C'est la me . . .

Ô Château: Afternoon Delight

2011-04-13T12:01:00.060+02:00

Perhaps it’s called “Ô Château” after its adorable and animated sommelier-owner, Olivier Magny. He definitely knows how to please.

We first visited Ô Château several years ago in Olivier’s apartment/tasting room in the 11th arrondissement of Paris where we did the Wine & Cheese Tasting Lunch. He’s moved twice since then. First, to a proper commercial space near the Louvre and again, just recently, into an even bigger location to make room for a wine bar/restaurant.

To evolve like this in Paris, Olivier and his now team are obviously doing something right. Having just visited the new place, I can tell you first-hand what it is: They love what they do and they love sharing it. The friendly service is so refreshing for a moment I actually forgot I was in Paris. I quickly remembered, however, when my food arrived. Lunch was prepared by Chef Tiffany Depardieu, formerly of Jules Vernes. We enjoyed a creamy carrot and parsnip soup followed by a quinoa and smoked duck breast salad. The menu also includes appetizers: cheese and charcuterie plates, escargots, etc.

On the wine side, they boast 40 by the glass (including Pétrus) and 400 by the bottle, which can be enjoyed upstairs at the wine bar or downstairs in the lounge on leather sofas and chairs – also a perfect place to enjoy a digestif.

This is a great place to grab ~~a quick lunch~~**, ~~meet for a happy hour of wine and cheese, or~~*** arrange a tasting or private party in one of their two tasting rooms.

Organized Wine Tastings: 30€, 50€, 80€ (for “Grands Crus”); Wine & Cheese Tasting Lunch: 75€; Wine Tasting Dinner: 130€; Champagne Cruise: 45€; Lunch: 14€; Dinner: 28€

68, rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau, 75001 Paris
Métro Louvre -Rivoli (Line 1) or Etienne Marcel (line 4)
http://www.o-chateau.com/

Addendum: After posting this piece on The Dish and The Dirt, I received inquiries/comments regarding the prices at Ô Château and what some perceived, including the French paper L'Express, as being too high. On this point, I do believe the tastings by the glass are a bit pricey. ~~In fact, we would have been much better off ordering a bottle of wine~~*** (which seems a bit incompatible since the "theme" of the bar is tastings). While this is generally the case in most restaurants, it is particularly true at this one. However, the barman told us that the restaurant had only been open a week and that they were considering either lowering the prices of their tastings by the glass or providing larger servings. I got the impression they're still working on finding the good price point/what the market will bear. Additionally, if you're a fan of Ô Château on Facebook, you're entitled to 10% off the check - which makes the prices easier to swallow.

**Please view comment section below. Olivier from Ô Château has provided info on new prices and new hours (no longer open for lunch).

***Second addendum: After receiving Olivier's comments below, I returned to Ô Château to check out the new prices and to see what it would be like at night (opposed to a Saturday lunch, which is when my husband and I had first visited). The bar was nearly full with a nice mix of tourists and locals at 7.30 pm, and was completely full an hour later. Both group tasting rooms were booked, as well. We sat at the bar this time, opposed to a table. Being on the shorter to average side and a former liability attorney, I found the stools a bit unstable/comfortable. However, the employees working the bar were nice and fun and we enjoyed our exchanges with them. We ordered the 24 euro dinner menu, which included a soup, a "tapas" style plate, and a dessert. Once again, I was impressed by the quality of the food, especially for the price. As for the wine, the prices of the glasses had been lowered. We each had a 10 cl. (3.4 oz) glass of Jura (me white, my friend red) at 8.90 euros and a 15 cl. (5 oz) glass for 12.20 euros. I asked to see the wine-by-the-bottle list as my husband had remarked that it was significantly cheaper to buy by the bottle (hence my comment above). I was searching the list for the bottle I had previously seen at 36 euros; it was no longer there. Olivier informed me he had removed the lower priced wines from the list to motivate people to order by the glass. I think the cheapest bottle was about 49 euros ($70.00), but I could be wrong as I flipped through it quickly. After this last visit, I wanted to revise what I said previously about it being a great place to meet for drinks. If you want to hang out and relax with friends in a comfortable environment with the focus being on the company not necessarily the wine, then I'm not sure this would be the right fit. (And based on certain comments made by Olivier that evening, I get the impression he doesn't want this type of client; I happen to fall into this category, btw). However, if you are interested in wine tasting and would like to take a course or already know about wine and want to sit at the bar and taste some by the glass (especially some higher-end ones that you wouldn’t otherwise have the opportunity to do) then you would probably like Ô Château.

Paris in the Springtime

2011-04-05T22:06:00.015+02:00

Finally, spring is here! And I feel like an animal coming out of hibernation (if only I burned body fat during the winter like one).

Palais Royal

To celebrate the arrival of the new season, Shannon at Je Ne Sais Quoi invited me to contribute to her piece "Why Paris Bloggers Love Paris in the Springtime." Here is my two centimes, as well as my favorite picnic spot in the city:

I can find things to love about Paris all year round, but the city is a bit more lovable in spring. Winter isn’t exactly a tough act to follow. Spring offers the beginning of longer days and picnic weather. My favorite picnic spot is Parc Montsouris. With its puppet shows, pony rides, trains, playgrounds and name (which translates to Mice Mountain), I like to think this park was an early inspiration for Disneyland. The large lake in the center—which attracts birds other than city pigeons—and the hidden wooded trails will make you feel like you’re on Tom Sawyer Island. And if you don’t feel like packing a picnic basket, Parc Montsouris has concession stands offering up cotton candy, ice cream and crêpes. There’s even a proper restaurant in the park with a view of the lake, the Pavillon Montsouris.

To read what other Paris bloggers think of spring in Paris, please check out the full article on Girls' Guide to Paris. Thanks!

Guest Blog - Misadventures with Andi ("A Passion for Paris")

2011-04-04T08:14:00.005+02:00

Bonjour, friends!

I recently wrote a guest post for Misadventures with Andi for her series "A Passion for Paris." Andi loves Paris and asked some of her blogger friends to share their stories about their love for Paris too. Here is mine:

A Passion for Paris . . .

My passion for Paris developed over time – a flicker that grew into a flame opposed to love at first sight. I’d been living in San Francisco for 10 years prior to moving to Paris and already felt like I’d won the-perfect-city-to-live-in lottery. Plus, because I was moving to Paris (most likely) permanently, I think I viewed the city with a critical eye opposed to someone on holiday. It was my new home and I didn’t like that my new home had dog poop everywhere, aggressive commuters, biting weather and short days. I probably should have moved in springtime not winter. In the end, however, I was no match for Paris. She has been stealing American hearts for decades and mine was no exception. Little by little she won me over and I fell in love. Here is how she did it:

1. The Newness

After five years, I can still get lost in Paris. Twenty “arrondissements” equals twenty different places to discover; each has its own monuments, character and story. Today, I explored a new corner of Butte-aux-Cailles in the 13th arrondissement. Last night, I dined at a friend’s place in the 9th arrondissement. The brasseries were straight out of an old French film and some of the store fronts hadn’t been touched in more than a century. Tomorrow, I might stand on a footbridge over the Canal Saint Martin in the 10th arrondissement and watch the water rise as a boat prepares to pass beneath me. Whatever I do, I will not be bored and I’m guaranteed to see or learn something new whether it’s a word “en français,” the name of a historical figure on a street sign, a chateau on a wine bottle, how to convert a cup of flour to grams while making gougères, or random street art.

To read the rest of my story, please visit Andi's blog by clicking here. Thank you!

A Tip on Tipping in France

2011-03-03T07:47:00.029+01:00

(I recently posted a piece on the San Francisco food blog The Dish and The Dirt on tipping in France. I've reposted it below in case some of you might find it helpful. Nobody wants to short change the server, but inadvertently over-tipping is annoying too. Thanks for reading!)

Waitressing in California in the early 90s, I’d immediately write off my tip the moment I heard a foreign accent. In France, however, an American accent evokes the opposite response according to my French waiter friends. As many of you know, tipping in France is different than in the States. In France, it’s (pretty much) included in the check and in the U.S. it’s not.

There is a slight distinction regarding terminology that can be confusing. A surcharge of about 15% is included in the check for table service in France which the French refer to as “le service” but what Americans commonly think of as the tip. But, in French, “the tip” or “the gratuity” is called “le pourboire”.

When dining in France, you should consider that a 15% tip is already included in the grand total of the check (“l’addition”), as is the value-added tax (“TVA” = “taxe sur la valeur ajoutée”). There is usually a separate line item before the total indicating the tax, but not one indicating le service. At the bottom of the check you might find written “service compris” or “service inclus” – highlighting that the service is included, but even if this phrase does not appear it’s in there.

For example, if the total on the check is 37€ (and this is an estimate), it means the food price is 30€, the service charge is 5€ and the tax is 2€. You do not have to leave anything more. That being said, it is customary to leave un pourboire if you enjoyed the service. Some like to round up to the next “elegant number” – if the total bill is 86€, leave 90€; some like to add an additional 5% to get the server to 20%. I think it all depends on the type of place you’re in, how long you were there, and the service you received.

Here are some random examples:

- In a café if I ordered a coffee that cost 2.80€, I’d leave 3€. If the coffee cost 2.50€ and I didn’t feel like waiting for change I’d leave 3€. If the coffee cost 3€ and I had exact change and no small coins, I might leave nothing. (But I’d probably feel guilty. Having been a waitress I can’t fight the compulsion to leave a little something. Although many French people are completely fine with leaving nothing.)

- If I ordered lunch and my total bill was 18.50€, I might leave 20€. If I lunched with a friend and it was 38.50€, we might leave 40€, i.e., 1.50€ extra in both cases.

- We recently dined with another couple and the bill was a bit over 300€. We paid by credit card (and in France you can’t leave a tip on a credit card unless you ask the server to add it into the total, and I’m not sure that’s always possible) and then left a 10€ bill – not 5%, but the server seemed pleased with the amount.

It seems there's an art to everything in France, even tipping!

Abusing the “I” in iPhone!

2011-02-15T08:30:00.001+01:00

Remember when the most annoying thing in the restaurant was the screaming child next to you? Now, thanks to technology many adults can act like children too. Unfortunately, there isn’t a parent there to take them outside and reprimand them for their obnoxious behavior. Don’t get me wrong, I love my cell phone as much as the next person, but I don't love having my dining experience interrupted by ringing phones and having to listen to people have extended conversations like they’re sitting in their living rooms. What is so important that it can’t wait an hour or less? And, if it is that important, shouldn’t you be rushing to the hospital to check on the accident victim - not laughing your way through dessert with a spoon in one hand and your cell in the other? If you really can’t live one hour without your phone, put it on vibrate and leave it in your lap or back pocket or on the table if you must. And then go outside or in the bathroom to answer it. Or better yet, eat at home. I’ve seen a few restaurants and beauty salons that have a “no cell phone” policy. I hope this trend catches on. Considering France only banned cigarettes in restaurants a few years ago, I’m thinking I might be the one eating at home more often. Thank god for Picard!

2011-01-03T13:26:00.027+01:00

Project: Happily Ever After
saving your marriage when the fairytale falters
by Alisa Bowman

Shortly before Christmas, I was invited to participate in a virtual book tour for the recently released “Project: Happily Ever After - Saving Your Marriage When the Fairytale Falters” written by Alisa Bowman. I've never finished a self-help book in my life (which probably explains a lot) so I was fairly proud of myself for finishing this one in just three days. The fact that my in-laws were staying with us at the time might have helped. Being a holiday weekend in

France

, there weren’t many entertainment options open and it was too cold to spend long periods of time outside strolling around the city. The risk of catching cabin fever in our smallish Parisian apartment was high. Going to my room to read "in order to meet a deadline” offered the perfect reason to excuse myself from the group when I got tired of speaking French or simply tired of listening to my mother-in-law speak. (I’m not sure my last comment would be Happily-Ever-After approved).

In reality, Alisa deserves the large majority of credit for me finishing my first self-help book. I think it's because this book doesn't really seem like one. She offers tips throughout the book and "bullet points" at the end of each chapter summarizing the main ideas, but the text itself isn't preachy and the advice doesn't involve standing in front of a mirror repeating positive phrases. She shares her story and details what worked for her. In fact, I felt like I was reading a boy-meets-girl (and everything that comes after) story or a series of letters written by a girlfriend. The book held my interest and I wanted to know how their love story would end – or not end as the case may be.

However, because I consider myself happily married – and lucky, I wasn’t sure that I would find this book anything more than entertaining. I was surprised then to find myself randomly thinking of it after I had finished it and placed it on my bookshelf. There are parts of the book - the section on forgiveness, for example - that I think apply to relationships with friends and family, as well. The book also serves as a reminder for happy couples that they shouldn’t assume just because they are happy today that they will be tomorrow. Marriages and people change.

In sum, with honesty and humor, Alisa describes how she went from being in a marriage so miserable that she dreamt of planning her husband’s funeral to eventually renewing her wedding vows. She did so by reading a stack of marital improvement books (as an added bonus she provides “CliffsNotes” on portions of some of these books), interviewing happily married friends, and rekindling her sex life with the help of "The Martini", a sexy bikini wax.

To learn more about Alisa, the Project, and her book, you can visit her blog: Project Happily Ever After. You can also see a video of Alisa and her husband and read a sample chapter from her book here: video and sample chapter.

I feel dirty

2010-12-04T11:04:00.005+01:00

One of the disadvantages of city living is the lack of space. Growing up in Orange County, we had a two car garage in which to store old yearbooks, tools, and Christmas decorations. In Paris, we have caves. In addition to the foregoing, we also use them to store winter clothes (something not needed in sunny Southern California), moving boxes (because either you or one of your friends will eventually need those precious pieces of cardboard again) and finally the blow-up mattress for visitors (when your home is turned into a B&B).

Some Parisians don't even have access to their caves. Garage sales not being the norm in France, landlords are sometimes reluctant to part with that wee bit of storage when they rent out their apartments. Fortunately, we do have a cave and most of the time I'm really grateful for the extra space, except when something like this happens:

I recently went down to get a few bottles of wine for a dinner party and was shocked to find them, as well as a few other negligible items like a computer and armoire, covered in mud - an odd smelling mud. The guardian of our building informed me that the main evacuation pipe (for les toilettes) had been clogged. When it was unplugged, a leak ensued. He concluded that was the source of the mud explosion. In sum, our belongings were coated in a cocktail of my neighbors’ urine and fecal matter. And probably some of ours too, but that was more tolerable. I was fine changing my niece's baby diaper, she's family. But the thought of changing the collective diaper of my 16 unit building made me want my mommy. Or at least my husband!

I had a real dilemma on my hands (ewwww!). Either act like an adult and clean it up myself or pretend like nothing happened and send Fred down to get the wine when he got home from work. In the interim, I would practice my surprised face for when he returned to inform me that our cave had been turned into a septic tank. As a teenager I would always leave one bite of leftovers in the Tupperware so I wouldn't have to clean it. Thus, I wasn't surprised to find myself leaning towards option two. However, there were two problems with this plan: (1) the guardian could place me at the scene; and (2) the bottles needed time to chill before our guests arrived.

In the end, I decided I couldn't wait for Fred. I put on some rubber gloves and washed, scrubbed and doused the bottles in alcohol myself. The judging eyes of my French guests as I poured them a glass of white wine over ice cubes seemed far worse than having to handle human excrement.

Your Friend in Paris

2010-11-06T15:01:00.115+01:00

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live like a Parisian? Unless you’re prepared to travel with a dog or take up smoking, I think the easiest and most enjoyable way to experience la belle vie while visiting France is by shopping and eating.

I’ve been living in Paris for five years now. While I’d like to pretend that I spend my days strolling along selecting cheeses and chocolates from small shops, I’d be exaggerating. Sometimes I’m forced to go to the supermarket due to time constraints, hours of operation, or the simple fact that I need to buy toilet paper.

On the weekend, however, I really do try to frequent the farmer’s market and small shops in my quartier. Little by little, you start to develop a relationship with the vendors and they remember you. With my accent, it usually doesn’t take all that long. My second visit to the produce shop on rue Mouffetard, I was greeted with “Bonjour, Miss California.” I’m still smiling. And a few weeks later, after I’d paid for all my fruits and vegetables, I realized that I’d forgotten a lime. When I told him it was for my vodka tonic, he placed it in my hand with a wink and refused my money.

