The Dirty Dozen

There are certain moments in life you’ll never forget. For example, I remember exactly where I was when I discovered what was in a hot dog. It was revealed to me in the midst of a Trivial Pursuit game while I was sitting at a marble table in my grandma’s parlor. Up until that time corn dogs were part of my regular diet. They were sold in the Sonora High cafeteria along side a chafing dish stacked with deep fried burritos. I ate one or the other nearly every day for lunch, washed down with a mint It’s-It ice cream sandwich or a box of Hot Tamales. After that fateful game, however, I didn’t touch one for years. It took a San Francisco Giants game, peer pressure, lots of onions and mustard, and several pints of strong microbrew before I could finally eat another one.


Knowledge has tried to ruin my appetite once again. While on an oyster eating trip in Cancale, I read a plaque that described the oyster farming process, as well as the anatomy of an oyster. That's how I learned that oysters have anuses and that I had just eaten 12 of them.

There are some things we just don’t need to know or see. It reminds me of dining experience I once had at a restaurant near le Jardin du Luxembourg called La Ferrandaise, which is named after a type of cow from France’s Auvergne region. I chose the restaurant because it prides itself on its beef - so much so that is has adorned its walls with photos of cows with their big, brown eyes. When the waiter came, Fred ordered a nice rare steak. I had the fish.

An oral exam worse than a trip to the dentist

The oral portion of my French exam was odder than anticipated. Instead of sitting alone with my professor, the scenario unfolded in front of the entire class. I haven’t felt group humiliation on this level since showering after my 7th grade P.E. class - and just like then, the only person who seemed to enjoy it was the teacher. After all of us had spoken, some better than others, the graded written exams were distributed. The professor started with those who had failed. Arriving in front of their desks, she handed over their heavily marked exams and explained what they had done wrong. In most cases it was uncomfortable, but delicate - like an eyebrow wax. But then, from the front of the class, the professor told one student a few rows back that she would never advance to the next level because it was clear from the essay portion she suffered from dyslexia.

Just in case there were any doubts that the French are frank - and that medical advice is free here.

I'm too old for this!

Being with Fred for the past 8 years, I figured my days of doing the Walk of Shame were long over. But to my chagrin, it seems the Gods of Humiliation aren’t quite finished with me yet. So tomorrow morning, I’ll slip on the very clothes I’m wearing right now (and I really mean that because I haven’t done laundry this week, and this is France so I can), fold-up a square of toilet paper and wipe the flaking mascara from beneath my eyes and head out into the cold morning air. Embarrassed and tired, I’ll dodge upstanding citizens walking down the sidewalk on their way to work. Except this time, instead of walking from a regrettable experience, I'll be returning to the scene of one: Le Lycée Municipal d'Adultes de la Ville de Paris (The City of Paris High School for Adults). And, yes, “lycée” really does mean “high school” – would it kill them to leave me with a shred of dignity?

It was on the foregoing premises, in Room 10 at 10:30 this morning, where I took a 2 hour written French exam. After every other post high school exam, I've received the results via mail or posted on the wall next to an anonymous student I.D. number. But not here. And not tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I'll sit for the oral portion of the exam. More precisely, I'll be sitting face to face with the very professor who administered and corrected today's written exam. I can only imagine how awkward it's going to be as I look her in the eyes, searching for my words, trying to pretend that all that I did and all that I said the day before never happened.

And when it's all over, she'll grade my performance. To my face.

American Psycho

When I'm riding on the bus and I hear another passenger giving his or her phone number to the person on the other end, I want to memorize it and call them later for no particular reason. The urge is especially strong when they're obviously trying to be discrete by talking in a low voice.

Deputize me!

Yesterday the sun was shining in Paris. It had been a long time and it inspired me to bring my camera along for our afternoon walk so I could document the city's beauty. However, after exiting our apartment and walking just a few paces, I got another idea. Why not document the dog shit on the streets of Paris instead? At the end of the day, I could bundle them all together in a lovely diaporama and email them to Monsieur Bertrand Delanoë, our city's mayor.

We had only walked 300 yards and already we had been forced to stop 3 times so I could take my photos - roughly 1 photo every 300 feet. I quickly became bored of my "assignment" after realizing just how much work it was going to be. Honestly, people: if you can bend over to feed your dog, and you're obviously feeding it, you can bend over to pick up after it!





