you need this more than I do.” {Public solicitations can be testy. On an earlier trip to Paris, I passed by a musician in the Metro. He was pretty good. I had a pocketful of coins. I didn’t know how much. Obviously it was not enough because he came charging after me and in no uncertain terms told me the contribution was an insult and handed me back the money. I was startled. He was insulted. I kept walking. He kept playing.)
Naturally, as we soldiered through a dry crouque monsieur and tried to use enough ketchup to make the half-cooked frites palatable, Shirley pointed across the way to another restaurant offering prix fixe menus where you get it all for very little. All was an entrée, then some kind of lamb, followed by dessert all for 19 euro.
Montmarte is always a treat. Getting there is almost as much fun as being there. From the Metro stop at Anvers you cross to a street that is a literal honky-tonk of clothing bargains – the stuff heaped on tables and being rummaged through by dozens of bargain hunters. The street slopes upward to the funicular that relieves you of the last 100 metres or so of a lot of climbing. The car seemed to be packed with people on their first ever trip to Montmartre and to Sacre Coeur, what the Parisians call the big frosted cake. (Or something.)
What were two experienced, I might say – jaded – travelers doing in the most notorious tourist part of town? We came to see the Musee Dali. We were not disappointred. It is a must-see, with its many biblical references, from Moses to the 13 tribes of Israel to the heavy bronze depiction of the master’s famous drooping watch. For me Dali is the ultimate illustrator. Yes, he was a charlatan who knew his audience and pandered to them, not only with his surrealism but with his personal lifestyle and bravura moustache.
All that aside, could that man draw! Never mind all those other guys like Jean Arp and Man Ray, and Rene Magritte. Dali may have been a flamboyant poseur, but his sense of line was impeccable. It could arc across a page flawlessly, thin as a human hair. It could swirl and soar. His body shapes seem perfect to me. He does the toughest thing (for an artist) hands and feet that float like magic.
Part of the museum is a gallery with signed work for sale. I was surprised to learn that for as little as 600 Euro you could walk away with his Abraham Lincoln, a face done in cubes, the kind used by TV to disguise a person who shouldn’t be recognized. There were masterful bronzes, but we are into the plus 20K Euro here. He was a master. His presence in this most visited part of Paris is almost a contradiction. He is too pure. The rest of the place is simply too gaudy. But I wouldn’t ever want to miss it.
(I commented in a previous "letter" that Montmartre was once a place where Dali would be among friends. Matisse lived there. Honneger composed there. It used to be "the" place for artists, just as Les Deux Magots used to be the place for writers.)
As our meal progressed (I am elevating it to that status because I don’t want to tell you how bad it was) people came and went. Suddenly the square resounded to jungle drumming. (It may not have been jungle, but for us tourists everything should be exotic.) A group of Africans, one drumming enthusiastically, the other banging a tambourine and two others doing acrobatics. They worked hard, but it was a tough crowd. The tambourine player came around using his instrument as a hat and asked for contributions. I was ready to drop a few coins in, but he didn’t seem either to understand or to have the patience to wait while I rooted around in my pocket. I watched him stop at a table where two youngish women dropped some coins. He looked. He reached into his tambourine, and disdainfully gave the coins back, with what sounded like “here you need this more than I do.” {Public solicitations can be testy. On an earlier trip to Paris, I passed by a musician in the Metro. He was pretty good. I had a pocketful of coins. I didn’t know how much. Obviously it was not enough because he came charging after me and in no uncertain terms told me the contribution was an insult and handed me back the money. I was startled. He was insulted. I kept walking. He kept playing.)
Naturally, as we soldiered through a dry crouque monsieur and tried to use enough ketchup to make the half-cooked frites palatable, Shirley pointed across the way to another restaurant offering prix fixe menus where you get it all for very little. All was an entrée, then some kind of lamb, followed by dessert all for 19 euro.
Montmarte is always a treat. Getting there is almost as much fun as being there. From the Metro stop at Anvers you cross to a street that is a literal honky-tonk of clothing bargains – the stuff heaped on tables and being rummaged through by dozens of bargain hunters. The street slopes upward to the funicular that relieves you of the last 100 metres or so of a lot of climbing. The car seemed to be packed with people on their first ever trip to Montmartre and to Sacre Coeur, what the Parisians call the big frosted cake. (Or something.)