My cheese lady will slice off a piece of brie and let me taste it to make sure it meets my expectations regarding ripeness. She’ll also select a seasonal cheese for me – assuming she can understand what I’m saying. Some months ago, we performed an Abbott & Costello routine for those in line. I asked for a cheese “en saison” (in season). She kindly responded, with a straight face, that she did not have a cheese of “six ans” (six years old). The pronunciation is identical to my ears – and apparently to hers. Luckily, my French husband was there to clarify “Who’s On First,” but only after he enjoyed the show.

For me, these little interactions make food shopping in Paris fun. I admit, when I first moved here I was uncomfortable approaching vendors and asking questions – partly because of the language barrier and partly because I was afraid of encountering the infamous “rude” French person (which often can be chalked up to cultural difference and not actual rudeness). It was easier for me to go to the supermarket, throw things in a cart, hand over the cash and walk out.

The French may be spoiled with le marché, but there are days when I miss Safeway more than my parents. My supermarket was recently out of Q-tips for two weeks. When they finally arrived, the employee recognized me and my waxy ears by this point (the fact that I could never remember how to say cotton swabs in French and had to mime it out by sticking my finger in my ear each time probably helped as well) and suggested that I stock up and buy three boxes to last me through winter. I never imagined that care packages sent from California would not only include taco seasoning and Cheez-its, but Q-tips too!

Living like a Parisian is not always perfect, but it certainly can be if you go about it the right way. The beauty of being on vacation is that you can choose what you’d like to do with your time and plan accordingly. For example, I recently took part in Context Travel’s “Baguette to Bistro: Culinary Traditions of Paris” walking seminar. The fact is there is always something new to see and, more importantly, taste here and I was curious to find out what Context Travel had on its plate. Plus, I’m often asked by friends and friends of friends for travel tips, I thought it would be a good experience and one I could recommend if I enjoyed myself, which I did – immensely!

The tour started at 10:00 a.m. I met my docent, Meg Zimbeck, in front of a café where rue du Bac hits the Seine. I was pleased to find that there were only three other participants joining us that day. Meg referred to us as "visitors" not tourists, which I thought was a nice touch and appropriate as it really felt like we were just a group of friends meeting up for a little shopping. It was immediately obvious that this was not going to be an ordinary tour. There would be no red umbrella to follow, no "bus leaves in 10 minutes" shouted through the end of a bullhorn, and no herding, corralling or waiting in long lines at the souvenir shop.

After introductions and a little small talk, the official tour began. Meg offered us some interesting historical information about the 7th arrondissement, the setting for our tasting tour, and we were off!

Picture yourself walking down a narrow street lined with boutiques and shops then popping into la boulangerie to buy some freshly baked bread.

Meg explaining what to look for in a good baguette regarding texture and taste at La Maison Kayser

After that, you visit la fromagerie across the street to taste a few cheeses that you selected with the aid of a master. You'll need something to spread all over the crusty baguette you just bought - although it really is so delicious you could eat it solo.

Window of Androuet - Master Cheesemaker

Partial view of cheeses at Androuet

You’re back on the tiny sidewalk again, but seeing all those delicious pastries at the boulangerie has awoken your sweet tooth (he’s small but demanding!). You could return to the boulangerie to pick up a pain aux raisins, but why look back when straight ahead there is a shop specifically dedicated to sweet things: la pâtisserie! You go inside and peruse the decadent offerings and have one boxed up for later.

Le Saint-Honoré at
La Pâtisserie des Rêves
(The Pastry Shop of Dreams)
by Philippe Conticini

Le Frutier de Saison (lemon, white chocolate, and dates)

After admiring creations that so closely resemble artwork they are kept under glass, you cannot be expected to wait until “later” to get your sugar fix so you take une petite pause at your local chocolatier for some instant gratification.

Chapon Chocolatier
Pocket-sized!

Like jewelry!

Several flavors of chocolate mousse
to choose from!

Ooh là là! It's already half past noon, but you have one last stop. La cave, of course. You enter and admire the beautiful bottles of fine Bordeaux wines, while doing so the lovely caviste offers you a sampling of an hors d’age Armagnac which you gladly accept. I guess it really is good to be French!

Armagnac tasting at Ryst-Dupeyron

There were three things that I particularly enjoyed about the tour. The first, and probably the most obvious, was getting to learn about the products and having the opportunity to taste them on the spot and ask follow-up questions about ingredients, the process, etc. Secondly, I liked that our group was small which meant there was enough time to stray off topic and discuss questions about culture, customs, and favorite restaurants (which is why I would recommend taking the tour early in your trip so you'll have time to put this wealth of knowledge to work). Finally, going back to the relationship aspect I mentioned above, Meg (or Context Travel docents, in general) has a relationship with the shop owners/employees because she is a regular customer. Thus, as her "visitor" you get a real French shopping experience.

If you'd like to do some "window shopping" or as the French call it "window licking" (lèche-vitrine, because they just can't keep their tongues in their mouths), to hold you over til your trip to Paris, here are the places we visited:

La Maison Kayser
Androuet
La Pâtisserie des Rêves
Chapon Chocolatier
Ryst-Dupeyron

And, of course:
Context Travel's "Baguette to Bistro: Culinary Traditions of Paris"
Duration: 2.5 hours (minimum, my tour went over)
Price: €70, plus €10 tasting fee

I feel sick

2010-11-04T23:33:00.006+01:00

My friends with children often joke about how they eat their kids' Halloween candy or sneak licks of their ice cream cones. They call it joking but I view it as bragging, especially since I always struggle to narrow down my ice cream selections to just two flavors. Of course, triple scoops exist here but I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to order as many French people consider drinking a third glass of wine as unladylike behavior. One of my lucky girlfriends has three boys all under the age of four, which means they're still young enough for her to order for them (i.e., select the flavors she wants) and she simply looks like an attentive mother as she eats junks of dried cookie dough off their little cheeks. Needless to say, I'm jealous.

This past weekend, Fred and I played parents to his thirteen year old second cousin. At the restaurant, I tried to steer her towards a hamburger. I was excited by the idea that I might get to help her with her leftover french fries. But to my dismay and disgust, she ordered rognons de veau (veal kidneys). She might be the only person I know who eats them by choice. The only other person I've ever heard of eating them did so on accident because he forgot his dictionary while traveling in Montpellier and he still gags when speaking of the incident. To put things in perspective, he considers pigs' feet a delicacy so his repugnant food threshold is pretty high.

In the end, my experiment completely backfired. Not only was I unable to eat her food, but I could barely finish mine.

Bobbing for internal organs!

So disgusting even the camera was weeping.
It refused to focus.

BFFF = Best Food Friends Forever!

2010-10-19T16:58:00.012+02:00

I moved to Paris in late 2005 and immediately started gaining weight. French women may not get fat, but apparently American women living in France do. The fact is I don't smoke and I enjoy eating too much to let food sit on my plate and pretend I'm not hungry.

I appreciate all kinds of food from kebabs, the French equivalent of a California burrito, to la grande cuisine francaise. My absolute favorite, however, is great food at a reasonable price without pretentious service. While Michelin-rated restaurants are definitely a treat every once in a while, why just eat one meal when you can have three or four for the same price?

Based on the foregoing, my good friend Dina asked me if I'd be interested in writing occasional food reviews about my experiences in France for her San Francisco based food blog The Dish & The Dirt. Dina is a former classmate, former roommate, played wing woman the night I met my husband, gave the toast at my wedding, introduced me to the writings of David Sedaris, and loves to eat as much and as often as I do. I said yes and have been very excited about it ever since. Basically, everything I've ever done with this woman has turned out to be a positive experience (except maybe the Atkins Diet) and I'm sure this will be no exception.

I hope you enjoy reading along as I walk and eat my way through the streets of Paris, which I finally discovered really is the best way to indulge in all the French food I want and (mostly) still fit into my beloved American blue jeans!

My very first review can be viewed here: A Room with No View.

Thank you!

Color me deformed!

2010-10-07T14:18:00.052+02:00

Inspired by a wonderful blog post about Montmartre written by Linsdey at Lost in Cheeseland, I pulled out an old photo album for some good memories and some great laughs!

Like most tourists, I wanted to visit Montmartre my first trip to Paris. It's more like a charming village rather than a quarter of a giant city. Because of this, along with its beautiful views, the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur and the film Amélié, it is overrun with tourists. And where there are tourists, there are tourist traps. I fell for the most common of all: The Portrait.

People used to tell me that I looked like Shannen Doherty. I was not thrilled by the comparison, especially since I thought she had a crooked face and a squinty eye. As I grew older, and Bevery Hills 90210 was no longer on the air, I didn't hear it quite as often. In fact, I had nearly forgotten about it until this sketch.

Luckily, when viewing this work of "art" most people are so surprised that Greg Kinnear agreed to pose with me that they hardly notice my lop-sided face. (That day I also learned that my neck is as thick as a linebacker's.) This worst part is I distinctly remember that the peanut gallery of tourists that had congregated behind the "artist" to judge his work were nodding approvingly and giving me the thumbs-up.

Guest Blog - Misadventures with Andi

2010-10-02T08:05:00.003+02:00

I was recently asked to write a guest blog for Andi at "Misadventures with Andi." She had a great idea for a post: "How to be Parisian in San Francisco" and asked me for a few suggestions given that I lived in San Francisco and currently live in Paris. I was very flattered and honored to be featured on her blog! Please click here to read my tips.

2kg ≠ 20/20

2010-10-01T07:48:00.002+02:00

I need to learn the metric system or stop being so cheap. Last week, I bought 2 kilograms of carrot at the marché to save .60 centimes. I’m pretty sure my husband is sick of having carrot sticks and ranch dressing for dinner and I’m sick of having orange finger nails and washing the vegetable peeler. I'm always afraid I'm going to nick off a bit of finger skin. (I'm also afraid that my left kneecap will someday be ripped off by the back bumper of a car as it drives past me while I'm standing on the sidewalk). And for those of you who think there might be a silver lining, I'm wearing glasses as I type this.

Ay Caramba!

2010-09-30T09:06:00.031+02:00

"Looking for a cook in our Mexican restaurant. No knowledge of mexican cuisine is necessary . . . "

This explains so much about the Mexican food in Paris.

Update: Just read exciting news on Adrian Moore's blog about a new taqueria in Paris. Can't wait to try it!

Update2: I just walked by a new casual Mexican restaurant at 127 rue Mouffetard, 75005. It's called BocaMexa. It's not quite an authentic taqueria, more like a little Baja Fresh. I'll have to give it a try and report back.

We tried BocaMexa, all I can say is that it was very average. It tasted good, it just wasn't nearly as good as a burrito we could get back in California - or to be fair, it did not taste like what I am used to. I will go back though. The staff was super friendly and excited about the concept. Plus, takes less than 10 minutes for me to walk there. Those two points count for something. Although, I am willing to trek to El Nopal near Canal St. Martin if it really is authentic.

Update3: I also want to check out Casa Palenque over by Montparnasse. It looks like it could be good.

I'm just hoping none of these restaurants posted the ad on craigslist.

One Way Street (heading in their direction)

2010-09-28T18:13:00.002+02:00

The French are infamous for keeping their private lives private and for becoming uncomfortable if you ask if they have children or if they’re married or where they live or what they do for a living or blah, blah, blah. I’m finding that this is not a two-way street. It seems that having an accent gives them free license to ask me whatever they feel like. There is a pattern, but I’ll give the two examples fresh in my mind because they happened yesterday and today. Yesterday, I was asked if I owned or rented my apartment by a complete stranger. Today, while waiting for the elevator a neighbor whom I never met arrived in the lobby. I asked him if I should hold the elevator. He said no as he was taking the stairs. Then he asked me if I was Madame So-and-so’s babysitter on the first floor. I said no, I live here. Then he said “oh, because I called her house the other day and a woman with the same accent answered the phone – an accent from, from, from . . . .” I let him stutter for a few moments before I offered: "American?" Then he asked from which state. When I said California, he asked if I was from Palo Alto. Because even though he couldn’t identify my country of orgin, he thought he'd nail the city. No, I answered and provided the city. Then he skipped away happy; his file on me complete. I seriously wouldn’t care if they didn’t have such attitude about being private and accusing Americans of being prying. I still don’t know his name, what floor he lives on, or why he cares where I’m from. Maybe I'm jaded. Maybe he was just trying to be neighborly. But had the roles been reversed, I'm sure he wouldn't have been so jolly.

If you can't beat them . . .

2010-09-07T11:37:00.002+02:00

The other day on my way to a wine shop a woman stopped me and asked me where she could find a certain street. I said I didn't know. Presumably because of my accent, she interpreted it to mean that I couldn't understand and walked off in a huff for having wasted her time on me. When I arrived at the wine shop, I posed my question in French. The vendor responded in (bad) English and told me that he did not have what I was looking for. At the second wine shop, I again posed my question in French and the vendor responded in French, but corrected my grammar (I used the wrong gender). I did get my revenge on my way home, however, when a Red Cross worker asked me for a donation and I responded "Sorry, I don't speak French." Petty, I know, but it did make me feel better.

Dreams of Advil meth lab thwarted!

2010-08-21T10:31:00.002+02:00

We recently finished our 500 tablet bottle of ibuprofen that our friends smuggled in from the U.S. last year so I went to the pharmacy to pick up more. Yes, the pharmacy – the actual pharmacy where pharmacists stand behind a counter in white coats and drugs are kept behind a counter. I requested the largest box permissible: 30 tablets. I then listened as the pharmacist gave me instructions on use (6 per day max, 2 at a time with water, preferably with a meal). In the U.S. people will file lawsuits if you don't warn them that coffee is hot so I get why it could be necessary there, but even we’re trusted to purchase and use Advil at will. Fortunately, France doesn't have the frivolous lawsuit problem so I'm not sure why such measures are necessary here. It does explain, however, why there is a pharmacy on nearly every corner.

Welcome to the IRS Watch List

2010-07-26T18:38:00.001+02:00

TurboTax is officially dead to me. Last week I received a letter from the IRS. The type of letter you hope you never get, especially a few months after tax day. I was informed I owed an additional $400 as I am ineligible for the Making Work Pay Tax Credit - a credit I never even knew existed until TurboTax told me I was eligible for it. The letter prompted a quick Google search, which confirmed that nonresidents do not qualify for the credit. You would think that having a foreign address and completing the Foreign Earned Income schedule would have served as good indicators that the credit did not apply to me. If the Glee kids can tell I live in France and are savvy enough to enforce international licensing laws thereby preventing me from watching full episodes for free on their website, you'd think that Intuit, a publicly traded software company with a program specifically designed to do taxes would be able to figure it out - it's certainly obvious to them that I live abroad when I try to enter my foreign billing address. Honestly, if I wanted to make a stupid mistake on my taxes, I would have done them myself. And it’s not worth calling to complain as I’m already up to speed on the Sandra Bullock divorce/custody battle saga.

The Big Bread Theory

2010-02-25T12:43:00.012+01:00

My friend recently reminded me about a conversation her husband had with my husband, Fred, when her family was visiting us in Paris. Her husband asked Fred what the French thought about Americans. Fred said that French think Americans have big bread. With all the history between the two countries and the stereotypes flung about by their people, I found his answer original (as did my friends, hence the subject's reprise).

Perhaps Fred was serious, or being funny, or searching for something neutral to say as not to come across as “the arrogant Frenchman”. I could ask him, but the idea that he could have been serious makes me laugh so hard that I prefer ignorant bliss. The truth is the French do seem to have bread envy, although I’m not sure why given the shape of a baguette.

Even Fred likes to use big ol' American bread for his sandwich making. That's Mount Rushmore on the bag. The problem is the bread won’t fit into the French sandwich bags, nor do the king-sized slices fit into my French toaster. I have to rotate the bread mid-way through to make sure the half-inch towering out gets grilled.

