$hit Americans $ay in Paris

Two months ago on Youtube, every subculture, city resident, ethnic group, and household item had a lot of shit to say.  “Shit New Yorkers Say” “Shit My Nigerian Dad Says” “Shit My Towel Says”.  And there were a lot of unfortunate wigs and accents along the way.   As soon as “Shit Shit Says” came out, the trend was a bit tired for my brilliant “SHIT AMERICANS SAY IN PARIS!”  Reviewing my shelf of Eiffel Tower bedazzled diaries from the past, I had enough material to whip up a script, a storyboard, and all both of my friends to make this thing viral.  But alas, I saw today that someone by the name of Ludovig beat me to it. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rriaeKyRVis)  Luckily none of our one-liners overlap.  And don’t worry, this American here has a lot of Shit to Say, too.  So here is my own material for your viewing pleasure, minus some unfortunate time of me on camera.

"Yes, I speak French. I took it sophomore year."
"That is SO Fah-RENCH!"

 

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An Ode to my Apron

 

 

So, what did this newlywed domestic diva ask her husband for her birthday?  A sophisticated apron, of course. I have recently launched into a new career as a food stylist.  But I cannot get just any apron dirty.  Nonetheless, to prevent any such birthday surprises, we went shopping for it together several weeks ago.  I have always adored those fluffy, froufrou aprons from Anthropologie.  You know the ones with a pocket for a Diptyque candle and another for a green drink?  However, I needed an apron to communicate that I am serious, capable, and have good knife skills.  Needless to say, if you are looking for the best array of quality home goods in Paris, specifically the best selection of aprons, Lafayette Home Opera is the place.  There are several walls of aprons and matching accessories of every color, pattern, and persuasion.  And I found a real beaute.  What kind of chicery is this, you might ask?  It’s purple ombre canvas with a discrete and slimming kangaroo pocket, perfect for an I-phone or a snack. And I couldn’t resist adding on a matching oven mit and kitchen towels.  I’m a real housewiii, I mean, food stylist now!

HAPPY JOUR DE MACARON! HAPPY SPRING! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

Flowers from our petit jardin. Spring has sprung!

Today is my birthday!  And the first day of Spring!  And it also happens to be the ‘jour de macaron’!  I was born on a good day.  Free macarons!  Thanks http://parisbymouth.com/ for sharing this.  If you’ve never tried a macaron before, they are the semi-precious confectionary jewel of certain French patisseries.  Crisp on the outside, unctuously intense on the inside.  Although the macaron trend is going strong in the States, I’ve never wasted my time finding an American equivalent.   (Have you found any good macarons in the USA yet?)  So shortly after I started planning my trick-or-treat-style macaron conquest, I realized that France doesn’t follow the same ‘demand and supply’ criteria as Halloween or that happy, happy day when Ben & Jerry’s gives out a free scoop in the States.  Eloquence is key to getting anything done in France.  Everything needs to be stated precisely and efficiently.  So I strutted into Dalloyau, a local participant.  I inquired ever-so politely in my most proper French, “Good day, dear sir.  Do you happen to be participating in this joyous day of macaron?”  Pause.  “Yes, in fact we are.  If you happen to participate in a tasting, you are certainly welcome.”  “Uhhh, yeeaah!…I mean, if you please.  I will take a vanilla, kind sir”  A little coercing for a small treat.  I should have mentioned my birthday first thing.

Take advantage of the beautiful day.  And a macaron too, if you please.

La Rentrée

And we’re back.  Phew!  The worst part about all the vacations in France is the constant ‘rentree’ or begrudgingly going to back to reality.  I can always sense the day of the rentree.  Parisiens walk the streets grumbling with their heads held lower.  I can hear more crying babies in the distance.  The Paris sky is a little bit more grey than usual.  Chatter is instantly consumed with talk of  the next vacation.  And ‘watch your step’ refers rather to the deposits of naughty dogs than to Alpine ice.

But Spring is about to put all the grey days to rest!  The trees are on the verge of blooming.  And the 5 bank holidays in May will swiftly bring the summer vacation.  Oh, and there’s the two-week Easter vacation somewhere in between, too.