What were two experienced, I might say – jaded – travelers doing in the most notorious tourist part of town? We came to see the Musee Dali. We were not disappointred. It is a must-see, with its many biblical references, from Moses to the 13 tribes of Israel to the heavy bronze depiction of the master’s famous drooping watch. For me Dali is the ultimate illustrator. Yes, he was a charlatan who knew his audience and pandered to them, not only with his surrealism but with his personal lifestyle and bravura moustache.
All that aside, could that man draw! Never mind all those other guys like Jean Arp and Man Ray, and Rene Magritte. Dali may have been a flamboyant poseur, but his sense of line was impeccable. It could arc across a page flawlessly, thin as a human hair. It could swirl and soar. His body shapes seem perfect to me. He does the toughest thing (for an artist) hands and feet that float like magic.
Part of the museum is a gallery with signed work for sale. I was surprised to learn that for as little as 600 Euro you could walk away with his Abraham Lincoln, a face done in cubes, the kind used by TV to disguise a person who shouldn’t be recognized. There were masterful bronzes, but we are into the plus 20K Euro here. He was a master. His presence in this most visited part of Paris is almost a contradiction. He is too pure. The rest of the place is simply too gaudy. But I wouldn’t ever want to miss it.
(I commented in a previous "letter" that Montmartre was once a place where Dali would be among friends. Matisse lived there. Honneger composed there. It used to be "the" place for artists, just as Les Deux Magots used to be the place for writers.)
Sunday, June 6, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #33Promises. Promises.
I adore children. I do not adore parents who insist on bringing ones to restaurants who shriek, cry, whine, or generally make themselves heard above the din. But I make an exception for one adorable, smiling, contented baby in a restaurant that deserves praise not tantrums.
We were seated next to a couple, perhaps 30-somethings and their baby, who could not have been more than 16 months old. I asked if this was their first. “No, we have another (gesturing grown up) at home.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. A little pie-faced, but only from that infant chubbiness, he gurgled contentedly through what would turn out to be among the best meals we have had in Paris. (I know, I snuck in the kid as a pretext to talk about food – you say.)
The point of the child is that our meal was not spoiled. It was enhanced by the baby’s presence. Unlike the other night when we lined up at Relais de Venise and were treated to screaming from an uncontrollable child. The mother was beside herself. Nearly or really in tears. Fractious children should remain at home until they are fit to be taken to a public place. They are demanding attention I know.
Sometimes a happy child is a reflection of the kind of care he gets. I did ask: “Est ce qu’il est boujour heureux?” The parents smiled and said “Oui.” He, it turns out is a film cameraman who has been to Toronto. He shot a film there, and from what I gathered it was an industrial film for a French company.
Enough backing and filling. The REAL story here was the food, the presentation, the taste. We had been looking for a place called “Balthazar” which had good reviews and was about a ten minute walk away. We never found it at the intersection where it was supposed to be. But we did find “Aux Saveurs du Marche.” I was just a bit put off at first by the designer attempt at chic. It was good. Spare, but not minimalist. Nicely lit. I couldn’t help thinking of the cookie-cutter renovations so popular on TV’s “Restaurant Makeover.” It was just too-too…But I quibble.
That’s where anything negative ends. We both ordered Medaillons de Veau. What arrived was finely sliced, exquisitely prepared prime veal in a light, creamy sauce. Every mouthful was tender and succulent, the taste added to by tiny mushrooms and topped with a sprig of fresh, fragrant rosemary. Once again – potatoes. Not frites, but mashed. This is the second mashed potato ambrosia. The French can take such an ordinary, pedestrian dish and turn it into a magically fluffy, tasty confection. (The other was at L”Empire on the Rue de Bac.)
Shirley, who has to stop eating chocolate, suffered through a Moellet de Chocolat, which is a chocolate fondant served alongside a scoop of ice cream. Mine, and I surprised myself, was Tiramisu. (I say surprised, because I usually avoid it, Tiramisu has become something of a cliché, like Cherries Jubilee.) Not this time. None of your out-of-a-pressure can whipped goo. This was Tiramisu aux fruits rouge. Meaning fresh raspberries and strawberries in an elegant coulee of the same fruit. I dug in and was utterly blown away by the white stuff which I think was concocted mainly from mascarpone. I ate it slowly. Small mouthfuls. Like you did when you were a kid trying to make it last forever. Topped of course, with a fresh sprig of mint.