In fact, everything large in France is "American" - the American refrigerator, the American washing machine, etc. – and French people love them. So the next time you hear a French person say that Americans are big, you should consider that they aren't being rude or making an insulting generalization, they're delivering a compliment.

Taxing

2010-02-17T11:20:00.001+01:00

I’ve used TurboTax to file my taxes every year since moving to France. And every year I run into the same problem: after spending hours entering my information online, I’m barred from finalizing the transaction because its system will not accept an American credit card associated with a foreign address. In the end, I pay with my mom’s card which is fine -- despite us not having the same name or address or proof that she’s agreed. Every year my complaint is met with the promise that the glitch will be resolved by next tax season and, in return, I vow to never again use their services.

As I sit here today, preparing to file my 2009 taxes via TurboTax and checking the hour to make sure my mom will be awake when it comes time to pay, I recalled a conversation I had with one of their representatives a year ago while sitting on the phone begging her to take my money. Here is what she told me:

I’m Mexican and American Indian. Well, my grandfather was Irish. My parents divorced when I was a baby. I lived with my Mexican father in Florida. Later my mother came to get me and brought me to Georgia. I didn’t talk until I was 4. Now I can understand Spanish, but I can’t speak it. I have some Italian friends. Sometimes their friends talk about me in Italian and I just listen. I know they’re talking about me, but I don’t tell them. Well sometimes I do.

I’ve been dating online. I’ve gotten some “flirts” and “winks” but that’s all for now.

I saw the "Lake House". I wasn’t going to watch it because I hate love stories. I prefer horror movies. But then I saw Sandra Bullock was in it and I love her so I decided to watch it.

This conversation reminded me of something I often hear here about Americans. It is perceived that we will share details about our lives within the first 5 minutes of meeting someone. In general, I agree. And, in general, I don’t mind. I’d prefer that people be warm and open from the get-go, opposed to cold clams that require a sharp knife and gloves to pry open. I’ve attempted friendship with a few Françaises and in most cases it’s been difficult to get past their lukewarm receptions. By the time they finally decide to open up, I’m bitter from having had to work so hard and usually don't follow through. I'm sure they don't care, or even notice.

But as with many things French and American, somewhere in between would be nice. I acknowledge there are limits. For example, it wouldn't be wise to divulge too much personal information to a disgruntled customer who might be crazy enough to open a Match.com account as a strapping University of Florida graduate with a degree in Spanish, who has a soft spot for slow learners and southern belles, who wants to name his first born Rob "Red Cloud at Sunset" Zombie and describes his ideal mate as Sandra Bullock.

The Dirty Dozen

2010-02-08T16:41:00.018+01:00

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 a part of my regular diet. They were sold in my high school cafeteria along side the deep fried burritos. I ate one or the other nearly every day for lunch, washed down with a mint It’s-It or a box of Hot Tamales. After that game, however, I didn’t touch one for years. It took the San Francisco Giants, 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 it 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

2010-02-02T14:08:00.026+01:00

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!

2010-02-01T22:19:00.021+01:00

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

2010-01-30T23:19:00.007+01:00

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!

2009-04-14T08:43:00.029+02:00

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 . . .

2008-08-24T13:25:00.015+02:00

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 mixture. 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

2008-08-21T21:39:00.003+02:00

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

2008-08-19T22:04:00.027+02:00

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

2008-08-18T21:42:00.017+02:00

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 . . .

2008-08-08T18:58:00.003+02:00

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.

Foal in Love . . .

2008-08-06T19:50:00.008+02:00

Like most of France, we're going on vacation next week. We've rented a gîte in Normandy with friends. Despite having made the arrangements months ago, it was one of the last properties available because most French tend to plan way in advance. Fred's parents start settling their itinerary for his next birthday before he's even blown out his candles. I know it's about being thrifty and not having to worry about missing life's celebrations, but for some reason I can't commit. Not even for things I know I'll be attending like my wedding or goddaughter's first communion. I have no excuse and rarely has my procrastination ever been rewarded with a last-minute deal that would make all the (avoidable) stress worth it. I do the research months in advance like most, but when it comes to pulling the trigger I can't be bothered to get out of my chair to find my credit card. I've been a bit worried about what surprises may be awaiting us at our vacation spot given it wasn't snapped up by some well-prepared French family. But yesterday the owner called to tell us that there is a 4-day old baby donkey on the property. I've never thought about a baby donkey before in my life, but now he's all I can think about. What's his name? Can I pet him? Will his tiny back buckle when I ride him into town? Now I could give a spotted ass about the condition of the cottage. I'm going to be sleeping in the stable with my baby donkey.

Help Wanted!

2008-08-03T09:25:00.027+02:00

*Click on images to enlarge

Please could people kindly learn how to use craigslist?

Employers should post job announcements in the "jobs" section. In San Francisco, it costs $75.00 to post so it weeds out a lot of miscategorized information. In Paris, unfortunately, it is free. There is no gate keeper to save us from the stupidity of others.

Job seekers should post announcements in the "services" or "resumes" sections.

I used to blame the French for the numerous miscategorized posts. I figured they weren't used to the site or it was lost in translation. However, I can no longer deny that the majority of mis-posts are committed by Americans, for example, Christopher O. from California.

Christopher is a native English speaker, but was unable to understand the ***POSTING GUIDELINES for JOBS*** written in English on the craigslist site. Here he offers us, in the wrong section, his translation services. He is "fluant" in French. Proofreading not included.

Natalia is peddling her pet-sitting services in the wrong section. If you hired her, you'd probably return home to find that your cat was eating cat litter and was shitting in a vat of Whiskas because she had confused the bags.

And here's one from Ayelen who also is seeking a job in the wrong section. I don't make it a habit of criticizing mistakes made in a foreign language, since I do it all the time. However, Ayelen has managed to make several in just two lines in French and English. She's written in a mélange of the two languages in an apparent attempt to impress us with her fluency. (Christopher, I think I just found you a customer.)

In fairness, I took a look at the SF/Bay Area site to see if it was any better. I sometimes peruse the telecommuting job section to see if there is anything interesting I could do in my spare time.

I'm seriously considering applying for this position as an Olive Garden manager. I thought I was going to have to wait to work there until they opened up in Paris. But, in fact, "telecommuting is ok".

Do you think they have a webcam at every table so I'll be able to survey things from a far?

"Susie, table 12 needs more breadsticks."
"Bobby, the two-top in the corner wants their check."
"Lisa, your uniform smells. I'm writing you up!"
"Tom, the women's restroom is a pigsty; take a mop to it!"

This is my dream job - rolling out of bed, staying in my pajamas all day, and giving people orders.

I'm sure Fred will give me a glowing reference.

Happy Birthday to me . . .

2008-08-02T18:49:00.001+02:00

Yesterday was my birthday. I've offically reached the age where people have stopped saying (jokingly) "So . . . what are you doing for your 21st birthday?" And have started saying "So . . . what are you doing for your 30th birthday?" (Except you, Dina. Thank you.) I really don't have a problem with getting older, it probably helps that I have an awesome husband to spoil me and remind me that all is good in the world. Case in point . . . he stayed home from work today to surprise me with this! Even Bilbo was on cue. Star!

Ooey Gooey

2008-07-27T15:10:00.006+02:00

Fred's contribution to dinner: baked daurade, layered with thinly sliced zucchini, a sprig of thyme, and lightly drizzled with olive oil.

Mine: one cavity, two pimples, and three pounds.

For some crazy reason I was craving Pineapple Upside-down Cake, something I hadn't eaten in the past twenty years and probably won't eat for another twenty.

Eau de Vinaigrette

2008-07-24T22:48:00.005+02:00

See this shirt? It’s one of the only summery shirts I have. And since it’s only started to feel like summer here in Paris, I’ve had the opportunity to wear it just a few times. Yesterday was the third. I grabbed a salad from the shop across the street and sat down at my desk prepared to work through lunch. I struggled to open the little plastic salad dressing container and before I knew it, my thumb had slipped into the center of the lid, pushing it down and ejecting the dressing all over me -- my keyboard, my computer screen, my chair, my face, my hair, and ALL over my shirt! I'm not exaggerating when I say I looked like Carrie.

The good news is I bought it at Nordstrom during our last trip to the U.S., which means our next trip I can have Fred return it for me (while I hide in the corner and pretend not to know him).

Hide the sausage . . .

2008-07-15T21:42:00.003+02:00

Once a year, on Independence Day, I allow myself to forget what is in a hot dog. Tucking them inside a bun and smothering them in mustard, onions, and relish helps disguise the truth.

This year we celebrated 4th of July at our place. Someone gave us a barbecue last year, but until now we hadn’t found the courage to use it (never being able to determine whether it's legal in Paris). Aside from a little window slamming from our upstairs neighbors, it was a great success.

The only problem was the left over pack of hot dogs I discoverd in the fridge the next morning. I felt too guilty throwing them away given all the starving people in the world (and now that we’re on a practice budget for when I stop working). I thought about freezing them in case times got tough, but eating an old hot dog is far worse than eating a relatively new one.

Fred offered to cook dinner so I wouldn't have to touch them. He even came up with a gourmet recipe to make them more appetizing -- chopped up and pan fried served over a bed of spaghetti. Remind me to check if he’s placed any
ads on the internet lately.

He's really taking this budget seriously, trying to feed me soup kitchen food. I reminded him that I could only eat hot dogs one way, hidden in a bun. Later, I realized that I had no right making fun of him considering that's my bottle of mustard on the left. If it's any consolation, I bought it in Paris so it was more expensive than his Maille Dijon.

Flighty

2008-07-08T08:30:00.000+02:00

Now that I've given notice, I’m free to share with you the secret of why I really missed my flight in Toulouse. It wasn’t my desire to scrub my thumb clean, nor was it the fault of the security guard who voluntarily escorted the woman behind me and her perfectly content and well-behaved toddler to the front of the security line because apparently a visit to the grandparents' is more exhausting than wearing a suit and heels all day while hefting about bags of documents. In France, if you’re pregnant or have proof of having been so within the past decade in tow, you get priority, save the metro where Parisiens refuse to give up their seat for anybody, the official policy being you’re not required to do so for riders under the age of 75 which is a bit harsh considering the average life expectancy for a French male hovers around 76. And don't even think about relying on the goodness of your fellow Parisiens, I once witnessed a mentally challenged man be ignored by one commuter and then heckled by the next for requesting a folding seat. He even approached them with his state-issued disability card to prove he was deserving, he'd obviously learned the hard way that this was necessary. I was horrified but unfortunately not speechless. It was less than a year after moving here and my French was pathetic. As I stood there yelling the words "handicapé" and "asshole" in turn, I'm still surprised the entire metro car didn't jump up to offer me a seat. I'm certain I sounded as if I were asking for myself.

The real reason I missed my flight is because I was, yes, in a hurry, but more importantly I am an idiot who didn't take the time to read the screen on the automatic check-in kiosk and blindly took the "boarding pass" it spit out. I was already cutting it close and a little antsy, but while waiting in the security line instead of being annoyed by everyone around me I could have made constructive use of my time by reading the rectangular piece of cardboard in my hand. Upon reaching the front of the line, I handed my pass to the security guard, which he examined, as I piled my jacket, shoes, and briefcase into the plastic box. He waved me through, but then I was stopped for a little extra strip search. Despite all of this, I made it to my gate just in time, but for some reason my boarding pass didn't work. I let out a huge sigh and nearly let my guard down long enough to allow my face to fall into my booger coated hand.

Alas, my boarding pass was not a boarding pass at all.

Rewind: apparently back at the kiosk, the paper I had received was actually a stand-by voucher directing me to the ticketing desk where I would be placed on the waiting list for the flight. Instead I went straight to the security line, waited, was searched, and proceeded to boarding. It wasn't until they scanned my voucher at the gate that they (and I) realized I didn't have a boarding pass! I was told that I'd have to see a ticketing agent, on the other side of the secured section, to see if I could get on the next flight. Of course, every door I tried was locked. The only way to get back to the unsecured section was to go through security. Backwards. This did not go well.

I tried telling them I just needed to go to the ticketing booth to change something. They weren't buying it. They wanted to see my boarding pass again. I didn't want to show it, partly out of embarrassment and, partly, because I knew it was going to be a major issue. They were just as baffled as I was as to how I could have gotten through security without a boarding pass. The head security guard came over and refused to let me go until I named names. He was pointing at every member of the security crew, I just kept saying "je ne sais pas", "non, je pense pas", "je ne comprends pas" - my eyes briefly met with the employee-of-the-month, he clearly recognized me but looked down and played innocent. The agent finally got sick of me and let me go. I may be an idiot, but I'm no collaborateur!

I ended up getting on the next flight without incident. And, when I finally stepped out of the Orly airport and hailed a taxi to go home, my driver informed me that he needed to stop for gas like we were buddies on a road trip. I wouldn't have minded, of course, had he come out of the mini-mart with a Big Gulp and sunflower seeds. Unfortunately, the only thing he was carrying was some nasty B.O. and a major attitude because he was still upset with me for my audacious request that he stop the meter while he re-fueled.

Warning: Grizzly Bear Alert

2008-06-01T21:56:00.013+02:00

The French have no problem calling Americans fat, so much so that during my first visit to France the Frenchman sitting next to me at dinner turned and asked "Are all Americans fat?" The other thing they have no problem with is acting superior because they address problems with diplomacy not brute force. However, if you simply imply that a French woman is fat, be prepared for a beating.

The other day while shopping for greeting cards, I waited my turn while the woman before me spun the card rack round and round. After she left, I stepped up and started looking. Moments later I was joined by a couple. They removed some cards and started reading them. I slowly turned the stand to get a glimpse at the cards on the other side, stretching my neck back as far as possible as to minimize the rotation. This small movement sent the woman into a rage. She grabbed the rack and jerked it back and forth in an exaggerated motion.

Fred politely explained that we were looking at the cards and she claimed in a smart ass tone that she didn't see us. She went on to tell us that we weren't alone in the world. Fred continued to try to reason with her and explain that we were there first and had almost finished, if she could just be patient. She retorted by asking us if we had a receipt to prove we were there first.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I picked up a card with a big chocolate birthday cake on the cover and interrupted the dialogue by showing Fred the card and saying in French: “Look! Here is a card with a cake on it, she probably wants this one.”

I was completely unprepared for what happened next. She turned bright red, raised her arm, and slapped me with all her force. Then she came at me like a hungry bear. Fred and her husband (him, half-heartedly so) had to hold her back, while she continued to yell and struggled to get free. First, she screamed about my “accent de merde” (accent of shit) - funny, since her husband had an accent too - then she yelled “fuck you” - impressive, when I’m angry I have a really hard time speaking a foreign language - then she reminded me that "this is not America" - ironic, considering she fulfilled the stereotype of what French people claim about Americans - fat and violent.

I was in shock and couldn't stop laughing, which only made her more upset. Fred couldn't let go because if he did, she would have attacked me. Hearing the commotion, the shop owner came outside to see what was happening. He stepped in to calm the beast and hold her back while Fred and I made our get away.

I know I have a big mouth, but I never thought that a 45 year-old rotund French woman would be the one to call me out on it. Firstly, because we're made to believe that fat French woman don't exist and, secondly, I never imagined anyone would ever be able to understand one of my insults in French.

And, yes, I know I probably deserved it.

Dickhead

2007-10-28T21:53:00.000+01:00

I've been here nearly two years now but have yet to receive my Carte Vitale (yeah, put that in your movie, Michael Moore!). Because I'm able to see doctors on Fred's card and hate doing paperwork and reading instructions, I could have gone on like this forever. As a condition of my new employment, however, I had to produce a card or at least an attestation that I was in the process of getting one. I received the attestation and my card was supposed to arrive the following month. Instead I received a notice that France is introducing new cards that require a photo I.D. The other night, the only night I had on make-up, I finally mustered the energy to take the photo. We arrived at the Saint Michel station photo booth a few minutes early before meeting a friend for dinner. I stepped in the booth and was ready to go. Luckily, Fred is more astute than me and said “if you use this booth that will be in the photo”. I focused on my reflection and turned around to examine the giant penis and scrotum scribbled on the plastic backdrop. I tried standing up, rearranging the seat, having Fred hold up my coat as a back drop, all to no avail. I considered just taking the photo with my head perfectly framed by male genitalia. Certainly a giant penis growing out of my ear would convince a doctor that I was worthy of medical attention.