Later that night, by chance, I read an article that reported "65% of Parisians are very or rather satisfied with the cleanliness of their quarter"

Really? I must have been in the garden hosing off of my shoe when the pollster came knocking.

In reality, I'm extremely impressed with the maintenance crews in Paris, as is Willie Brown for what it's worth. They're out in force each day cleaning up after lazy Parsians (and their dogs)! In addition to the aforementioned dog droppings, people litter shamelessly here. It's astounding how often I see people drop trash on the sidewalk or dig into their pockets to discover an old candy wrapper which is then unceremoniously tossed to the ground. Fred recently asked a businessman why he intentionally threw his dirty Kleenex on the pavement when a trashcan was LITERALLY within an arms reach and he had to stand on the corner and WAIT for the light to change before he could cross the street anyway. He responded with a hurl of insults. And I once saw a mother grab and scold her toddler for bad behavior while she reached in her coat pocket with her free hand and unloaded a wad of paper into the air.

The fine for littering or not cleaning up after your dog here is 183 euros. Of course, I've never actually seen anyone receive a ticket. Perhaps the mayor could reassign half of the city's cleaning crew to issue tickets. The prevention-based model seems to work well for their healthcare system.

I will say this for Paris: when you see shit on the ground you know it's from a dog. After my last trip through the Tenderloin, I can’t confidently say that about San Francisco. While, in general, it is looked down upon to openly litter in the US, I was utterly digusted (gag reflex disgusted) by the filth in parts of the city. I spent 10 years there so you'd think I'd be used to it. So, either it has gotten worse, or my standards have gotten higher from living in Paris - which isn't saying much given my tirade above.

Eating in . . .

We've been cooking at home a lot more recently. In addition to learning how to cook together and saving money, I’ve discovered another benefit of eating at home. The service is better.

I focus too much on service when we eat out. Not just the service we’re receiving, but on the service other patrons are receiving as well. Having waitressed for five years, it's something that I can’t turn off. When we eat at home, if I need a spoon, I get up and get it. If I want more water, I get up and get it. And the best part is, when we’re done, we don’t have to wait 45 minutes to get our check. It’s a much more relaxing experience.

To help us along, we bought a few cookbooks. One is Fish & Fish by Delphine de Montalier. Last night, we used it to make oeufs de saumon au wasabi for the entrée and cabillaud en papillote à la vanille for the plat principal.


Oeufs de Saumon au Wasabi

The receipe calls for medium sized rattes (fingerling) potatoes of equal size. Boil the potatoes until soft, cool, and cut in half along the longest side. Clean out the potatoes with a grapefruit spoon or the tip of a potato peeler. Mash with creme fraiche and wasabi paste to texture and taste, add salt and pepper, and refill the empty potato skins with the miture. Scoop salmon eggs on each potato and serve. We did it differently this time by not using the skins. We formed the mixture into a nest, which we then filled with the eggs. We had a lot of potatoes left so we crumbled them in a ring around the nest, but next time I would toss some mâche in olive oil and make a wreath around the nest for color. Or, just serve in the skins as suggested in the recipe, which we've done before and is also good.


Cabillaud en Papillote à la Vanille

The original recipe called for lieu jaune (pollock), but the poissonnier was out and suggested cabillaud (cod) instead. First we mixed softened salted butter with the seeds of half a vanilla stick (cut half a stick in half and scrape out the seeds).

We placed a filet (one for each person) on a sheet of aluminum foil and spread the fish with the butter and vanilla seed mixture.

Then we greased a piece of aluminum foil with olive oil and placed it on top of the filet and folded the sides of the aluminum to create an envelope. Cook the fish in a pre-heated oven at 200 degrees celcius/390 degrees Fahrenheit for 12-15 minutes.

While the fish is cooking, drop the halves of the vanilla stick into some liquid creme fraiche and bring to a boil, then lower the heat while the liquid absorbs the vanilla. Boil (instant) basmati rice.

Open the envelope and pour the vanilla infused creme fraiche over the filet and serve. I made a fork hole in the side of the aluminum so the liquid could run out and flavor the rice. (Fred took his fish out of the foil, placing the fish on the plate without the butter and spooned the creme fraiche over his filet.)

The meal was good, but the rice was too bland. The recipe suggests that the rice be cooked with cardamom and olive oil. I didn't know what it was and didn't have the energy to find out, but next time it might be worth the effort.


"Little Chef" was on hand to answer questions.