This trip to the sublime was not inexpensive but far from prohibitive: 75 Euro, including a large bottle of fizzy water.
I’ve said it. I’m not sorry. Neither will you be if you go to 73 Avenue Neil in the 17th arrondissment.
We were seated next to a couple, perhaps 30-somethings and their baby, who could not have been more than 16 months old. I asked if this was their first. “No, we have another (gesturing grown up) at home.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. A little pie-faced, but only from that infant chubbiness, he gurgled contentedly through what would turn out to be among the best meals we have had in Paris. (I know, I snuck in the kid as a pretext to talk about food – you say.)
The point of the child is that our meal was not spoiled. It was enhanced by the baby’s presence. Unlike the other night when we lined up at Relais de Venise and were treated to screaming from an uncontrollable child. The mother was beside herself. Nearly or really in tears. Fractious children should remain at home until they are fit to be taken to a public place. They are demanding attention I know.
Sometimes a happy child is a reflection of the kind of care he gets. I did ask: “Est ce qu’il est boujour heureux?” The parents smiled and said “Oui.” He, it turns out is a film cameraman who has been to Toronto. He shot a film there, and from what I gathered it was an industrial film for a French company.
Enough backing and filling. The REAL story here was the food, the presentation, the taste. We had been looking for a place called “Balthazar” which had good reviews and was about a ten minute walk away. We never found it at the intersection where it was supposed to be. But we did find “Aux Saveurs du Marche.” I was just a bit put off at first by the designer attempt at chic. It was good. Spare, but not minimalist. Nicely lit. I couldn’t help thinking of the cookie-cutter renovations so popular on TV’s “Restaurant Makeover.” It was just too-too…But I quibble.
That’s where anything negative ends. We both ordered Medaillons de Veau. What arrived was finely sliced, exquisitely prepared prime veal in a light, creamy sauce. Every mouthful was tender and succulent, the taste added to by tiny mushrooms and topped with a sprig of fresh, fragrant rosemary. Once again – potatoes. Not frites, but mashed. This is the second mashed potato ambrosia. The French can take such an ordinary, pedestrian dish and turn it into a magically fluffy, tasty confection. (The other was at L”Empire on the Rue de Bac.)
Shirley, who has to stop eating chocolate, suffered through a Moellet de Chocolat, which is a chocolate fondant served alongside a scoop of ice cream. Mine, and I surprised myself, was Tiramisu. (I say surprised, because I usually avoid it, Tiramisu has become something of a cliché, like Cherries Jubilee.) Not this time. None of your out-of-a-pressure can whipped goo. This was Tiramisu aux fruits rouge. Meaning fresh raspberries and strawberries in an elegant coulee of the same fruit. I dug in and was utterly blown away by the white stuff which I think was concocted mainly from mascarpone. I ate it slowly. Small mouthfuls. Like you did when you were a kid trying to make it last forever. Topped of course, with a fresh sprig of mint.
This trip to the sublime was not inexpensive but far from prohibitive: 75 Euro, including a large bottle of fizzy water.
I’ve said it. I’m not sorry. Neither will you be if you go to 73 Avenue Neil in the 17th arrondissment.
Friday, June 4, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #32 - it could be worse
You know you have hit a wall when you can’t figure out how to say “corn starch” in French. I know “mais,” and there must be a word for starch. (There is but it's for the stuff to stiffen shirt collars.) I figured I’d search the supermarket shelves and find it. Utter failure. In the section where all the flour and sugar is kept I found “farine de mais” which would be great if I wanted to make cornbread, but useless for Shirley who has a pervasive itch that could perhaps be ameliorated by corn starch. My only hope was that someone in the place spoke enough English. I found one. She was a young Asian girl, probably Japanese. She was bright-eyed and willing but she had never heard of corn starch. I wonder what the French use as a thickener. I didn’t know the word for thickener. I was almost, but not quite, an utter failure.