Want to hear something gross?

2007-10-22T22:10:00.000+02:00

I'm traumatized and am seriously considering a thumb amputation. I called the elevator at the airport today because I was lost and in a hurry (just so you don't think I'm lazy) and while I was waiting some gross woman walked up. She was sniffling and wiping her nose with her bare hand like a three year old. We entered the elevator and I chose my floor. She couldn't wait the millisecond for me to move away from the panel and brushed her slimy snot hand up against mine thereby depositing a pool of glistening mucus on the tip of my right thumb. I spent the entire time in the security line trying not to touch anything. Of course, I couldn't stop off at the bathroom because I was late for my flight; a flight that I ultimately missed, which in a way is good because it gave me the extra hour I needed to try to scrub my thumb clean.

Socrates, alive and well on rue Daguerre

2007-10-20T17:50:00.000+02:00

We entered the Greek store on rue Daguerre to treat ourselves to some baklava. Fred placed our order and the man behind the counter asked if we were espagnol. I said no, he is français and I am américaine. While ringing us up, another owner chimed in and referred to us as the le français and la canadienne. I seriously don’t know why I even bothered, but I said that I was américaine. That’s when he explained to me that because Canadians, South Americans, and “Indians” are American too, I can't just say that I’m américaine. I explained that I was aware of the make up of the continents; regardless, we are called Americans/américains. Canadians and Argentineans, for example, don’t refer to themselves as Americans when asked their nationality. I asked him what I should have said and he said that I should say that I am from the United States. I explained that I would have said that had he asked me where I was from versus what I was. I asked him the French word to describe a person from the United States – an innocent woman who had just walked in overheard my question and offered “américain” – exactly! It’s a French word, if he has a problem with it he can take it up with the French minister of culture. Plus, he’s an idiot because since Canadians, South Americans, "Indians", and "people from the United States" are all Americans, then my answer was correct, I am American! According to him, all people from India are Americans too. I was willing Fred to tell him that his French was crap and that he should shut the *F* up. See how agressive I am? Now if that's not American, then what is?!?

Not even a little?

2007-10-07T17:50:00.001+02:00

When did France get so strict?!? Another myth down the drain! I was shocked to learn that French women do get fat. That bad French food does exist. And now this? What happened to, "in Europe it's totally acceptable for women to have a little red wine during pregnancy"?

There is a simpler way to make yourself Chinese.

2007-10-07T12:14:00.000+02:00

When I saw this ad, I was in disbelief. "There's no way it would have run in the U.S.," I thought to myself. But, it seems that Wanchai Ferry is a division of General Mills. I'm curious if anyone saw this ad in the States?

I Can't Quit You . . .

2007-09-14T22:26:00.000+02:00

After 10 days of living la dolce vita, we headed to Bordeaux in search of la belle vie. While I enjoyed being on equal footing with Monsieur Frederic in Italy, I have to admit that it was nice to be back "home" with my personal translator. (There were a few times during our trip when, forgetting where we were, I completely tuned out in the midst of getting directions only to turn to Fred after and ask: "What did he say?" During one ugly incident, I raised my voice at him in frustration and accused him of "not listening"; he kindly reminded me that he did not speak Italian.)

In Bordeaux, we stayed in a comfortable and reasonably priced chambres d'hôtes called chez in-laws. The only cost was enduring a few annoying comments from one of the proprietors. That being said, my belle mère is a wonderful cook. Following are some of her offerings, including duck breast (that my beau père barbequed on sarments aka vine shoots); moules à la marinière, a chorizo and potato omelet accompanied by home-grown tomatoes, and wine and cheese (with all of the above):

I've come to realize that my favorite vacations are where we don't have an agenda, where we can sleep in and the day is marked by meals, not a wristwatch. As much as I tease Fred for being pampered by his parents (e.g., having his mother do his laundry, not filling up the gas tank after he uses his dad's car, having his parents prepare our meals and fetch our morning croissants), it's amazing how over the years I've allowed myself to accept it and profit by association. Something about staying with them puts me in a time warp. Perhaps it's sleeping in Fred's old bedroom with the tropical beach scene wallpaper, his 1980s CD rack, and boyish belongings. I feel like a teenager on summer vacation without a care in the world. Bilbo, who came along for the first time, quickly adjusted to being pampered as well.

The first two days of our stay, we were joined with another guest, someone ~~just as~~ even more important than Bilbo, our friend Todd. We did a day trip to the beach town of Arcachon and then a small hike up La Dune du Pyla. Here's a photo of Fred and Todd at the top. There's a picture of the three of us, but I refuse to post it because the stranger charged with taking it didn't count to trois so my eyes are closed and I'm not sucking it in. My bag, however, is in the picture because Fred is a sweet husband and carried it up for me. (Just thought I'd clarify that Fred does not carry a man purse like many of his countrymen.)

The next day we walked around Bordeaux, something I never get tired of doing. We were married just outside of Bordeaux nearly 3 years ago and my 30+ American friends and family took over the city for the weekend, thus it holds very happy memories for me. But this year, Bordeaux had something else to celebrate. It was named to the UNESCO World Heritage List based on it's stunning architecture:

The Fountain at Place des Quinconces

La Grosse Cloche (the bell that used to signal the start of the grape harvest)

Place de la Bourse (by day and by night)

Le Petit Bois
A cute little wine bar tucked away on a side street near L'Eglise Saint Pierre. It's decorated to look like you're outdoors with trees and lights, a little like The Blue Bayou Restaurant at Disneyland in the Pirates of Caribbean. A glass of wine runs about 5€ and you get your choice of a salty or sweet snack plate gratuit. (Le Petit Bois is dark and cozy, more of a relaxed bar atmosphere. For a more sophisticated/serious wine tasting, another great place is Bar à Vin du CIVB (Conseil Interprofessionnel du Vin de Bordeaux), located just across from the Office of Tourism. A glass of wine at the CIVB is around 2-4€.)

The highlight of our trip, however, was a tour and wine tasting that Fred's parents arranged for us at Château Rouaud (an organic winery in the wine region (AOC) Côtes de Bordeaux Saint-Macaire).

The contact info is:

Château Rouaud
17, grande rue
33490 PIAN SUR GARONNE
Tél : 05 56 76 41 69

They also have a chambres d'hôtes. It's not fancy, the restroom is on par with that of a ferry boat. But the hosts are very lovely and generous people with a passion for their work. Part of the charm of staying there (I imagine, I haven't done it yet), is that it's a small family vineyard and you can stay during the vendage and learn about the process. It sounds like a great experience for those who are interested in wine making. But if you want a relaxing 4 Star-type vacation, I don't think this would be a good fit.

[Sorry, I'm boring myself too! It's almost over . . .]

After the winery, we did a quick tour of l'ancien village de Saint-Macaire:

Finally, on the last day of our visit and the primary reason for our visit, we attended the baptism of Fred's second cousin, Audrey. Her parents hosted a lovely brunch, evidenced by this cute little dessert (a poussette de petit choux au chocolat et à la vanille)

The End!

Score:

Italy 1 France 1
Rematch in 2008

Put on a happy face . . .

2007-09-06T21:19:00.002+02:00

The party's over. I got a new job. It's full time in the Paris office of a British law firm. I'm very excited about this opportunity, but I'm a bit concerned given my propensity to lash out at rude people on the metro. My new office is 150+ so the odds of me working with that annoying commuter next to me (or being witnessed in an eyerolling match) on the metro just shot up.

Our Italian Vacation . . .

2007-08-06T22:35:00.001+02:00

I would make a terrible travel writer. We returned from Italy more than one week ago and, despite the best of intentions, I just can't find the flowery words necessary to convey my experience (evidenced by the title of this entry)!

In sum, we had a wonderful time. We were taken by the hospitality of the Italians, the delicious food, and the stunning scenery.

Here are some highlights and observations of our trip:

It’s better to be French in Venice,

but not in Florence.

Unless you're buying questionable goods from a Senegalese street vendor, then it's better to be French over Italian and English. His arbitary "pricing chart" for some purple hued, gold rimmed Raybanish looking shades? French 20€; Italian 25€; British 30€.

I also learned if I'm really going to get the good deals, I'm going to have to perfect my French (at least if I'm going to pretend to be French). I figured that being French would get me farther with vendors than being American. I had a near miss with the Senegalese vendor - who spoke French - I told Fred he would have to do the bargaining for my next purchase, a suede orange purse. My shrewd scientist husband countered the vendor's initial price of 50 euros with 45 euros (obviously he didn’t spend his summers in Tijuana). I was in shock. I ended up having to bargain with Fred while the perplexed vendor looked on. Ultimately we arrived at 27 euros, i.e., all the money Fred had in his wallet. Our Laurel and Hardy routine worked to our advantage. The vendor just wanted to get rid of us especially after Fred said something about having to go the ATM to get more cash. Fred could never be a druggie. He'd be trying to score crank with his Carte Bleu. Although, in the end, his innocence paid off. Bien joué, Frédéric!

We loved the food in Italy! Simple, fresh, and delicious, whether it be a warm panini and a cool glass of pinot grigio at a little cafe near Venice's Santa Lucia train station,

or this perfectly salted Beef Tagliata served on a bed of roquette and tomatoes and drizzled with a vinagerette at Ristorante Marco Polo located on (we think) Salizzada S. Lio not too far from Piazza San Marco.
The food in Florence was just as good, if not better! For an excellent Beef Tagliata or Chicken Tagliata (served on cooked carrots, yellow peppers, and roquette), try Trattoria Gabriello, Via Condotta, 54 r. 50122 Firenze; it's just behind the Piazza Signoria. I started with the baked lasagna for my primo and then had the chicken. Our last night we returned and I had the beef as my secondo.

We took a day trip to Siena and ate at Ristorante il Sasso, via dei Rossi 2/a 53100 Siena. I still dream of their gnocchi gorgonzola.

Of course, we also tasted the Tuscan wine at Corte di Valle in Greve in Chianti. In addition to the winery, Corte di Valle also grows saffron. We enjoyed the experience, but found their "Super Tuscan" a bit too spicy and strong for our tastes.

Now with the food out of the way, here are a few photos of where we stayed:

In Venice we stayed at the Relais Venezia. It was well-situated and surprisingly quiet. We never opened the windows, however, because we didn't have a view (other than the brick wall directly across from us). Our room was immediately off the lobby, which I thought would be annoying, but we slept in past 10:00 a.m. nearly everyday, despite the fact that the lobby was converted to a continental breakfast dining area from 8:00-9:30 a.m. They must have some serious sound proof walls.

I love hotel bathrooms, and this one was small, but very nice. There's a design defect with the shower though. The water runs along the side of the wall and onto the bathroom floor if you're not careful.

I thought this sink bidet combo was cute and a good use of space.

In Florence we stayed about a 15 minutes walk from the center of the city, opting for a "residence" style hotel at the Residence Michelangiolo. Angela and Cherubino the owners and operators, couldn't have been nicer. We loved this place and now have dreams of opening up our own Residence in Bordeaux someday! Sigh.

Not too far from Residence Michelangiolo is a Bottega dei Sapori (P.zza Gavinana, 6 -Firenze), which carries wonderful Italian meats, cheeses, bread, olives, etc. Our room had a kitchenette so we could make our coffee each morning and picnic in our room on prosciutto and prosecco if we didn't feel like facing the crowds.

The bathroom here was beautifully done as well.

Finally, last, but not least, some shots of the cities in general:

Venice

Burano

Florence

Siena

Pisa

Marina di Pisa

Inspired by our trip, today we went to the marché and bought a roasted chicken, tomatoes, and roquette to make our own Chicken Tagliata for lunch (and perfectly ripened green figs and baby bananas for dessert):

We're off to Bordeaux tomorrow to give La France a chance to win back our affection through wine and cheese!

V is for Vendetta Venice!

2007-07-19T18:32:00.000+02:00

We’re gearing up for our big trip to Italy. Today I called the hotels to confirm our reservations. I spent a good 30 minutes practicing my: “Buongiorno, parla inglese?” Fred and I finally will be on equal footing. I might even have an advantage. Yes, his native language is a Latin-based romance language; but it’s been quite some time since he’s had to mime for his food and suffer the constant humiliation of speaking in public, a craft I’ve been honing for 18 months.

Idiots Without Borders

2007-07-16T20:37:00.001+02:00

For those of you wondering if France has a military, the answer is bien sûr. And last weekend it was out in full force to celebrate La Fête Nationale. Don't let the wimpy equipment fool you; these photos were shot in the 14th arrondissement long after the ceremonies had broken up. There was a ton of action on the Champs Élysées. We watched a bit of it in on T.V. It was bizarre to see the beauty of the Arc de Triomphe and all the crowds and realize that it was just a short metro ride away. Although I’ve fallen into a routine (which we’re trying to shake-up), when I take the time to appreciate my surroundings, I’m still awe struck.

Seeing the French soldiers reminded me of two encounters Fred and I have experienced with American tourists in Paris over the past year.

Most recently at Legrande Filles et Fils, a quaint wine bar tucked away in the Galerie Vivienne, a lovely consortium of restaurants and boutiques. It was early evening and Fred and I were the first customers. We grabbed two seats at the corner and ordered our wine. Shortly thereafter, two middle-aged American women walked in and plopped themselves and tons of shopping bags down on the stools next to ours. They picked up the wine list and made a big production about not knowing where the different regions were and whether Saint Emilion was in Bordeaux. I finally told them yes, mainly to shut them up, and then Fred politely explained the different regions to them.

This small conversation quickly led to an interview about who we were, how we met, etc. Fred explained that he was in the U.S. doing his military service (a requirement for all Frenchmen at the time), but before he could even finish the more obnoxious of the two facetiously blurted out: “Oh, does France have a military?” I haven’t met someone this funny since Kathy Bates made a cameo in my French class. She went on to reveal her stupidity with comments like: “Well, if it does, it must be small because I’ve never heard of it.” Fred kindly, without any sarcasm, explained that relative to the U.S., the French army is small because France has a much smaller population and geographically is smaller than the State of Texas. She continued to taunt him. Her friend, embarrassed, finally said: “I’m sorry you don’t know her; she’s really nice and is just trying to be funny.” Exactly. We didn’t know her and she didn’t know us. Before she laid down her “zingers” on Fred, she might have wanted to establish that connection, or at least learn how to say it in French. And reading an atlas on the plane flight over wouldn’t have hurt either.

The other encounter happened at La Fontaine de Mars. While waiting for our table in a cramped space, we started talking with an American couple who was on vacation. Again, the conversation quickly turned to how we met. Fred explained that he was at Berkeley National Lab in Northern California completing his mandatory military service. The woman quipped: “What do they teach you in the French military? Surrender Lessons?” Just prior to this, she was telling us about her 19 year old son who was studying abroad at a prestigious private school and who was fluent in three languages. She’s hardly the type of person that should be throwing around jokes about “surrender lessons” when her pampered son was studying languages in a foreign county; unless, of course, he planned on using those languages to be a windtalker. (Oh, and she was asking Fred how to say things in French, and to recommend touristy things for her!). Her husband was far too sweet for her, he hushed her and looked very apologetic. She was a doctor, he was a school teacher. I suppose he viewed her as a retirement plan, as there’s no other explanation as to why he was still with her.

As for the wine bar and the restaurant? The wine bar is mostly looks. It’s a beautiful dark wood bar in an arcade. The service is mediocre. If you plan on going, don’t order the cheese plate. The woman, who I suspect is the mother of the Filles et Fils, leaned down behind the bar and picked at her toenails, and then rubbed her eye, all in plain view. Disgusting!) As for the restaurant, La Fontaine de Mars, it’s a nice restaurant with good French food in a beautiful area of Paris (near the Eiffel Tower). It’s a good call for when your parents, or their friends, are in town. However, they stick the nonsmokers upstairs in a small room without a whole lot of charm, but that should end in February 2008 if the nonsmoking ban takes effect. Don't hold your breath!