What Me Hungry?

I’m still in the French Alps.  Remember I mentioned eating 5-course meals gracefully?  Well, I thought raclette, being a single-course and all, would be a good breather.  Mind you, it was my first time.  But alas, at the end of the day, it’s just a glob of melted cheese.  Poured on top of potatoes, accompanied with charcuterie, it is hearty, mountain food at its best.  But I feel like I really should have skied or chopped wood beforehand to truly enjoy it.  It’s a good thing we did not order a cheese fondue for the first course.  After 4 days of eating 3 courses (onion tarte, boeuf bourguignon, caramel tarte) at lunch and 5 courses at dinner (veloute de cepes, escargot, filet de lotte, fromage, royal chocolat) my moderation is finally sinking in.  Does this mean I’m becoming more French?

Anyway, I love a multi-course meal.  It’s always been treat since I first discovered the soup, salad, entree, jello/rice pudding option at the local Chicago Greek diners of my youth.  However, after 5-courses, I am usually on the brink of explosion.  And what’s a proud member of the clean-plate/waste-not club to do?  But here is what I have learned from experience.   Although everybody loves a generous plateau of Alpine cheeses to choose from, choose either cheese or dessert.  Or eat a small portion of each.  Incorporate vegetables when possible, if given a choice.  Stay hydrated during the day.  And move around as much as possible.  I’m starting to feel a bit of empathy for food critics…

Souvenir de Paris

As much as I am continually charmed by the life in France, some things lag behind. For example, to complete most bureaucratic tasks (banking, visas, health insurance), a secretary hands me a blank piece of paper to put my request in writing. Most secretaries have a desk piled-high with said requests. Hmm.

Peeling paint and spiderwebs are often a part of the decor.

Our old washing machine has been bust for months now. I’ve been begging my husband to ditch it. However, there is only one issue; it is also our only counter space. How I long for one of those stainless steel and granite American-style kitchens with a French-doored refrigerator and a freezer larger than a shoebox!

Finally, the other night I was brushing my teeth on my way to bed. Not only to find a worm on the bathroom floor. Of all the things that could come off the street and into our humble bathroom, a measly little worm is the least of our troubles. But it doesn’t mean I want to have my bare feet in the proximity of an unannounced worm.

Old world charm, first world woes.

Les Marchés Parisiens

After eating lentils all week, I often lose track of what day of the week it is!  Not that you should not try the delicious aforementioned recipe.  However, it very well could be just a side effect of freelancing; any day could be Saturday.  But what always keeps me on track is the local market, every Thursday and Sunday morning.  In Paris, there are several markets in every neighborhood, twice a week.  And it takes a tremendous amount of effort and resources.  Sanitation workers set up a row of metal frames and tarps are rolled out to commence the market.  Everything is promptly cleaned up and hosed down without a trace of the bustling, haggling, crate-strewn bi-weekly tradition.  The only trace is the fruit and veg seen in the still life above. 

The tremendous joy of food shopping in France is unparalleled in the States.  Although there are supermarkets and aptly titled ‘hypermarches’ to make a weekly grocery run, just looking at the streets of Paris will give you a clue of the sensibilities of shoppers.  On my short walk to the Metro from chez moi, there is a boucher, a fish shop, four boulangeries, a cheese shop, two Kosher sushi places, four sandwich shops, a honey boutique, and a handful of grocery stores.  I cannot tell if the French are just completely obsessed with food or they just value the craft of their neighborhood artisans.  To faire le course, the mundane task of food shopping, can take several stops.  Although it would be more efficient to stock up  (American-style) at the grocery just once a week, our fridge is half the size of those which can accommodate a proper trip to Kroger.  This is precisely why I love the market; twice a week, I can stock up on the freshest products that I need in just one place.  Take a look at these quick tips.

Tips 

1. If you are visiting Paris, click here (http://marche.equipement.paris.fr/tousleshoraires) to find a market near you.  Spring is just around the corner. And there is no better way to assemble a fabulous picnic.

