cultural differences – Page 2

A ratatouille is a ratatouille is a ratatouille.

It all began with a Sunday roast, rather a rosbif (translation: ‘French’ for roast beef). Like always, mon mari was in charge of the roast and I was in charge of the accompaniment. Digging through the fridge, I exclaimed, “Hey! I’ve got all the makings of a ratatouille!” I’ve always thought that any combination of zucchini, eggplant, red peppers, tomatoes, onions and garlic would instantly qualify as a ratatouille, even disguised as a the quick saute. But mon mari is always discouraging me from making it. As Mr. Meat & Potatoes himself, I just shrugged it off as an unsuccessful attempt at force-feeding him something green. But finally, it came out, “c‘est pas terrible! A real ratatouille needs to be cooked for at least a day or two. It should be like jam when it is done”, he insisted. Was this just another cross-cultural, marital culinary scuff?

Sure enough, in a country divided by 200-something kinds of cheese, the preparation of ratatouille has inspired a national debate, too. The ingredients can simply be sautéed. Or they can be layered and baked in the oven. Or simmered away for hours à la Joël Robuchon. I sucked up my pride and rescheduled the ratatouille, leaving it to stew away into the evening hours. Alas, Robuchon, I mean, my husband, was right. Although all the vibrant colors of the vegetables were lost in the stewing, what was left was a rich, meaty concentration of vegetables, leaving it with an intensely savory sauce evoking a boeuf bourguignon. I poached some eggs in the ratatouille and dinner was served.

Although I will still use all three methods, all of them should be explored to come to a personal conclusion. But the simmering method upgrades ratatouille from an unconscious side dish to a sophisticated main course.

Frenchie knows best.

Clouds over Saint-Mandé

The April showers turned into May showers. Come on June! Kick out the precipitation and bring in the picnics! But enough about the weather already.

I just committed the terrible sin of running errands in my nightdress. A real Franco no-no. In a culture which firmly separates the public from the private, flip-flops, pajama pants, and convenience clothes are only found behind locked doors. Needless to say, I did dress up my nightgown with a French touch, one of my husband’s v-neck sweaters. I’d like the think it was California casual with Midwestern roots. Anyway, the moment I left my flat (with all my Crocs and Snuggies padlocked behind me), I felt the first ray of premature summer sun hit my ankles. And so it begins…

Just Another Apero’

I apologize if it comes across that France is all daffodils and Laduree. In reality, like all great capital cities, a quarter of my time is spent on the Metro. Another quarter is a bureaucratic wild goose chase. And as a freelancer, another quarter is spent working and/or stressing about not working.

The weekends are welcome change of pace. The only excuses to leave the flat are buying bread and attending the ubiquitous aperitif, or French house party. The apero is quintessentially French, reminding me of what I am not. In short, it is nothing short of a bowl of mixed nuts, carrot sticks, a strict byob policy, and a smoky room of heated conversations. Unlike the All-American, all-inclusive parties I know, at an apero, one must fend for oneself. I try not to read up so much on all the The French Do the Darndest Things books that stack the shelves of all the anglophone bookstores in Paris, but I did find a particular a-ha moment thumbing through Jean-Benoit Nadeau and Julie Barlow’s take Sixty Million Frenchmen Can’t Be Wrong. Nadeau and Barlow compare conversation in English-speaking countries to badminton. Both parties must keep the conversation afloat by tossing it systematically back and forth. On the other hand, conversation in France is a proper duel. Wit, knowledge, and general fun facts of Haussmanian architecture are used to formulate an attack to outsmart the rival. And conversation is not something that everyone can engage in. It must first be engaged with guile.

I am an extroverted introvert, finally accepting the fact that I lean more towards the introverted side of the pendulum, feeling like I must be crass and crude for people to like me. So this leaves me in an uncomfortable place at aperos. I cling to mon mari for a while, but my smiles and head nodding can’t initiate me into the conversation. I usually just plant myself next to the buffet and desperately make eye contact. One bowl of cherry tomatoes and a wine mustache later, I am still immobile and impersonal, kicking myself for not throwing myself into the ring. I try spotting out someone I can use my impressive knowledge of American primetime sitcoms from the 1990s. But no one’s even looking at me! I make eye contact with a few guys. All they want to know is the origin of my accent and if I’ve heard of Bon Jovi.

Yes! I’ve finally reeled someone in! An acquaintance of mon mari, you know, that chick with the bangs. Someone finally feels my desperation and comes up for a little chat. “What are doing at this moment?” “Uh, nothing really. I’ve just discovered steak-flavored chips. And you?” “No, what are you working on at this moment?” “Oh”, I say, whipping up the roster of expos I’ve seen in the last six-months to keep me in the intellectual joust. Before belting out how how fabulous the Matisse was at the Pompidou, I’ve lost her to the kitchen. After several hourly trips to the toilet and a bottomless verre, the soiree is over. Phew!

So what’s a conversationally disenfranchised expat to do? Fortunately, alcohol is welcome in these settings. And thankfully, not all aperos are like this. But after a long week, sometimes I would rather spend an evening with company of Don Draper and the gang at Sterling Cooper Draper Price. Much like sussing up the illusive extroversion inside of me, it takes a little bit more courage just to take a deep breath and be myself in my new social climate. But all in all, it is much easier to do, especially if I can scope out someone who speak intelligently of the Cosby Show.

French yogurt and its culture

Yaourt. Although my tongue still hasn’t wrapped around the right pronunciation yet (Is it yAo-oort? YA-OOrt? Ya-oURt?), I’ve never loved yogurt more. Just take a look at the selection!