For all the moaning I do about annoying French people, I have to say that the rudest encounters I've ever experienced in Paris involved Americans. Ironically, Fred was treated much better by the Americans he met in the U.S. during the 5 years that he spent there than he has been by tourists in France that he's been trying to help!

Joy Ride

2007-07-15T22:03:00.000+02:00

[Guest blog by Fred]

Today was the first day of Velib’, a low cost bike rental system installed throughout Paris with a small membership fee of 1€ for one day, 5€ for a week, or 29€ for the whole year. The first 30 minutes of use are free. Thereafter, the rider can return the bike to another station and take a new one at no cost, or keep the same bike and pay an additional incremental fee . The idea is to use the bikes for transportation not for tourism, thus the half-hour constrain. By the end of the year there should be 20,000 bikes at more than 1,500 stations so it should be easy to keep the bike all day long by going from one station to another and taking a new bike each time.

The trip started well, there is a Velib’ station 100 feet from our apartment. After 10 minutes trying to figure out how to get the bikes from the machine we were on our way. It only took us 100 yards to realize that Paris is a dangerous city for bike riders. Cars are flying everywhere and the rare bike lanes are shared with buses and taxis. We tried to take small streets, but when we had to be on a big street we drove slowly on the sidewalks, which I know is not a good thing but it’s better than being dragged 50 yards by a car.

We tried to find a Velib’ station to exchange our bikes before our free 30 minutes expired, but the stations we found had long lines of people waiting and few bikes available. Thus, we kept the bikes another 30 minutes. I now understand how the company running Velib’ is going to make money off this venture; 29 euros/year didn’t seem like a lot of money for a year membership.

As we attempted to get home before the second half-hour interval, we found ourselves at Port-Royal, a big intersection. We were driving very cautiously on the sidewalk when a guy from a bar terrace yelled at us for doing so. Knowing that we were in the wrong, I just smiled and said “merci”. But the old man found somebody to blame for something so he wouldn’t let go. I usually don’t react to these things, first because I am French and, even though we complain all the time, we are non-confrontational and, second, I just don’t want to waste my time with people like that. But today was different; I decided to respond. Yes, we were riding on the sidewalk but the sidewalk was 10-yards wide, there was nobody on it, we were driving really slowly, it was a freaking huge intersection, and finally the guy was sitting at a bar 30 feet away from us drinking a beer! How could we possibly have bothered him?

I told him that he was definitively in the right country to complain for no reason and that he could use a little common sense. He accussed us of “pissing off the whole world”. I was surprised. I admit that he was a big guy, but unless there was a legion of people hiding underneath his fat and his bald head it seemed a little pretentious to call himself a world so I just answered back: “you’re right, so piss off” to end the argument.

Apparently he doesn't know that Velib' is short for velo + liberty!

Mac Dough is Right!

2007-07-15T20:12:00.002+02:00

We got milkshakes at McDonald’s today. Before you mock me, it's 90 degrees out and a Sunday, which means most places are closed. The man in front of us ordered a total of 6.10€. After counting his change, he turned to us without a hint of shame and asked if we had .10¢. I’d have expressed more discomfort asking a friend for it. I’m still not sure if he didn’t have the money, or if he didn’t want to break a bill, but I did know that he was the only thing standing between me and a milkshake so I gave him the money. What did I learn from my experience? France really is a socialist country and my French husband is more American than me (he was a little disappointed in the petit-ness of his one-size-fits-all milkshake, missing the super size of the U.S. of A.).

Photos of my favorite fromagerie

2007-07-14T19:52:00.007+02:00

A dog on the metro . . .

2007-07-14T10:11:00.000+02:00

A wave of embarrassment and shock overtook the face of the ultra prissy Parisienne sitting just inches across from me when she discovered that she had picked up a hitchhiker who was now dining on her arm. It was no longer amusing, however, when she flung the flea in the direction of my bare ankles. There was no attempt to suffocate the little beast or sever him with a finger nail before doing so. What a bitch! No wonder she had fleas.

vin246: Epoisses

2007-07-12T10:40:00.032+02:00

This orange wheel smells like wet running shoes and has enough salt to require beta blockers (good thing France has a pharmacy on every corner and pills are cheaper than cheese). It may be stickier than melted marshmallows, but I promise you won’t care because this milky rich cheese is so good you'll want to lick the knife and the plate clean. Napoleon supposedly loved it and the man had taste, look what he did with Fontainebleau.

Epoisses Berthaut is a fermier cheese. Thus, it is produced with milk from the cows on the farm (versus an artisanal cheese, which also is made by an individual producer but can be produced with milk from animals raised offsite).

The fromager on rue Daguerrere recommended red Bordeaux so we drank it with a Ségla Margaux. However, our cheese book suggests Pouilly-Fuissé, Sauternes (a sweet white). I was pleased with the differing opinions as it shows that there are no hard rules for pairing wine and cheese, other than enjoying them both as you like.

Paris, we need to talk!

2007-07-12T09:53:00.001+02:00

Perhaps you're feeling guilty for the mass murder you committed in 2003. But, it's not going to happen again. There are public service announcements partout reminding Parisians to make arrangments for the elderly before heading off on vacation. You may not cause heat related deaths this summer, but I’m certain there will be a spike in accidents grave de voyageur if this gray and gloom continues. It actually hailed on Monday afternoon!

People are confused. They don't know what to wear. While a wool sweater may make sense in the morning, it's completely inappropriate by the late afternoon. The metro reeks of enchiladas. It is the most bizarre smelling body odor that I’ve ever encountered. One moment, you’re experiencing hunger pangs, and the next you’re thoroughly disgusted at the smell and at yourself for having craved a combo platter.

I'm begging you to stop this yo-yo. If you want it to be cold, fine. But just pick one.

Faux ami?

2007-07-10T22:37:00.000+02:00

Our elderly neighbor entered the building as I was getting my mail. I greeted him with “Bonjour” and he responded with a lovely “Bonjour, Madame” followed by a remark about étiquette. Yes, it would have been more polite to follow my salutation with “Monsieur,” but I’m not Gigi, plus he caught me off guard. Still perturbed when I entered my apartment, I decided to look up the word to make sure that I wasn’t mistaken. Thankfully, smart ass remarks don’t fall out of my mouth in French as easily as they do in English, otherwise we’d be moving again. It seems that étiquette also means identification tag or label. The kind man likely was making chitchat about the makeshift étiquette that I’d stuck to the outside of our mailbox while we await the proper one that is on order from the engraver (or he was telling me that it’s bad etiquette to stick a homemade gummy label to the mailbox).

vin246: Boursault

2007-07-09T11:06:00.003+02:00

It’s an industriel cheese, but not all things produced in a factory are bad, take iPods, Nikes, and Maybelline's Great Lash.

Named after its creator, Henri Boursault, this cow’s milk cheese is enriched with cream giving it the texture of homemade cake frosting. It spreads with ease, which is why it would do well sitting on a buffet table or at a cocktail party. Your guests could smother their crackers and chunks of baguettes in it (opposed to having to wrestle the serving knife from an oozing brie). The taste is buttery, a bit salty, with a hint of nut.

A red bordeaux is recommended with this one, we paired it with a cheap Puisseguin-Saint-Émilion which did the trick!

We purchased this cheese at Fromagerie Boursault, 71, avenue du Général Leclerc, 75014 Paris; Tel: 01 43 27 93 30. It's a beautiful shop with lots of cheeses on display and plenty of knowledgeable fromagers on hand to help you with your selections!

Scar Tissue

2007-07-08T15:47:00.000+02:00

I think the clothes at Monoprix are cute. I’m tempted to try them on when I go grocery shopping. Since practically all of France frequents this store, however, I don’t want people to recognize my clothing as having been purchased there. I’m not name conscious (now that I have to pay for my own clothes), nor am I a fashionable dresser. I wear jeans and t-shirts most of the time. Thus, a Monop ensemble would be a step up. It must be the emotional baggage I still carry from a humiliating childhood experience. While sitting on the cold floor of the multi-purpose room during an elementary school assembly, a classmate informed me that my "cool" silver and blue sneakers were Kmart brand. I went to the school nurse to report the child abuse immediately. My mother needed to be held accountable for dressing me like a peasant, or at least come and pick me up so I could go home and change.

Make him stop . . .

2007-07-07T11:14:00.002+02:00

Please, make him stop!

Many of you are familiar with Bilbo's fetish. He's been doing it since we got him 5 years ago. He insists that he be pet while eating. He cries until we give in. Recently, he's taken to waking us up in the morning. Crying at the foot of the bed. Walking across our pillows. Sticking his whiskers in our faces. He tries to herd me to the kitchen. We do the hokey-pokey. If I take a step towards the kitchen, he does. If I stop, he does. He'll arrive a mere inches from his bowl and then wait and wait. He'll eventually eat without it, if we're able to withstand his demands. But that takes nerves of steel, and we nearly always blink first.

I've asked veterinarians about it. His French vet believes that Bilbo is an alpha male. Like a Lion King, he wants us to watch submissively as he eats his croquettes to reinforce his status in the pack. Apparently, you can get a medical degree in France via National Geophraphic telecourses. His San Francisco vet had no explanation. My theory is Pavlovian. I think it's because the first year of his life he was at the SPCA. Since the time spent with each animal is limited, I imagine that the caregivers try to do the best they can and feed and pet the animals during the same visit. He now associates eating with being petted. Or he's a pervert. Anyway, I'd love to hear your theories and especially suggestions on how to make him stop.

What we see:

What we hear:

*The first photo is the real Bilbo, the second is a crazy cat that Fred found on the internet.

The Top Ten Reasons Why You Should be Embarrassed to Know Me . . .

2007-06-15T06:39:00.001+02:00

The author of one of my favorite Parisian blogs, Alice of The Late Bloomer, tagged me with a meme and asked me to write “Ten Interesting Things” about myself that you probably don’t already know (unless you are a family member, a former roommate, or a husband – although Fred just read the list and didn’t know many of them. He better study up before I apply for French citizenship. I saw Green Card!)

In no particular order . . .

1. I used to have my own variety show. I performed it live in Los Angeles. It was called The Amy Zoo Show, but my only viewer was my grandfather. He was fairly immobile due to diabetes and spent most of his time seated in a large green leather recliner. I used to drag my puppet stage in front of the T.V. set and perform skits for him. I’m sure he would have preferred to have been watching the Dodgers game, but you’d never have known it. He was a saint!

2. When I was a child, my older sister used to tell me that I was adopted from Mexico and that my real name was Amelia. I couldn’t stand the name and I would cry incessantly. It might have had something to do with the fact that I didn’t want to be different or because of the after school special, “Something About Amelia,” which showcased pedophilia and incest. We used to go to San Diego to visit friends. When we’d drive through an immigration check point my sister would tell me to hide under a blanket because if I were discovered, I’d be sent back to Mexico. Now, I love the name Amelia. In fact, I’d prefer to have a name with a bit more spice. Amy is fine, but it’s very common. When I took this issue up with my mother, she said: “There’s nothing wrong with your name. It’s a nice name. It was the most popular name for little girls the year you were born.” I rest my case. Looking back it makes no sense as I am the fairest person in the family. Something I won’t forget as my mother told me that they would sometimes forget to put sunscreen on me when we’d go to the beach because the rest of the family didn’t need it. Oh, if only I were adopted.

3. When I was in 8th grade I thought I was Punk Rock. I took the giant yellow wheels and stopper off of my roller skates (the ones I used to wear just a few years earlier as I rounded the rink at Skateway roller dancing to “The Tide is High”) and wore them as white leather combat boots. I also used floor wax to try to spike my hair.

4. I once worked as a pool ball racker. I was 21 and the job was at a pool hall in Laguna Niguel. There was a main pool table at the entrance of the club. While customers waited for their pool table to open up, they could pay $2.00 to play on the main table. I kept a list and the winner of the game would play the next challenger on the list. The house would get $1 and I would get $1 plus tips per game. In addition to keeping the list, I was in charge of racking the balls for the next game. I guess what I'm saying is that I’m borderline white trash.

5. In the same vein, I was once a trophy girl at Speedway. It was my 16th birthday and I was really dressed up. The real trophy girl was a no-show and an event worker asked me if I wanted to be the stand-in and present the winner with his trophy (there were slim pickings at the Orange County Fair Grounds). Luckily for me, the winner was a gentleman and didn’t try to slip me the tongue. Ewwww . . . .

6. I have implants, just one really. I had a root canal during law school, but couldn’t afford to get a crown. My dentist warned me that I could make due for a year without one, but as soon as I graduated, started my job, and got insurance, I should get the tooth crowned. I didn’t heed his advice when the aforementioned happened the following year because the tooth never bothered me and I forgot about it. But then, one night while eating at Gary Danko, the unimaginable happened. I bit down on a piece of crusty French bread and heard a crack, which was soon accompanied by a sharp pain in my tooth. A trip to the same dentist, along with an x-ray and a lecture, revealed that I had cracked my tooth to the root. He referred me to a specialist, who by the way was gorgeous – and I was single, not that he would have gone for me, but it made the experience all the more embarrassing – who informed me that my tooth was going to have to come out! My options were to get a bridge or an implant. He suggested an implant because a bridge would require grinding down the two teeth on each side of the gaping hole to affix the bridge. I opted for the implant. It required 15 months of prep-time (they had to pack bone into my jaw and then let it heal so they could insert the “post” onto which the implant would be anchored). During this time, I had to wear a retainer (aka “a flipper”) that had a tiny fake tooth on it to fill in the space between my teeth. Yes, I think I mention I was single during this time. Dating, kissing, etc. raised some interesting challenges. Then, finally, one month before I was to get my implant, I was brushing my retainer and the little tooth popped off and slid down the drain. The dentist had to come up with a quick fix, so they fashioned me a tooth made from acrylic and glued it onto my retainer. It would have taken too long to order me another top of the line retainer, plus it was really expensive and not covered by insurance. Every time I drank red wine the tooth would turn purple. I met Fred a little over a year later. Good timing!

7. At the time of my First Communion the church treated my mother (and me by association) like Hester Prynne because she had been divorced. They made her attend special classes and run the gauntlet if she were going to be allowed to walk down the aisle with me while I accepted my communion, like all the other children and their married parents. I never forgot this and use it as an excuse to eschew religion and live a hedonistic lifestyle (which makes my life sound way more interesting than it really is).

8. I played the accordion in 6th grade. An old man from the Milton Mann Studios darkened our doorstep and gave my mom some spiel about how it was good for kids to play instruments. I told her that I was interested in playing the piano, but she said she wasn’t prepared to make an investment in a piano until I showed a commitment to an instrument - a smaller, cheaper instrument. I took up the accordion, my first was a red one purchased from a pawn shop in Fullerton. Later, as my musical genius revealed itself through songs like "Oom Pa Pa" and “Sunrise, Sunset” from the musicals Oliver and Fiddler on the Roof, respectively, she broke down and bought me a deluxe white model with a faux pearl keyboard. I’d be entertaining all of you on the 6 Line now had my older sister not crushed my dreams. She was in 9th grade at the time. Her and her cool friends would come home after school and mock me during practice by yelling “Where is your monkey?” Three years later, when I was a freshman in high school, they were all seniors. Unfortunately, they had not forgetten!

9. I went to traffic school for a moving violation before I even had a license. I was driving my older sister’s car. We were leaving a party and I rolled through a residential stop sign (because I thought the cops were too busy breaking up the party to notice, and I was 15 and stupid). We were pulled over down the hill (there were 3 of us in a two-seater, again, stupid). I received a ticket and had to appear in court. The judge was nice and let me attend traffic school (a weekends worth) so the ticket wouldn’t go on my record and prevent me from getting a driver’s license at 16.

10. I’m kind of ambidextrous, not technically. I’ll explain it and maybe someone out there knows what it’s called. I write and eat with my left hand, but I do all sports and use scissors as a right handed person. I can also bend both ring fingers at the first joint. That’s not me in the picture, it’s some kid named Jacob from Mrs. Johnson’s 3rd Grade Class . Despite my talent, I couldn't simultaneously get a good grip on the camera and pose my fingers.

This is kind of like a chain letter, without the threat of harm if you choose not to participate; however, if you're inclined to play along, I tag the authors of the following French inspired blogs:

The Frenchification of Mlle. Smith,
Dents de Lait,
Destination Metz, and
SF Girl in Paris.