2. Shop around.  There is something for everybody and a booth for everything: bouchers, chicken specialists, fish mongers, Greek specialties, eggs, cheese.  Prices and quality vary with each vendor.  In general, the deeper into the market, the less expensive.  Often times, prices are cheaper than the grocery stores and the quality is superior

3.  If PRODUCTEUR is advertised in a stall, the fruit and vegetables are coming directly from the source.  Although the produce may not be as impeccable-looking as neighboring booths, its freshness is top.  

4.  Say hello to your vendors.  I have been going to the same bargain booth for years now.  And the venders recognize my loyalty.  They call me princess and give me free avocados.  And they don’t give me a hard time when I beg them not to use plastic bags.  Hypermarche be damned!
Although the farmers market trend is going strong in the States, the bi-weekly market is a simple pleasure, deeply engrained into everyday life.  So you can have your still life and eat it, too.



C has tapped the secret of scrambled eggs.  Not even just the secret of making them, but the secret revelation of what they can be.   I have never had the best pastime of scrambled eggs.  They have always been a bit lost.  Somehow the rich sensuousness of the yolk is lost in the technique.  The dowdy other-half to bacon.  More of a showcase of salt and pepper.  I have become arrogant in my omelet abilities and have always attempted scrambled eggs with the same high-heat, pan-moving treatment.  However, they are always too dry and half of the final product gets lost to the pan.  I love the instant gratification of eggs, but sometimes a little added technique and patience can reintroduce something so simple and satisfying!

Low and slow is the way to go!  Turn on the stovetop to its lowest setting.  Beat best-quality eggs with a splash of milk, a small drizzle of water, and a generous amount of salt and pepper.

Throw a hearty nob of butter into the pan, about one teaspoon per egg, pour in the eggs, and be prepared to stir!  Much like a risotto, these eggs need both affection and attention.  Keep stirring

Cooking the eggs at the lowest temperature creates smaller, silkier curds and a creamier, velvety final product. Once you can draw a smiley face on the bottom of the pan, BRAVO!  You are almost there.

Depending on the temperature of your stove, it can take anywhere from 5-15 minutes.  Keep stirring until they are just barely set.  When done right, they will have a a custard-like texture.  Serve with chopped chives and crème fraiche, or with a tranche of smoked salmon.  Serve them however you would normally serve scrambled eggs.  However, they do not need much more than a sprinkle of sel de fleur and a piece or two of toast to sop up all the delicious creaminess.  Or reunite these made-over scrambled eggs with their other-half, bacon.

Happy 2012! I apologize for being a bit absent.  Since I last wrote, there was a wedding, a trip to New York, a honeymoon holiday in Nice, and many trips to the Prefacture de Police.  As of today, I have my residence permit, which means I will be bureaucracy-free for the next 9 months!  (Unless I decide to apply for a bank account, a library card, a masters program, leave my apartment.  Wait a minute…)  I wish I could celebrate by torching the rainforest of paperwork I have accumulated the last few months while singing ‘J’ai Deux Amours’ at the top of my lungs.  But alas, from now on I need to adopt the ‘French touch’ of maintaining a color coordinated bureaucracy binder.

Paris is cooling down.  Although my style integrates fairly well, I’m inevitably challenged to layer gracefully.  I’ve noticed on the streets, many women deal with either a ‘doudoune’, a duvet of a jacket or carefully calculated cashmere layers.  Me, I have a few chunky long, wool sweaters that I wear under either a camel jacket or my wool vintage herringbone blazer.  However, this recently backfired.  Case in point, on a quick trip to the local health insurance office, after I taking a number, I was quickly ushered by the hostess to a chair because I was mistaken as being ‘enceinte’ or with child.  Bundling up should not be mistaken for a bundle of joy.  “EXCUSEZ-MOI!!!” I gasped.  “JE SUIS PAS ENCEINTE!!!” The hostess was just as mortified as I was.  (Take that, bitch!)  Half-hearted apology unaccepted, I walked out of there forever mortified.  Maybe it is time to swear off my dear chunky knits.  Maybe it is time to lay off the fromage.  And maybe an Hermes Kelly Bag would certainly solve all of my problems…