Not only have I not honed my language skills, but my other goal: to meet and make friends with a local person – has gone nowhere. The older man – Guy – didn’t seem like a decent choice. My new “friend” the music promoter was a friend as long as I bought tickets. Our dinner date was cancelled because of “malade de dos” – he had a sore back. He may not have recovered because I have not heard. My most recent Email went unanswered. The frustration deepens.
My last and perhaps best chance was a meeting of neighbours, announced as a "soiree pour les voisins" which was held in the lobby of the apartment house. There was wine. There were snacks. There was conversation. Shirley and I even joined in, but the two women we cornered wanted only to practice their English. Besides, the foyer area is all tile and marble so voices echo and ricochet off walls making my already slightly impaired hearing incapable of discriminating sounds. And if I could have? They all, everyone I have spoken to, agrees that they speak too quickly but hasten to add that when they are in an English-speaking country they have the same problem.
Watching TV almost non-stop for a couple of hours every evening has been the most frustrating. Even simple stuff, like a game show, where the “ contestants” do not bring encyclopaedic skills, we are both baffled.
In the drug store, I could not even remember, in English yet (!) the reason I wanted to buy some adhesive tape. I know the word for tape. I know the word for adhesive. I know the word for skin. I even know the word for reinforce. Do you think it did a particle of good? By the time she finally divined that I simply wanted sticky tape, I had looked at a variety of “bandes” from the elastic kind you wrap around a sprained ankle, and to the kind you use to attach an appliance to your body. Some fun.
There was one slightly bright light. On my way back from the drug store I passed “La Divina.” The host was standing on the sidewalk, lying in wait I think, for potential customers. H spotted me and with overflowing jollity gave me a huge “Comment ca va?” I gave him as hearty a response as I could, given that I was in a hurry to get home to announce to Shirley that I couldn’t find a cure for the itch. (Another tough word.) But he introduced me to a couple dining on the sidewalk. They are from Hull! The guy at La Divina thinks I came all the way to Paris to meet other Canadians. A nice enough couple we bantered easily in French. I fled before they could realize I had almost exhausted my small talk vocabulary.
Sadly I find myself listening to conversations, especially from people who are poring over a street map or Metro guide. I seem to be hoping I can ask: "Can I help?” One time, it was gratifying, I opened the conversation in French, was told “I don’t speak French” so I could lapse into English. Turns out they were Germans.
You may have been expecting communiqués from Normandy this week as we revisit Rouen and take a side trip to Entretat where those rock formations are, and perhaps to the WW2 Normandy beaches. Thwarted again. Maybe next week. Meanwhile – au revoir and bonne chance. (whatever that means.)
Not only have I not honed my language skills, but my other goal: to meet and make friends with a local person – has gone nowhere. The older man – Guy – didn’t seem like a decent choice. My new “friend” the music promoter was a friend as long as I bought tickets. Our dinner date was cancelled because of “malade de dos” – he had a sore back. He may not have recovered because I have not heard. My most recent Email went unanswered. The frustration deepens.
My last and perhaps best chance was a meeting of neighbours, announced as a "soiree pour les voisins" which was held in the lobby of the apartment house. There was wine. There were snacks. There was conversation. Shirley and I even joined in, but the two women we cornered wanted only to practice their English. Besides, the foyer area is all tile and marble so voices echo and ricochet off walls making my already slightly impaired hearing incapable of discriminating sounds. And if I could have? They all, everyone I have spoken to, agrees that they speak too quickly but hasten to add that when they are in an English-speaking country they have the same problem.
Watching TV almost non-stop for a couple of hours every evening has been the most frustrating. Even simple stuff, like a game show, where the “ contestants” do not bring encyclopaedic skills, we are both baffled.
In the drug store, I could not even remember, in English yet (!) the reason I wanted to buy some adhesive tape. I know the word for tape. I know the word for adhesive. I know the word for skin. I even know the word for reinforce. Do you think it did a particle of good? By the time she finally divined that I simply wanted sticky tape, I had looked at a variety of “bandes” from the elastic kind you wrap around a sprained ankle, and to the kind you use to attach an appliance to your body. Some fun.