I apologize if any of you have already done this, I checked your blogs and it didn't look like it!

It's that time of year again . . .

2007-06-14T09:14:00.000+02:00

Fred gets to celebrate his birthday by providing breakfast for his colleagues. I conducted a poll and none of my friends is peer pressured into providing pâtisseries for their coworkers. I still think that they're playing a joke on the new guy. They probably have big red circles on their calendars and look forward to June 14 as much as April 1. At least this year I didn’t work myself up into a tizzy wondering how he would transport 50+ piping hot croissants, pains au chocolat, and pains aux raisins on the RER. I let him handle it all on his own. He’s a big boy now!

Finally, the metro puts a smile on my face!

2007-06-12T18:20:00.001+02:00

This morning on my way to work there was an annoying 3ish year old swinging round and round the center pole like a stripper desperate for a dollar. His gypsy mother and her other 4 kids passively looked on. Perhaps she was training him for a new job, one that doesn't require shaking a paper cup in people's faces. A business man with ski feet moved his foot just as the nuisance was making his umpteenth turn. If called to court, I'd be hard pressed to testify whether it was intentional or simply a nervous twitch. The kid flinched, but there was no contact. This delighted me. The mother started screaming gibberish at the man. He was seriously taken aback, which made me think it wasn't on purpose (and made me admire him a little less). I couldn't stop myself from laughing. I buried my face in the paper out of fear that the gypsy woman would put a hex on me. There’s seriously something wrong with me that I would find pleasure in this slice of life.

McFrenchio

2007-06-09T17:25:00.002+02:00

Your Inner European is Irish!

Sprited and boisterous!You drink everyone under the table.

Who's" Your Inner European?

Your Inner European is Italian!

Passionate and colorful.
You show the world what culture really is.

Who's Your Inner European?

You Belong in Paris

Stylish and expressive, you were meant for Paris.
The art, the fashion, the wine!
Whether you're enjoying the cafe life or a beautiful park...
You'll love living in the most chic place on earth.

What City Do You Belong In?

Brain Freeze

2007-06-09T14:15:00.000+02:00

French people remind me of a 16 year old girl with a fake i.d. at Bobby McGee's. Fred and I tried to enjoy our lunch over the roar of the blender motor while the poor barman mixed up every frozen fruity drink on the menu for the table of six (adults) next to us; of course, first he had to use the electric juicer to grind out a full pitcher of fresh squeezed orange juice, apparently the base ingredient for each of these tropical refreshers. When I was a cocktail waitress, I used to dread approaching the bartender with orders such as: 1 strawberry margarita, 1 strawberry daiquiri, 1 banana daiquiri, and 1 piña colada. I was usually sent back to the table to recheck their licenses and with the unfortunate news that our blender had just broken.

I need a witness!

2007-06-08T21:49:00.000+02:00

I can do the Roger Rabbit and the Running Man, something I perfected coming of age in Fullerton in the mid 80s-early 90s. I think I'm a bad ass, but my husband only snorts wine out of his nose when I bust a move. He's too inexperienced to appreciate the complexities of my steps. That's what I get for marrying a younger Frenchman!

Ici, minou minou . . .

2007-06-02T11:01:00.001+02:00

Years ago my older sister would tease me and ask her children, "Now, which one of you is going to take care of Auntie when she's 80 years old and has 100 cats?" The eldest, Meagan, also an animal lover was the only one to pipe up. Something I won't forget when drafting my will!

We adopted Bilbo in San Francisco when he was a year old. He traveled with us in the plane to Paris and didn't make a peep or a pee. He's the sweetest little cat and I would be so sad if anything happened to him. I'm the first one to admit that I'm a crazy cat lady! But even my craziness has its limits.

Fred is craaaaazzzzzzy! He's convinced one of our neighbors is trying to lure Bilbo from our garden by making "here, kitty kitty" noises en français. He tried to i.d. the catnapper’s location in the event he needs to file a police report later and, as I write this, I can hear him lecturing Bilbo about the dangers of talking to strangers.

He even taught Bilbo how to play dead.

This makes no sense!

2007-05-31T10:54:00.000+02:00

According to findings reported in the British Journal of Psychology:

The length of children's fingers may hint at their natural abilities in math and language, a new study suggests.
. . .

Specifically, boys whose index fingers were short compared with their ring fingers tended to excel at numbers and girls with index and ring fingers of similar length tended to do better on the verbal portion of the test.

. . .

Full article available on yahoo.com. (Emphasis added.)

My ring and index fingers are practically twins. I'm gifted! Why is my fat little hand resting on a "Débutant" level book then? Leave it to me to be the aberration - a freak of nature! I bet the length between the ring finger and pinky correlates to motivation and attention span.

[p.s. Laura, perhaps you were on to something with your "Show And Tell" toes!]

Slam Dunk!

2007-05-28T11:24:00.002+02:00

I just realized why there are no grocery baggers in France; nobody is qualified to do it. My groceries piled up on the left side of the bin as they passed over the scanner while the two customers in front of me attempted to bag theirs. The man on the left only had one item (a six pack of little boxed milks), but couldn't manage to get the bag over the corners. The other resembled an under developed monkey trying to fit a round peg into a square hole (he too had a single bag to pack). I still feel guilty when my groceries aren't bagged and the person in front of me has to wait. I don't mean to brag, but I've become quite good at bagging groceries now. After watching An Inconvenient Truth, I started using my recyclable grocery tote (something I had from my San Francisco days, but I'm ashamed to say I rarely used) and my grandma cart. I unload heavy items onto the conveyor belt first so they are the first to be packed. The rest I throw on top and I'm out of there. I have to admit this time I did it even faster than most to make a point. The American Spirit of competitiveness, alive and well in France. Hey, I'll take my victories where I can get them these days! Touché!

vin246: Camembert and Tome de Chèvre

2007-05-27T15:37:00.002+02:00

[Please click here if you'd like background information on this entry. Thank you!]

Fred and I have been somewhat lazy when it comes to grocery shopping. Instead of taking advantage of the many marchés and independent shops in our neighborhood, we often find ourselves at Picard or Monoprix out of convenience.

On Saturday we took a short walk to rue Daguerre and purchased the cheeses for this tasting at: Fromagerie Vacroux, 5 rue Daguerre, 75014 Paris, 01 43 22 09 04.

The fromager was extremely helpful and didn't even laugh at me when I stood gazing at his offerings and flipping through my cheese encyclopedia. I'm more open to striking up conversations when Fred is there as he can swoop in and save me and my victim when the going gets rough. (It's also a good tactic to use when we're lost and he refuses to ask for directions. I'll stop a stranger and start stuttering in French, leaving him no choice but to jump in and do clean-up. It's a little humiliating, but it saves time looking at a map.) The fromager recommended some very nice cheeses and offered us a tasting prior to purchase. He also suggested a bottle of sparkling cider, which he carried, to go with one of our choices.

The wine shop across the alley wasn't as accommodating (La Cave Péret, 6 rue Daguerre 75014 Paris, 01 43 22 08 64). We've been there a few times and I don't find the owner helpful. If you know what you're looking for, it's easy to pop in and out. But if you'd like some guidance, forget it. She always seems rushed and inconvenienced. Next time, I think we'll go to Nicolas a few doors down. Although it's a chain, we've had good luck with other locations in Paris.

So, here is what we ended up with:

On the left:

Cheese: Camembert de Normandie – Isigny Sainte-Mère
Milk: Cow's milk, raw
Cost: 3.15€ (demi wheel)
website

Estate: Ferme de L’Hermitiere
Region: Normandie
Type: Cru de L’Hermitiere - Cidre Bouché Fermier (Farm-made Sparkling Cider)
Cost: 3.90€ (from fromagerie); 2.50€ (from producer)
website

The Camembert and cider come from the same region: Normandie; yes, we are back to one of our favorites! The Camembert was coated in chapelure (bread crumbs) that had been parfumed with Calvados (an apple brandy also from Normandie). It's a neat concept as you can serve this cheese without bread. We found it difficult to taste the Calvados, Amy sensed it in waves, but over all it was faint. Regardless, the chapelure was a nice touch as it made the generally strong Camembert a bit milder.

The cider is produced by a small family-run business, which is usually a good sign for quality products. This cider was no exception. Clearly made from real apples, it was opaque and had a good smell. It wasn't too sweet or acidic, just right! Amy felt that it had a barnyard odor, which makes sense as it is a fermier (farm-made) product, but the "strong" smell didn't stop her from finishing half the bottle.

I recommend enjoying this combination during a warm afternoon under the shade of a tree. I know, this is cheesy but this is an entry about wine and cheese after all. It might also be nice served in small wedges before a meal with an apéritif, such as champagne, for example. Amy agrees. This is the perfect picnic combo as the breaded Camembert is easy to handle and the cider is light and refreshing, and if you drink it outdoors (near a stable) the farm smell will be insignificant.

On the right:

Estate: Château Carbon d’Artigues
Vintage: 2004
Region: Bordeaux
Appellation: Graves
Color: Red
Cost: 10.40€

Cheese: Tome* de chèvre des Pyrénées-Orientales
Milk: Goat's milk, raw
Cost: 5.39€ / 26.95kg

The Tome de chèvre is from the East side of the Pyrénées, les Pyrénées-Orientales, close to the Mediterranean sea. Tomes de chèvre come from many regions, usually Savoie. This cheese was excellent. It's a semi-hard cheese, a bit creamy and not as hard as a parmesan so it didn't crumble between our teeth. The first bite delivers a slight pique (prick), but the cheese mellows with each chew. Towards the end, you can feel some grit or chalkiness. We were amazed at how many tastes and textures appeared in one little bite. Like the Camembert, this cheese would be great served in slivers with a before dinner drink or at the end of a meal in a traditional cheese course.

We paired this wine with a Château Carbon d’Artigues from the Graves region, the Southern wine region of Bordeaux (allez Bordeaux!). It is recommended to let this wine breathe before drinking. The color is like a medium-dark ruby, the smell not too powerful and the taste is that of oak and red fruits. The initial impression is strong, but the wine settled into a nice smooth taste.

The pairing of the two was decent as the strong young wine offered some balance to the Tome de chèvre. Next time, we'll probably try a white wine from Limoux as recommended in our cheese encyclopedia. However, the wine shop didn't carry any so we went with the suggestion of the fromager, a red Graves.

Cutting the cheese:

During my first meal with Fred's family I made the rookie mistake of cutting the nose off the cheese. His family didn't care, of course, and I didn't even realize that there was a protocol until I read about it in a book later. I still remember the giant cheese platter making its way down the table to me. Being polite, they wanted me, their guest, to go first. It would have been less awkward had I figuratively cut the cheese; over in a quick second and I could have blamed it on Fred. Literally cutting the cheese is a different story. There were several of them and I didn't know how many or much to take. A giant chunk of Comté haunted me. I felt like I was sawing away at its thick rind for hours with the family watching on. Flopping it on it's side and cutting it in to alternating triangles (like the Tome in this picture) is much easier to manage and still accomplishes the goal of allowing everybody the opportunity to taste the cheese from the center to the rind. So nice of the French to assign Geometry homework with their meals.

Going there:

The Camembert and sparkling cider can be found on the Northern half of the map, and the Tome and Graves in the Southern half.

*FYI: The fromagerie spelled it tome, but we've also seen it spelled tomme.

vin246

2007-05-26T11:10:00.000+02:00

"Comment voulez-vous gouverner un pays qui a deux cent quarante-six variétés de fromage?" *

"How can you govern a country which has two hundred and forty-six varieties of cheese?"*

- Charles de Gaulle, Les Mots du Général, Ernest Mignon (1962)

After reading a few of my past blog entries, I realized that I often give the impression that I dislike France and the French. This is not the case at all. But writing about nice encounters isn't cathartic. I subscribe to the lesser known adage: If you can't say something mean, don't say anything at all. Hence, on the days that I haven't written anything, it's safe to assume that les parisiens were indifferent to me and sometimes even nice!

In an effort to convey a more positive image, however, I've decided to start writing about some French things that I absolutely love: wine and cheese. My favorite thing French (Monsieur Frédéric, who prefers to be called "Fred" because he didn't grow up watching Sanford & Son) will be contributing to this segment as well.

Like many of you, we enjoy food and wine and have decided to learn more about it by trying to taste a new pairing ~~each weekend~~ every so often (we're lazier than I could have imagined). We figured if we wrote about it here, we could keep a record of our impressions and hear about your experiences as well. At the moment, we are far from being experts (me being even further away than Fred). But, we look forward to sharing our thoughts with you as we make our way.

Santé!

* While more cheeses may exist in France today, we dare not mess with a quote from General de Gaulle.

The Ears Have Eyes

2007-05-25T20:11:00.003+02:00

I dressed like a lady today and wore wedged sandals to work. I can’t stand heels, evidenced by the Aerosoles label on the insoles. But it's getting muggy and my office is turning into a sauna. The air conditioning apparatus attached to the ceiling refuses to pump out any cool air. I’d call maintenance, but they speak French. Wearing my only pair of sandals for ventilation seemed like the more comfortable option.

My feet were stepped on twice in the crowded metro car a mere 10 minutes into my commute. I was already regretting my decision. But then the cute Frenchmen started joking with me telling me it was my fault because my feet were too big. They were really sweet and endured my horrible French for the remainder of the ride. By the time I reached my stop, I really felt as if I were walking on air. My sandals had made me two new friends. I guess I didn’t hate heels after all, or the French . . . until 3:30 p.m.

I was enjoying a coffee in the break room with a French colleague when a woman entered the tiny space. While she was waiting for the vending machine to prepare her drink, I felt that familiar stare (please refer to the following entry) - a stare which again was returned by me with a little smile saying “please stop before I do something we’ll both regret”. Body language apparently doesn’t translate well because she continued and even added a hovering lurk outside the doorway for good measure.

I feel that I’m considerate when speaking in public places because I know that Americans have a reputation amongst the French for being loud talkers. Something I’ve witnessed while out and about in Paris. And a few months after my arrival my drunk American girlfriends and I were in a café when we were told to “Shut the F*ck Up” by an angry French woman. Needless to say, I’ve been berated into a state of self-consciousness which responds in the form of disproportionate and uncontrollable defensiveness.

I told my coffee buddy that I was sick of being stared at like an animal in a zoo when speaking English. Given the diversity of Paris, I’m shocked when people continue to gawk as if I was speaking an ancient dialect of a West African tribe. She must have been wearing a Miracle Ear because she was up in my face in no time.

She was staring, she said, because she wanted to know if I was British or American. I understand curiosity and would have happily told her had she just asked me. I sometimes ask Fred if he can distinguish between Nordic languages. And I occasionally listen to French conversations to see if I’ve made any progress. But what I don’t do is bore holes into peoples faces while I’m listening to their conversations because I don’t hear with my eyes!

Having missed the opportunity to hand the man my flash cards the other day, I stupidly failed to let this moment pass. I told her that I was American. She said she was compelled to come explain herself because I was "so shocked". Impressive recitation skills. I told her it is shocking when a stranger stares at you for two minutes and that if she does that she shouldn’t be shocked when people are offended.

She further “explained” that her husband is American so that’s why she wanted to know. Really? My husband is French and I don't stare at French people. Further, if her husband is American then she shouldn’t have to engage in hardcore eavesdropping to identify said accent. Two weeks ago Fred and I were in London and he could barely understand the Brits. Moreover, other Europeans and Asians working with Fred in English can detect within seconds that he speaks with an American accent. Unless her husband is from the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, she should have been able to recognize my accent with ease. Perhaps her glasses distorted her hearing.

When I quit my telecommuting job for the company in San Francisco, it was to get myself out of the house so I could interact with people and, hopefully, make some new friends. But my big mouth has gotten me into trouble again. Not only did I miss the opportunity to strike up a friendship with a French woman who is open to fraternizing with Americans, but I have created an uncomfortable working environment. It would have been nice to have her as a friend to call maintenance for me!

By 6:30 it was finally time to go home. I exited the lobby into the central atrium to find a crowd of eager commuters looking up at the sky. A massive lightening storm was beating down on La Defense.