We served it with this white burgundy. Yet another advantage of eating at home, drinking good wine without the mark-up!

The downside, of course, is having to do the dishes . . .

Let's Party

While the U.S. debates whether to lower the drinking age to 18, France is selling beer to children.

Yesterday, the little girl in front of me who looked about 9 years old bought a six-pack of 1664 with the 10 euro note she had crumpled up in her tiny hand. The cashier didn’t say a word. Nobody batted an eye. And she was not a midget. I asked her.

I always knew children were good for buying milk and toilet paper, but if they couldn’t do my full range of shopping I just never saw the point in having one. But if sending them on afterschool beer-runs is legal in this country, we might have to reconsider.

My Life in France

While we were in Normandy, I did a lot of reading. That’s because I was reading in English. When we moved here I told myself that if I had time to read books in English for leisure, I had time to study French. I never study French so I could never read. I took myself off book restriction during vacation because I really wanted to relax. Plus, I’ll be starting French courses again soon so I figured I could loosen the cuffs.

Luckily, the weather was mostly beautiful and I did the majority of my reading from this lounge chair:




One of the books I read was My Life in France by Julia Child with, her nephew, Alex Prud’homme.

I enjoyed this book in the sense that it gave me hope that I too will someday find my passion and be lucky enough to make a career of it. In fact, my friend recommended it when I told her I was thinking of quitting my job, but had no clue as to what to do next. Coupled with my lack of fluency in French, it seemed making a career change in France would be hopeless.

Another aspect of the book I enjoyed was her stories about old France, for example, when Les Halles was still based in Paris. I tried to imagine where she was, where she shopped, and the restaurants she ate in.

I also liked reading about the deep love and respect she had for her husband, Paul. They seemed to share a very strong bond and be best friends. They spent their time working on interesting projects, side-by-side, and traveling the world together. He seemed to support her each step of the way, starting from the very beginning by encouraging her to cook.

Midway through the book, however, the tone changed and became somewhat negative. Julia took several opportunities to criticize Simone ("Simca") Beck, her “French sister” and co-author of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It seemed petty, as if she wanted to inform the reader that she did the majority of the work. Even worse, she didn’t even have the courage to own it. She often cowardly communicated the criticism through the voice of her husband, e.g., Paul says that Simca isn’t doing her fair share, Paul expressed concerns that I’m doing most of the work, etc.

Of course, she did have positive things to say about many people, including Simca. And, frankly, at 92 I think she just didn't give a ratatouille. Also, she died before the book was finished so in fairness it could have just been the way it was written by her nephew and/or edited.

After reading this book, I would have loved to have read My Life with Julia by Simca Beck. A book we'll never know as Simca died before Julia.

Addendum: I’d like to add that I saw the movie Julie & Julia, and the hits just keep on coming. This time the film was used as an opportunity to slam Irma Rombauer and The Joy of Cooking (which I happen to think is a very good cookbook, but I’m not being biased). Like Simca Beck, Ms. Rombauer is dead. Tacky! Now that Julia is too, perhaps it’s time for her so-called friends to tell nasty stories about her?!

Swine Swoon

Move over baby donkey . . .




Now there's something meatier. Behold my new love (sorry eeyore):




This beautiful creature is the love child of a pure bred shar pei and a standard farm pig. Just kidding, he's a chinese pig. At least, I think it's a he. To be honest I was too afraid to look at its backside. With a face like that, I'm not sure I want to know what the other end has in store. Luckily, Fred clicked a photo as the beast walked away, just in case I ever change my mind. One day, when I'm feeling brave, I'll take the picture out of the frame on his desk and share it with you.

I've named the little piggy Mu Shu. Unfortunately, he wasn't staying with us in Normandy. While our vacation home was wonderful, it did not have Mu Shu. He lives in a much better place, a calvados distillery.

Now do you understand why I'm in love?

Looks can be deceiving . . .

The other day a woman, wearing beautiful clothing similar to that pictured here, carelessly pushed her way onto the RER with such force that she scalped my forearm with her bangles. I let out a loud sigh as an expression of my anger (because I wasn't sure of how to say "scalped" or "skinned alive" in French and I refuse to speak in English straightaway because I don’t want to give my possibly-fluent enemy ammunition). She gave me an indignant look as if I were in the wrong and we spent the next few minutes staring at each other with death in our eyes. But then we both realized she had my DNA all over her and thought better of it.