There was one slightly bright light. On my way back from the drug store I passed “La Divina.” The host was standing on the sidewalk, lying in wait I think, for potential customers. H spotted me and with overflowing jollity gave me a huge “Comment ca va?” I gave him as hearty a response as I could, given that I was in a hurry to get home to announce to Shirley that I couldn’t find a cure for the itch. (Another tough word.) But he introduced me to a couple dining on the sidewalk. They are from Hull! The guy at La Divina thinks I came all the way to Paris to meet other Canadians. A nice enough couple we bantered easily in French. I fled before they could realize I had almost exhausted my small talk vocabulary.
Sadly I find myself listening to conversations, especially from people who are poring over a street map or Metro guide. I seem to be hoping I can ask: "Can I help?” One time, it was gratifying, I opened the conversation in French, was told “I don’t speak French” so I could lapse into English. Turns out they were Germans.
You may have been expecting communiqués from Normandy this week as we revisit Rouen and take a side trip to Entretat where those rock formations are, and perhaps to the WW2 Normandy beaches. Thwarted again. Maybe next week. Meanwhile – au revoir and bonne chance. (whatever that means.)
Thursday, June 3, 2010
LETTER FROM PARIS #31 "welcome" to Paris.
There has always been a feeling that, France is not a very friendly place for strangers, whether they have come to settle or are simply visitors like us. I don’t think it is true, at least not any more. But the signs of disconnected newcomers to France are impossible to miss.
I had two very different and at the same time, very similar experiences. Both were women colour. The similarity was cosmetic. The differences were social, and they were huge.
The first. Shirley and I were at the coin laundry. We had arrived in time to take the only very large machine which would do most of our wash. The cycle was in its last seven or eight minutes. A young woman, probably Senegalese or Mali (which is what so many in Paris are) her spiky hair tinted red at the tips, entered with her cart of washing, took one angry look at the machine we were using, made a very sour sound, and sat down sullenly. I made a brief wisecrack to her about having to wait. I thought I was just being friendly. Stony silence.
We finished. She deposited her laundry and put coins in the machine. Nothing happaned. Out came a volley of obviously angry rapid fire French directed at me. I think was accusing me of doing something to thwart her laundry plans. (A woman who was in the place at the time and spoke English, confirmed that yes, she was somehow blaming us.) She stormed out, leaving her laundry inv the machine. After she left, it started up, obviously having needed a cooling off period before its mechanism started to function again. But hey – I’m no engineer.
The other. We were in the immensely popular Relais de Venise, where the only thing is steak-frites and all you can ask for is the way you want your steak. Seated on one side of us a French speaking couple from Lebanon. On the other side, an American couple.
We chatted. The conversation grew in interest and intimacy. They are both I.T. people who live in the Silicon Valley area of California. After a cordial dinner and an exchange of small talk, including a look at a picture of their five year old daughter, I suggested it was too early to end the evening – let’s go somewhere and have a drink. Outside the restaurant we finally introduced ourselves. They are Merline and Greg. Off we went to sit on the sidewalk and have an after dinner digestif. I find myself talking too much (what else is new?) Because of my age and my three month presence in Paris, it was natural that I would talk about retirement, about the book, and about how to stay connected. Greg told me that his father, a retired school principal, was retired, totally adrift and at loose ends. So I talked and talked and talked – about focus and planning and organization and about how being retired was not just about making sure you had enough money to survive.
Finally I realized I had monopolized the conversation. I asked Merlene to tell me about herself. This is where the comparison to the angry Senegalese woman became really vivid. Merlene, who earlier had said she still had some fragmented memories of French, came to Florida from Haiti. Given the demographics of Haiti, I had to presume that she did not come from affluence, and had arrived with her family in whatever precarious way many Haitians made their way to Florida and freedom. Perhaps she didn’t arrive on a tiny boat. Perhaps she came in much more easily. I don’t know. But she was five when she arrived. She thrived. She was, and still is, in love with mathematics. She graduated from Florida State, where she met Greg. If I got it right, he was at the other college in Tallahassee. They both have graduate degrees. They appear to be prosperous. Because I was so attracted by her story, and about her success, I wanted to tell her the story of the woman in the laundry. I didn’t. She didn’t seem to want to discuss race. So I didn’t.