And there I stood in my high-heeled sandals.

See Amy Learn

2007-05-22T22:05:00.000+02:00

I’m not fit to live in society. I’m not sure why I reside in a city as I can’t stand being around other people. I imagine nice people going about their lives feeling less stressed and happier because they aren’t thinking about how much they can’t stand the person sitting in the metro seat next to them. I make myself look at the Eiffel Tower as I take the 6 line to work willing it to give me the power to be nice that day. Alas, today was like any other day, except it was worse because the man next to me was reading along as I studied my flash cards. Yes, I know that I’m in public thus they’re fair game, but only to an extent. It’s uncomfortable to have another adult monitor my low-level learning. I looked at him once and smiled to let him know that I knew I was being observed and that it was awkward. He offered a knowing smile in return, but continued. I had to fight the urge to tap the flash cards into a nice neat pile and hand them over. If an adult Frenchman needs to learn how to conjugate “re” verbs in the present then he needs them more than me. And, yes, I know he was French and not just an eager learner because he smelled of BO and yelled “Allo? Allo? Je n’entends rien!” when he answered his cell phone in a tunnel.

March of the Turtles

2007-05-03T11:10:00.003+02:00

An inordinate amount of people wear backpacks in Paris. And I'm not referring to students and tourists. I'm talking about adults riding the metro during rush hour in business attire. While I expect more from the "fashionably chic" Parisiens (the ones that ridicule American for wearing Bermudas and knee-highs), it's not the assault on my eyes that I find irritating. It's the assault on my face.

I have been the victim of backpack burn many a times as an oblivious commuter drags his dirty Eastpak across my cheek because he is too clueless to realize that the canvas mess on his back moves with him. My instinct is to reach up and grab the handle at the top of his shell and pull him to his knees so he can beg for my forgiveness. The very handle that is intended to be used as a carrying device when it’s not practical to wear the backpack! Of course I don’t have the language skills or the balls to do this so instead I just push the backpack out of my face and look the other way when the culprit turns around.

This issue is taken very seriously in San Francisco. Public service posters appear in BART trains reminding commuters to remove their backpacks as a courtesy to fellow travelers (just in case someone forgot to pack their common sense that morning). Perhaps we are a little too nice in California. I’m going to need to toughen up if I’m going to make it in the Big City. A daily dose of sandpaper canvas to the face during my morning commute is a good start.

Update: Grass

2007-04-29T12:41:00.000+02:00

It's been just over a week and I'm happy to report that Bilbo Le Nôtre and his bol de lait did an excellent job with the garden!

Behold . . .

We enjoyed the good weather and new garden by eating everything in our refrigerator (and at the boulangerie next door).

Pain aux raisins / Feuilleté abricot

Quiche au jambon et au fromage

L’humus et les olives

Omelette aux tomates et crème fraiche

Les sandwiches au saucisson au poivre

Pigskin Face

2007-04-28T10:26:00.000+02:00

I hate the photo on my carte de sejour. My head is the shape of a football. Nearly every time I open my wallet, I gasp in terror as if it's the first time I've seen the image, an image so horrific that my eyes have yet to become desensitized.

Fred tries to comfort me by asking me how many times I've actually had to show the card in the past year. Twice. Once to our apartment rental agent, and once to the ticket verifier on the TGV. Both turned to stone.

Fred tells me to look on the bright side. In 9 more years I can have a new photo taken, and I can spend the time in between practicing my smile. This comes as little consolation. After living in France 10 years it’s not likely that I’ll have any teeth left.

May I suggest pills?

2007-04-26T20:26:00.002+02:00

I know it's horribly insensitive and selfish of me to say, but apparently they're really easy to get here and I am sick of receiving regular calls from my tired and hard working husband telling me that he is going to arrive home from work late again due to yet another "accident grave de voyageur" on his train line. A percentage of these "accidents" likely are just that, but I think it's a common assumption that most are suicides.

A few months ago a study on the use of antidepressants in France was published. On this topic, a student told me that the only reason French use more antidepressants compared to other countries, namely the U.S., is because France has the best health care system in the world. Thus, if a French person feels even mildly depressed, he or she can visit the doctor and receive antidepressants and sleeping pills compared to depressed Americans who must suffer in pain. Maybe she's right. I have no idea. Although, she is the same person who told me this.

The checks in the mail . . .

2007-04-26T08:00:00.000+02:00

Dear Mom,

Please don't fret. I've been working really hard in France this month teaching extra English classes so you will have the money that you need to buy the brand new 2007 Cadillac Escalade ESV that you've been dreaming of ever since you grew tired of your 2006 model.

Love,

Amy

[Note to Americans Living in France:

The French are on to us!

Yesterday a French engineer informed me during the midst of a political discussion that Americans come to France to work so that they can send money back to their families in the U.S. This, of course, is a problem for the French economy because the money being earned here isn't being spent here.

I found this "fact" shocking as my French husband took a 50% pay cut when he moved from the U.S. back to France, and I literally make the same hourly rate (adjusted for inflation and conversion) teaching English in France that I made in 1984 cleaning my neighbor's condo. Moreover, anytime we've run low on cash, we've transferred money from our U.S. account to our French one (money that was earned in the U.S.) I've also heard other French complain about Brits and Americans (and/or American investment firms) buying apartments in Paris, thereby pricing the locals out of the market. So which is it?!?

Either way, if he or one of his French family members would like my job as an English teacher, they can have it because I'm not earning enough to send money back to the States or purchase an apartment in Paris.]

Farmer Fred

2007-04-21T11:46:00.000+02:00

Before moving to Paris, Paula and I enjoyed a good-bye dinner at Plouf where our Parisien waiter teased me that my bordelais husband was actually a bol de lait, and probably too backwoods to make it in the savvy capital of La France.

That's because most Parisiens don't have a backyard! Last weekend as I lay dying (thank you for the well wishes and excellent links, I'm feeling all better and I'm caught up on Grey's Anatomy!), Fred worked the land.

Armed with a box of Gazon and the goddess of fertility, Fred planted his seeds.

Since I was still too weak to bark orders, a meow would have to do. Bilbo was put in charge of supervising Fred's work.

Please check back in 10 days to see if the grass is growing, or if it was a mistake to put a cat in charge of a "bowl of milk"!

Netflix Transatlantic?

2007-04-14T22:26:00.000+02:00

The worst thing about being sick in a foreign country is television. I can live without Vicks Vapor Rub, Sucrets, and Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup, but I can’t live with just one English language channel!

My entertainment choices boil down to watching our wedding DVD over and over again (it’s the only DVD at my disposal that is formatted for our French DVD player) or viewing regurgitated news broadcasted on the BBC about Prince William’s break-up, World Sports featuring cricket, and a program about global warming - which only reminds me what a shit I am for leaving my T.V. on watching programming on a loop and then complaining about it. I decided to boot-up my computer and write this for good measure.

[Update: My hero brought me apple juice and The Black Dahlia.]

Desperado . . .

2007-03-08T19:59:00.000+01:00

It looks like a burrito through the blurry lens of a camera phone, but it's not. It's a falafelish! Something Federico and I bought from a booth at the Auguste-Blanqui marché in the 13th on Sunday.

The vendor was out of hummus so he substituted a tomato-eggplant mixture in its place. I was impressed by the swaddle job, however. Although not tin foil, the plastic baggie wrapped around it kept the salsa (in this fantasy) aka tzatziki from dripping down my arm.

It was good, but when you grew up in California, the next best thing to Mexico (sorry, Texas!), it's a far cry from La Taqueria on Mission Street.

Sexy or Sexist?

2007-03-08T19:26:00.000+01:00

Today is La Journée de la Femme (The Day of the Woman) in France and I received a pink rose from my local supermarket to mark the occasion.

You may be asking yourself, "But wait, it's 'The Day of the Woman', why in the world were you at the grocery store buying food to make for dinner?"

Me too.

Really though, my little Frenchie is nice to me every day and Valentine's Day was just a few weeks ago. And I think the origin of the day was to promote equality and women's suffrage, so in the end, the pink rose may seem a bit hypocritical. Not for me to decide. I'm sure Hallmark was behind all of this anyway. Right?

A Trip to Remember . . .

2007-02-27T21:27:00.000+01:00

We boarded the train at Gare Saint-Lazare last Saturday morning and arrived at the Deauville-Trouville station in Normandy just over 2 hours later.

We chose this destination for our weekend getaway in spite of it being rainy season because of les huîtres et les crevettes roses. Fresh off the train, we wandered into La Marine and ordered a giant platter of both:

Fresh bread, salty butter, and a bottle of Muscadet were the perfect compliments!

And, despite predictions, we enjoyed beautiful weather most of the trip.

Later that day, we drove 20 minutes to the the 11th century fishing port of Honfleur.

We tasted the calvados.

We laughed at the expression on this cute little dog.

We window shopped.

And gazed at treats in bakery windows.

The day was perfect, in fact, until Fred blurted out that they had found a decapitated man not far from there. Some things are better left untranslated, like this public notice.

Back in Trouville, there was another public announcement that was equally as serious:

It's difficult to read because I'm no photographer. The sign explains that because this café/boulangerie is open 7 days a week it must refrain from selling baguettes over-the-counter at least one of these days to be fair to the boulangeries that are not open 7 days a week, per labor union agreement. Fred and I enjoyed our omelets and baguette in the café, watching as potential customers walked in and then out of the boulangerie, empty handed.

The most unforgettable part of our trip was our visit of the D-DAY LE CHOC ("The Shock") memorial sites:

The World War II Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial

Omaha Beach

Pointe du Hoc

I couldn't help but wonder what the soldiers who died on June 6, 1944 would think of today's war.

It's Tuesday, I'm in Love . . .

2007-02-27T21:12:00.000+01:00

I man handled nearly every bag. Desperately searching for some kind of clue, I smoothed out the plastic hoping that the name of the magic ingredient was folded in the crease. I resorted to sticking my nose intimately close to the moisture-release holes trying to capture a whiff of raisin, chocolate, walnut, olive, something! What kind of bread was this?!?

I thought my antics had gone unnoticed. However, there was a Franprix employee lurking in the background enjoying la folie. He walked up and said the equivalent of: Are you sure you touched all of them? I laughed embarrassedly and started pointing to the different brown chunks inquiring: Qu'est-ce que c’est? Et ça? Et ça? Et ça? But before he revealed the secret, he wanted to know what I was: Vous êtes anglaise? Nope, not English, American.

He then went into a very long explanation to a coworker who was passing by, and probably couldn’t have given a damn considering she was on a break and had an entire orange in her mouth, about how wonderful Americans are and how we are such friendly and open people. I jokingly said, maybe the people, but not the president. He said that the administration and the people are not one in the same. And went on to say that Americans are some of the nicest people he had ever met. Ahhhhhhhh. How sweet! Then I told him to shut the f^(% up and tell me what was in the bread!!! Just kidding.

I’m in love with France (and the French) encore!

Thanks for sharing!

2007-02-23T17:55:00.000+01:00

As if I wasn't self-conscious enough speaking in French . . .

The receptionist in the main lobby called my office to announce my student’s arrival and to find out what floor I was on. Apparently, when she hung up the receiver she turned to my student and asked if I was a man.

Who's Contaminating La France?

2007-02-22T12:06:00.000+01:00

"Goodbye Americans who want to monopolize the world and who contaminate France!!!"

I find it ironic that this person -- who defaced the wall of a restroom (a filthy one at that) in a public library of the 15th arrondissement -- accuses Americans of contaminating France.

It's the rare American in France who pollutes bistros with cigarette smoke, allows their dog to defecate in the middle of the sidewalk, or spits loogies partout.

If, on the other hand, the author of this rebellious outburst is referring to contamination through globalization and commercialization, I can only say that on the odd occasion I have had a craving for McDonald's fries, I have been deterred by the extremely long line of French patrons waiting patiently for their McRoyale.

"Lawn at Rest"

2007-02-18T18:13:00.000+01:00

Even the grass gets a vacation in France!

La différence . . .

2007-02-12T20:01:00.000+01:00

My French husband is sitting across from me eating a Yoplait yogurt bearing the expiration date of 25/1/07. That's right, 18 days ago. Not only is he eating it, but he's scraping the side of the bare container with his spoon as not to miss a curd. I, on the other hand, won't eat anything in the refrigerator on the off chance that the yogurt container may have brushed up against it.

How Much for Some New Lungs?

2007-02-11T22:22:00.000+01:00

I know a French woman who is very lovely, but has some fanciful ideas about my homeland. To wit, she believes that it's legal to buy and sell body parts in the U.S. “Oh really?" I say (wondering how much her brain would fetch). “Yes” she tells me. “Everything is for sale in the U.S. You must pay for everything!”

The next morning I spent a very long time at the post office processing our change-of-address request. The cost: 40€. (La Poste serves as a bank and a post office, managing to combine the two most horrific lines in the history of customer service. I think it should go for a hat trick and start issuing drivers licenses too.)

In the U.S., I could have done this same transaction online for $1.00 or for free if I wanted to go in person and stand in line (impossible, of course, considering I sold my legs to purchase my plane ticket to France).

FYI: The Anatomy of a Rumor

Dear Diary,

2007-02-09T20:11:00.000+01:00

I wrote a check at the dry cleaner today. Please don't hate me.

Come on Du de!

2007-02-08T09:48:00.000+01:00

A while ago my dad told me a story about a business trip he took to Paris. Sitting solo in a booth, dictionary in hand, he ordered up a “jambon et fromage sandwich”. The waiter later returned with his sandwiches: 1 jambon et 1 fromage. Needless to say, he moved the cheese to the ham sandwich and voila! his order was fulfilled. He got the sense that the waiter had done it on purpose. Not being there, I gave him the benefit of the doubt but secretly thought he was a bit paranoid . . . until last night.

I left a dinner party after the metro had stopped running. I jumped into a taxi and gave the driver my street name rue du Couedic (Coo-ed-ick). Not quite as simple as our old address: rue de la Convention, but not crazy hard to pronounce like rue Montorgueil either. Knowing my accent is a bit thick, I spelled it three times for him (I messed up the first time – the “e” gets me every time!) and even offered him up a nice neat little box of where he could find it – c’est entre Denfert-Rochereau et Parc Montsouris, et Général Leclerc et René Coty.

He sighed too many times to count as he struggled to reach the map under his seat, repeating (between sighs) that la rue n’existe pas with me responding each time that yes, the rue did exist because I lived on it. I handed him a piece of paper on which the address was printed. Proof! Ahhh, he said. Rue du Couedic existe, mais vous avez dit rue de Couedic. Lie! But even if I had said de, close enough.

I asked the driver if he spoke another language and then lectured him on how if someone is trying it would be nice if he could at least try to make an effort to understand them. Cognac does wonders for language skills and courage. And cutting off your nose despite your face. Finding no way to make a ham and cheese sandwich of the situation, I told him to stop. I got out of the taxi just near the Seine and almost started crying. Mostly because I felt that I should given that the Seine is the perfect "scene" for a homesick American crossing Pont Neuf, contemplating her place in a foreign country as she struggles to fit in. But it was cold and I needed to get home to my warm bed and sweet husband (to remind me that French people really are nice!) so I whispered "cut", hailed the next taxi, and repeated my coordinates.

Worked like a charm. I didn’t need to wait to get home to be reminded after all.

New Rule for 2007!

2007-01-21T19:38:00.000+01:00

Writing checks in a retail line is not allowed for people under 40.

After spending a full day at our old apartment ironing sheets, chair covers, and placemats, I dashed over to Monoprix to grab a pre-made sandwich at the fast food counter. I only had 15 minutes to scarf it down before the rental agent showed up to do the état des lieux (walk-through). But to my dismay, the 30-something French woman in line before me decided to write a check for the cakes, breads, etc., that she was purchasing (likely for a work birthday party) opposed to using a check card! Yes, her order was more impressive; however, I was starving (and, because I'm emotionally immature, an emergency on my part constitutes an emergency on everyone's part). It took the vendor forever to wrap all the stupid cakes, ring her up, and then for her to write a check. And just when I thought it was all over and allowed myself to start salivating, the vendor called for a manager to "authorize" the check because it was for more than 150 euro. I seriously flashed back to being an 8 year old in line at Gemco while my mom purchased me a 2-XL.