Today, on this dreadfully dreary day in Paris, jessiekanelos.wordpress.com delivers its first taste of hard journalism. I will test the limits of my curiosity and my lactose tolerance for the hard facts on my neighborhood grocery’s yogurt isle.

I never really like yogurt in the States because there really is not much variety. It is often overly sweet with cloying artificial flavors. Wouldn’t you think yogurt cultures would be canceled out by a cotton candy flavor? It gets more and more difficult to find a plain version. However, according to Wikiyogurt, the French eat around 21 kilos of yogurt a year. French fridges are continuously well-stocked. It is a go-to breakfast, snack, and dessert. But the word yaourt can be deceiving. It often refers to the cream desserts, pudding cups, and often single-serving desserts that share the yogurt isle.

How clever! Yogurt with the granola already mixed in!

Licorice and mint? Some flavors are better admired than tried.

Porfiteroles, clafoutis, creme brulee, chocolate mouse. Just take a look at the Greatest Hits of French desserts carefully disguised among the yogurt. Everywhere I look in Paris these days, there is a new USA burger, bagel & cookie diner. The yogurt isle is just as trendy with its “le cheese cake” and “les cookies”.

Oh hello, cottage cheese. Fancy seeing you here!

Speaking of plain yogurt, there is just as much variety to be found. I am one spoon away from exposing it tomorrow. Stay tuned!

Trim a branch, strike a pose.

One of the major differences between New York and Paris is the pockets of greenery scattered about Paris. Once getting past heavy, Haussmanian doors with ubiquitous door codes (the right of passage to reach any French person, place or thing), the majority of apartment buildings hide a small garden, most likely amidst parked bicycles and garbage cans.

When I met my husband, I was instantly taken by his own private petit jardin. (“He’s got a car, an accent and a garden! Instant upgrade!”, exclaimed my 2009 self). Living on the ground floor, it fills our apartment with clean air and a terrific breeze from the nearby forest, the Bois de Vincennes. And it allows me to indulge in an urban impossibility, compost. As of late, it is a bit unkempt. Case in point, winter rolled around before we had the chance to cut the grass. Ideally, I would love to plant sweet pea seedlings. However, as any photographer/stylist duo, we utilize gardening simply for impromptu photo shoots. In my one-track mind, dress-up always trumps gardening. Trim a branch, strike a pose.

What’s your gardening philosophy?

A Blurb on Butter

France is known for many delicious things. There’s charcuterie with all its nuance and varying levels of porkiness. Then there is the abundance of cheese. Charles de Gaulle himself so famously exclaimed, “how can anyone govern a nation that has two hundred and forty-six different kinds of cheese?” Additionally, there is butter. It is the undisputed backbone of traditional French cuisine. It is butter that gives a croissant its flaky altitude of layers. And then there is the butter of the unknown, that special ingredient that creates sensuous sauces and envelopes vegetables on a restaurant plate.

However, there is a new realm of butter that I have never known before. One recent morning, I whipped up a tartine for my husband comme d’habitude. I sliced a day-old baguette lengthwise, threw it in the toaster oven, threw a little butter on top, and let the oven do the work. I spread on a thin layer of plum jam and awaited my ‘merci’. “I don’t like it when the butter is melted”, he said. My jaw dropped. It’s toasted bread! The butter is supposed to be melted by the heat of the toast! That’s magic of breakfast right there. I shrugged it off; so particular, this husband of mine. Then over our Alpine vacation, over one of the many chats about food over coffee with my mother-in-law, she exclaimed the same disfavor for the taste of melted butter, like in pound cake. But butter is as butter does, non? I’m an intelligent person. I saw The Tree of Life. And I liked it. But somehow, I never thought about the difference between butter in its many mediums. Alas, at the end of the day, I have lot of work to do. And I am still as American as I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!® – Spray.

$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.

storyboard_001 — "Yes, I speak French. I took it sophomore year."

shit americans say in paris 2 — "That is SO Fah-RENCH!"

Continue reading “$hit Americans $ay in Paris”

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.

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.

Lentils Continued…

Yes, here is the recipe for lentils I promised you a few weeks back! Oh, Lentils. The mighty, high-protein, highly-economic standby food! Like all simple foods in France, they get the VIP treatment. Lentils are always dressed up with bits of foie gras or smoked salmon. However, considering we just bought an apartment, they rest unadorned, but nonetheless delicious.

Sadly, my husband is opposed to spice. He will find ways to eat around herbs. As I heard so eloquently said recently (in David Lebovitz’s blog), Americans are into fireworks when eating. However, the French prefer something truly simple and well-made. It goes to show that my own personal style is to throw a handful of cilantro on everything. Needless to say, the following recipe is tasty whether you choose to dress it down for dinner for two, served with some baked potatoes and grilled sausages. Or in my case, incorporate some chopped ginger, garam masala, creme fraiche and a handful of cilantro for lunch!

Compromise be gone!

Lentils for one and all (or 8 people)

1 ½ Cup Green Lentils, soaked for several hours or overnight

2 leeks, finely chopped

3 small onions, finely chopped

1 clove garlic

2 carrots, shredded

3 plum tomatoes, grated

1 tsp salt

½ tsp pepper

2 bay leaves

1 tsp. olive oil

6 cups water, more if needed

1.) In a heavy-bottomed pot, sauté the leeks and onions over medium/low heat until soft and translucent. Add bay leaves, carrots, garlic, pepper and tomato. Cook until softened and lightly caramelized

2.) Add the drained lentils and cover mixture with water

3.) Cook for 30 minutes until the lentils are soft and stewy. Add salt

4.) Enjoy!