But to myself I wondered. America has not always been a friendly place (and in many parts still is not) to their black citizens and even less so to people like Haitians many of whom arrive illegally and put pressure on whatever remnants of social safety nets exist in Florida. The state is not famous for its tolerance and leans politically to the right. This woman did have the chance to succeed. I didn’t ask her about alienation or exclusion. She was neither alienated nor excluded.
Because she put my name into her electronic gizmo and said she would Google it so she could read my blog, I wonder if she did. I wonder if she will read this. I wonder if she will be surprised at the comparison. I may never know.
I didn’t see the Senegalese woman again. We left before she returned. One of a million stories that leaves you wondering about the ending. Will there even be one?
I had two very different and at the same time, very similar experiences. Both were women colour. The similarity was cosmetic. The differences were social, and they were huge.
The first. Shirley and I were at the coin laundry. We had arrived in time to take the only very large machine which would do most of our wash. The cycle was in its last seven or eight minutes. A young woman, probably Senegalese or Mali (which is what so many in Paris are) her spiky hair tinted red at the tips, entered with her cart of washing, took one angry look at the machine we were using, made a very sour sound, and sat down sullenly. I made a brief wisecrack to her about having to wait. I thought I was just being friendly. Stony silence.
We finished. She deposited her laundry and put coins in the machine. Nothing happaned. Out came a volley of obviously angry rapid fire French directed at me. I think was accusing me of doing something to thwart her laundry plans. (A woman who was in the place at the time and spoke English, confirmed that yes, she was somehow blaming us.) She stormed out, leaving her laundry inv the machine. After she left, it started up, obviously having needed a cooling off period before its mechanism started to function again. But hey – I’m no engineer.
The other. We were in the immensely popular Relais de Venise, where the only thing is steak-frites and all you can ask for is the way you want your steak. Seated on one side of us a French speaking couple from Lebanon. On the other side, an American couple.
We chatted. The conversation grew in interest and intimacy. They are both I.T. people who live in the Silicon Valley area of California. After a cordial dinner and an exchange of small talk, including a look at a picture of their five year old daughter, I suggested it was too early to end the evening – let’s go somewhere and have a drink. Outside the restaurant we finally introduced ourselves. They are Merline and Greg. Off we went to sit on the sidewalk and have an after dinner digestif. I find myself talking too much (what else is new?) Because of my age and my three month presence in Paris, it was natural that I would talk about retirement, about the book, and about how to stay connected. Greg told me that his father, a retired school principal, was retired, totally adrift and at loose ends. So I talked and talked and talked – about focus and planning and organization and about how being retired was not just about making sure you had enough money to survive.
Finally I realized I had monopolized the conversation. I asked Merlene to tell me about herself. This is where the comparison to the angry Senegalese woman became really vivid. Merlene, who earlier had said she still had some fragmented memories of French, came to Florida from Haiti. Given the demographics of Haiti, I had to presume that she did not come from affluence, and had arrived with her family in whatever precarious way many Haitians made their way to Florida and freedom. Perhaps she didn’t arrive on a tiny boat. Perhaps she came in much more easily. I don’t know. But she was five when she arrived. She thrived. She was, and still is, in love with mathematics. She graduated from Florida State, where she met Greg. If I got it right, he was at the other college in Tallahassee. They both have graduate degrees. They appear to be prosperous. Because I was so attracted by her story, and about her success, I wanted to tell her the story of the woman in the laundry. I didn’t. She didn’t seem to want to discuss race. So I didn’t.
But to myself I wondered. America has not always been a friendly place (and in many parts still is not) to their black citizens and even less so to people like Haitians many of whom arrive illegally and put pressure on whatever remnants of social safety nets exist in Florida. The state is not famous for its tolerance and leans politically to the right. This woman did have the chance to succeed. I didn’t ask her about alienation or exclusion. She was neither alienated nor excluded.
Because she put my name into her electronic gizmo and said she would Google it so she could read my blog, I wonder if she did. I wonder if she will read this. I wonder if she will be surprised at the comparison. I may never know.
I didn’t see the Senegalese woman again. We left before she returned. One of a million stories that leaves you wondering about the ending. Will there even be one?
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