Paranoid or Making Progress?

2006-12-31T10:15:00.000+01:00

Our waiter asked me if I was Canadian. Fred assumed he thought I was a Québécoise because of my accent when speaking French. I think it’s because when he tried to seat us in “non-smoking” after scanning the room and pointing out a table at random I said “Là? À côté de la femme avec la cigarette?” he pegged me as American. However, as my girlfriend in London will confirm, it’s somewhat politically incorrect to “accuse” someone of being American. Or similar to asking a woman when her baby is due when she isn’t pregnant. It’s safer to ask if a person is Canadian, thus, not to offend them by calling them American in the event they actually are Canadian. Plus, I know my accent is nowhere near close enough to a true Francophone, even a French-Canadophone!

Crisp & Clean

2006-12-20T23:24:00.000+01:00

We gave notice on our apartment on Monday. We’re moving to our new place (below) in mid-January. In order to receive our full security deposit, the rental agency kindly reminded us to perform a thorough cleaning prior to our departure and, above all, we mustn’t forget to iron all the linens. This must be the reason the French have a 35-hour work week. They put in the extra 5+ ironing sheets and face cloths when they get home from work. I much prefer our previous landlord on rue de Temple, a New Yorker who told us to FedEx him the keys after we got our stuff out and he’d mail us our security deposit. Sight unseen.

Only in France . . .

2006-12-19T18:37:00.000+01:00

I stopped by a specialty cookware store yesterday in search of a meat tenderizer. In the midst of halfheartedly showing me the first of two carried by the shop, the lovely Frenchman working the counter came clean, suggesting that I forgo purchasing a meat tenderizer and find a better butcher instead.

Be American. Save Money.

2006-11-23T20:04:00.000+01:00

On my way home I passed a normal looking man in his early 30s sitting on a bench across from my house in the cold, damp weather. A backpack and suitcase piled up next to him. He asked me if I spoke English. He genuinely seemed like he was in need of help, like perhaps he had lost his wallet. I said yes. He then asked if I was American, to which I also said yes. He told me to forget it. I pressed the issue but he said he didn't want to talk to me. I asked what his problem was, but he refused to tell me. Although I was fairly certain, I asked him what he was - besides an asshole - but still, he refused to talk. In any event, I delighted in watching him ask strangers for money from the comfort of my balcony. Most people ignored him. Apparently begging for money in my native tongue is perfectly acceptable, however, taking money from my infidel pocket is not. If he knew anything about America, he'd know that today is Thanksgiving, thus, I'm in a giving mood and would have been good for at least 50 centimes.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2006-11-23T14:31:00.000+01:00

One benefit of being away from my family on Thanksgiving is that I have time to make Pilgrim-wear for Bilbo. This photo actually is from four years ago, you can tell because we had just got him and hadn't had the time to fatten him up.

However, after four years of grazing on Iams organic corn cat food, he reached a hearty 12lbs. Good enough to eat. So we did, and he was delectable!

In reality, we're celebrating Thanksgiving tomorrow night with three other American-French couples! Bilbo will be safe at home working on his Christmas cards.

I think of home often, but especially today. I'm thankful for having friends and family like you!

[p.s. Paula, This is a picture of the turkey you made us on Thanksgiving 2003. And it really was delectable!]

It’s All in a Name!

2006-11-19T22:37:00.001+01:00

Fred and I just returned from dinner at Cave de l'Os a Moelle. The concept is simple: a traditionally cooked pre-set French meal served family style at group tables. I’d read a few reviews and people, French and American alike, seemed to enjoy the food and atmosphere. The price was 20€ for four courses, all-you-can-eat.

On paper it looked good. There were just three problems: (1) I’m a germaphobe; (2) I’m not a huge fan of traditional French cuisine (I tend not to eat animals that have appeared in Disney movies, including but not limited to: Bambi, Thumper, and The Black Stallion); and (3) despite having the appearance of being social, I generally don’t like meeting new people.

In retrospect, I have no idea why I thought I'd enjoy this restaurant.

We arrived just after 8 p.m. The owner pointed out our table and told us that we’d be dining with two Spanish couples, all of whom spoke excellent French so not to worry. We made our way to the table and said our bonsoirs - ready to play the game. However, that was the most we said to them all night because they refused to acknowledge our existence and spoke in Spanish the entire time. We longed to join the picnic table of anglophones next door.

Our dinner companions used their forks to eat from the communal platters. Stabbing at tomatoes and double dipping their saliva-riddled utensils into the beet salad and other entrees. Fred and I used the serving spoons that were provided on a shelf just an arm-length away. We carefully avoided the contaminated areas and tried not to think about the food molestation that likely had been committed prior to our arrival.

Later the owner dropped off a giant pitcher of water for the table which they deemed their own personal well. They parked it on their side of the table, never once offering to share it with us. Filling their glasses, but stopping abruptly as the pitcher made its way towards mine. I wanted Fred to remind them that it was French water they were drinking, but he bought my silence by filling my glass with wine instead.

The only meat dishes on the menu were lapin (rabbit) and some sort of pâté – a nice and chunky one packed with hooves and whiskers. Fred ate both. I won't be able to kiss him for months.

This dining fiasco could have been averted had my husband told me that Cave de l'Os a Moelle translated to the name of a horror movie (“Cellar of Marrowbone”) before we ate there.

In all fairness to the restaurant and Fred, I did choose it. Plus, the food I did eat was fresh and good. And just as we were leaving a French mother and daughter joined our table. We chatted with them a bit and they were nice. They even knew not to eat directly from the serving plates. It’s the type of place where the experience can be dramatically different depending on one’s compatibility with the menu and dining companions. For example, had I had beef with just about any other group of people, I might be singing its praises. The name of the restaurant, however, would still make me shudder with fear.

Egos. Alive and well in France.

2006-10-21T11:54:00.000+02:00

The spot where he kissed me itched for days. A phantom pain from where my untainted skin used to lie. He caught me off guard as I slipped from the 1 to the 12 line at Concorde station. He grabbed my hand from out of nowhere, nearly swallowing it whole as he planted his sloppy kiss. I thought for a moment that he might be a professional thief who was trying to suck the wedding ring from my finger. Instead he was a skeezy old Frenchman whose tweed sports coat, and the dandruff on it, were both older than me. His prime, if ever he had one, past 40 years ago. But that didn’t stop him from believing that he was debonair as hell.

I muttered in French as best I could as I struggled to free what was left of my hand, but the bastard spoke English. Even worse, he was taking the same metro line as me. He asked if I was English or American. He preferred Americans because the U.S. is "farther away" (probably because it’s more complicated to extradite dirty perverts 6,000 miles opposed to shooting them through the Chunnel).

After narrowing down my city to San Francisco, he asked if I was a homosexual. Not finding the humor in his comment, I told him that I wasn’t, but my husband might be. Him being French it’s sometimes hard to tell. (I figured one stupid stereotype deserved another). It was lost on the old man and he continued. He was only interested in one thing: making me his mistress.

As the metro winded down the tracks, I could barely contain my gag reflex. His breath smelled of spoiled milk and a constellation of blackheads formed the Big Dipper on the tip of his nose. He yanked on his Donald Trump eyebrows and rolled the course salt-and-pepper hairs between his stubby fingers. He hammered me with flirtations until I finally gave in. What can I say, I’ve always wanted a Kelly bag.

The Rain in Spain . . .

2006-10-15T19:46:00.002+02:00

While chatting with my fellow immigrant classmates the young Cambodian woman next to me seized the opportunity to tell me that I was pronouncing the word “pas” incorrectly. I was forced to repeat “Je ne sais pas” (I don't know) over and over again while a Peruvian and a Macedonian student joined in to help critique my performance. I know enough to know that the “s” in “pas” is silent, thus I couldn't have been that far off. Plus, I use this phrase daily, along with “Je ne comprends pas” (I don't understand), on the streets of Paris and French people seem to understand me just fine. As does my French husband.

I asked my volunteer tutors to imitate my mistake so I could hear the difference; however, I was unable to detect the distinction. Perhaps it had something to do with their accents. Just a guess. I finally was saved when my French teacher interrupted and confirmed that I was saying it correctly, I just had an American accent. Something that I doubt I'll lose anytime soon as I don't have the financial incentive or talent of Nicole Kidman or Charlize Theron. I wanted to point out that the Cambodian woman has an accent while speaking English, which I would have done, but I thought it would seem petty considering she speaks four languages (Cambodian and Chinese - fluently, French and English - high beginner).

While I’ve learned to accept constructive criticism from other immigrants regarding vocabulary, grammar, and obvious mispronunciation of words, e.g., canard = duck vs. connard = moron, I have not reached the point where I am willing to play Eliza Doolittle to novice francophones - especially when the panel is comprised of a person who cannot pronounce at least 3 consonants in French, another who rolls her Rs into next week, and a third who relies on the Slovenian alphabet.

There are plenty of things that these women do that are far more unpleasant. For example, four hours a day the Cambodian woman obliviously picks the acne on her forehead and then uses her pinky nail to scrape and flick the oily crud onto our shared desk. The Peruvian routinely walks into the classroom late while talking on her cell phone. She also answers it in class when it rings, as do half the other students (my favorite is when "My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps . . ." blasts from the cell phone of the 40ish Kazakhstanian woman on the other side of me). Finally, the Macedonian woman might as well be a quadriplegic with tourettes. The woman never, never raises a hand to ask or respond to a question and constantly blurts out (wrong) answers. Lest you think I’m intolerant, I make fun of Americans too, but I'm the only one in this class and I'm too busy quietly documenting the annoying habits of my classmates to bother anyone.

Learning English

2006-09-29T17:35:00.000+02:00

Just when I thought I was making progress in French I discovered that there’s plenty of English left to learn. My American friend who lives in London introduced me to the word “chav” – an acronym for “council housing active vermin” or “council housing adolescent vermin”. Defined by wikipedia as:

. . . a slang term in wide use throughout the United Kingdom since 2004. It refers to a subcultural stereotype of people fixated on fashions such as flashy "bling" jewelery (generally fake gold), and genuine (rarely seen on chavs) or knock-off (more likely to be seen) designer clothing with the beige Burberry pattern (most famously the baseball cap which has since been discontinued by the company), and such brands as lonsdale, Berghaus, Burberry, Von Dutch, Louis Vuitton, Adidas, Nike, Lacoste and most well known Sergio Tacchini. . . .

Whatever the definition, my friend warned me that it’s a derogatory term and cautioned me against using it. That’s like telling a schizophrenic not to hear voices. However, before I was able to incorporate it into my vocabulary it dawned on me while walking home from Cacharel with what I thought was a nice purchase that I might be a bit of a chav myself.

Was Cacharel the French Burberry?

I consulted my beautiful and stylish French girlfriend Isabelle Francois (an obvious authority) for her opinion on the matter. Having experienced a perilous period in the late 80s and early 90s, Cacharel had since rebounded and saved itself. Pierre Cardin, she continued, had not been as fortunate. After a licensing rampage, his name was slapped on mass produced purses, belts, luggage, pens, watches, etc., eventually losing any air of exclusivity. (I was relieved to receive Isabelle’s opinion because the Cacharel item I had purchased was for my friend’s baby. It would be very cruel to mark an innocent child with a plaid “C” so early in life.)

Although Cacharel was in the clear, I wasn’t so sure about me. I distinctly remember purchasing Cacharel (and Givenchy) leather goods from Mervyn’s in Fullerton during the time frame in question - this sentence alone says it all. I was definitely a chav, the word just hadn’t been created yet. I was ahead of my time in at least one respect. But what about now? I consulted an expert who diagnosed me as follows:

Wannabe chav
You are 15 % chav
You clearly know you are not, nor will you ever be anything even closely resembling a bonafide chav but that doesn't stop you from jumping on the bling bandwagon every now and then. There's nothing wrong with a bit of pretending though you'll never be able to hold your own with the true Burberry brigade.

The Wall Street Journal recently covered this issue in the context of brand association and marketing. Here's an excerpt:

"No Kick From ‘Chavpagne’"

Young, Loutish British 'Chavs' Have a Taste for Champagne
An Image Problem for Makers?

By Jenny Clevstrom and Christina Passariello, The Wall Street Journal, 1219 words
Aug 18, 2006

Given their rowdy and generally unsavory reputation, being associated with chavs has posed problems for some high-end brands. When chavs adopted fashion house Burberry's signature beige, black and red tartan as their uniform a few years ago, U.K. sales of the brand dropped, and Britain became Burberry's weakest market by January 2005. Burberry PLC, which markets to young consumers in general, acknowledged that traditional customers were put off when chavs sported the brand. "It has not been helpful," finance director Stacey Cartwright told the press in January 2005. . . .

Full article available on WSJ's website

The article went on to discuss Prada and how the designer no longer distributes a certain style of black sneakers in England because of chavs' love for the shoe. Cristal was also mentioned in this article and it's association with chavs and hip-hop artists.

Fortunately, I’m no longer the label conscious girl from the late-80s. I learned after high school that all a pair of Chemin de Fers can do is get you a date for Sadie Hawkins and a ride in a Camaro. Not so important in 2006.

P.S. While we're on the subject of learning, I recently discovered:

(a) If you simply ask a butcher for "filet mignon" in Paris, he will give you pork by default, not beef. He explained that it may vary by region. I confirmed this with my Parisienne French teacher. Are they messing with me? I know it's a cut, but I thought it was beef. I'm going to have to check with my mother-in-law.
(b) Another American friend living in London informed me that the beer Stella Artois is often referred to as a "wife beater" due to its high alcohol content. Not politically correct, but funny nonetheless.

Spidey v. Frenchie

2006-09-19T21:22:00.000+02:00

As we descended onto the runway a voice over the speaker welcomed us to “the diverse areas of Orange County.” Interesting word choice. I’d never considered the birthplace of Richard Nixon, the home of John Wayne, and the site of the Ronald Reagan Federal Building as diverse, but perhaps things had changed since my last visit.

First stop: my dad and step-mom’s house. Fred and I went out to dinner alone with my dad because my step-mom had inadvertently agreed to host a meeting at their house for her Orange County Performing Arts Center charity group on the one night we were in town from Paris.

When the three of us returned from dinner, we entered a virtual lion’s den. And it was feeding time. There's something about women over 50 that love my husband. When they see him they gush "Oh, please have him say something! I want to hear his accent." I'm always hoping that he'll respond: "Enchanté dumbass, the pleasure is all mine" or quote a line from The Exorcist. But instead he smiles boyishly and asks: "What would you like me to say?" And that's probably why they find him so charming. [Side note: I’d like to point out that if they’d just speak to him like the human being that he is, he’d respond in kind and they’d hear his cute French accent without all the hoopla and the rolling of my eyes.] I’m considering bringing a top hat and hoops with me the next time we take our act on the road. In fact, maybe his fans at the Performing Arts Center could sponsor my play: Les Misérables en Le County Orange. It's about a poverty-stricken Frenchman trying to earn money in Orange County by performing a play in English with a very thick French accent. Poverty-stricken and French in the O.C. Now that's diversity!

More recently Fred’s role as a spokesmodel spilled over into print work. During the same trip to the U.S. we spent a weekend in Napa at our friends' wedding where the photographer took a fancy to Fred. She was overwhelmed by his uncanny resemblance to Toby McGuire (which left the rest of us straining our eyes). “Click, click, click, flash, flash, flash” followed Fred around for the better part of three days.

On the final day, shortly after the ceremony, I was approached by the groom’s father who asked if they could borrow my husband because the photographer wanted to take a picture with him. As Fred patiently posed for wedding photos, I looked on with sympathy and sipped on a Rose Kennedy.

Less than an hour later while seated at our dinner table, I was approached again. This time by the photographer herself. She asked if she could take my picture. I assumed that she had recognized my Shannen Dohertyish (circa 1991) good looks and wanted a portrait for her portfolio. Finally my time had come. She told me that the sun was setting and the lighting was perfect. I must hurry if she was to get the shot! As she beckoned me towards the light, I heard the words: “And grab your husband!”