Tag Archives: humor

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.

Radishes & butter.

Terraces and cigarettes.  Rosé and the summertime.  Radishes and butter.  Radishes and butter?  Yes! As a Ranch-dipping American, this came as a bit of a surprise to me .  (How does one butter a radish?  Have the French found an excuse to dip things into butter now?  I admit to sneaking single-serving Country Crock packets under restaurant tables as a kid, but this is absurd!) In France, butter is the assigned spouse to radishes, with a sprinkle of extramarital sea salt just to keep things interesting.  Although everyone does it differently, according to mon mari qui fume, the butter to my radish, the radishes are cut into four parts which create the surface area for the butter.  The beauty of the pairing instantly makes itself clear; the smooth butter flatters the crisp, occasionally spicy radish.  Give it a try!  Anyone know where to get some Country Crock around here?

Even the kiwis are French!

I am a real foodie now!  I’ve started buying locally and seasonally.  Farewell, sweet bananas and pineapples from faraway.  See you sporadically!  However, I made a recent discovery.  Over Christmas vacation, we spent a few days at a friend’s cottage in the mountains near La Cévennes.  The only fruit in the house were tiny kiwis no bigger than my thumb.  And they were local, harvested just nearby.  I always assumed that kiwi’s acidity and zippy vitamin C meant their origins were more tropical than domestic.  But as winter fruit, they add a bit more variety to the apples, clementines, and grapefruits that fill the colder months.  But since Spring has sprung, I should scrap this watercolor.  It’s completely out of season!

Does this discovery come as a surprise to you, too?

Nail in Foot, Burger in Hand

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We are in the demolition stage of our new apartment.  This morning, as we walked into the place for our daily visit, our quirky 1950s flat to-be was transformed into the town of Bedrock.  Before I could even say “Wow, what a dump!”, “Ohmygawwwwputainmerde!”  My first step into the apartment, I got a nail in the foot.  The throbbing pain was the least of my worries.  Since I have the undisputed Generation Me dilemma of not having had health insurance since my shatterproof undergraduate days, I was sure I could feel my jaw locking in the matter of moments. Luckily, I had an unsuccessful semester in grad school that got me up to speed on that important tetanus shot.  Phew!

To help ease the pain, I was whisked off for lunch at the hyper-popular food truck Le Camion Qui Fume by mon mari qui fume.  Le Camion Qui Fume ends the search for an authentic American cheeseburger in Paris.  Although there are imposters on every cafe menu, 18 euros for a dry, uninspired hamburger on an industrial bun is not worth the ho-hum indulgence.  Food trucks have not  taken off in Paris yet, partially considering that the French cannot eat with their hands alone.  But fellow American expat Kristin Frederick has mastered the right fatty mix of ground beef, the soft, butter-brushed sesame seed buns, real cheddar and shoestring fries to cheer up any expat having a bad day.  Although the truck changes locations everyday, we dug into our burgers on the steps of the Église de la Madeleine overlooking the Place de la Concorde.  And at just 10 euros for a burger and fries, there is no better bargain or breathtaking view.

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Gervita, mon amour.

If I have not lost you already, now it is going to get interesting. Walking down the double-sided yogurt isle, I am always perplexed by the plethora of options for seemingly plain yogurt. There is yaourt nature, fromage blanc, caillé, faisselle, séré, yaourt au bifidus, and drinkable yogurt, all made from different kinds of milk. Although technically not yogurt, one of the things I quickly learned to adore in France is fromage blanc, or white cheese. It varies in textures and tanginess, but the style I love has the same texture of a fatty Greek yogurt, but is surprisingly low in fat and calories. How can this be ? Fromage blanc is a simple cheese made by boiling fresh, unpasturized milk and cream with a bit of présure, a fermentation starter. Although its texture is often likened to cream cheese, playing starring role in French cheesecake, its consistancy is more comparable to a high-fat yogurt. Fromage blanc is often on restaurant menus as the sole light option. Served with a berry coulis or honey, it is a protein-packed, simple dessert. I often eat it for breakfast with oatmeal and fruit. Or I will layer fromage blanc, sliced fruit, and maple syrup for a quick parfait. A welcome nudge for Mr. Meat & Potatoes, my husband, to eat fruit.

Speaking of the varieties of fromage blanc, it is onto a reader favorite, Danone’s Gervita. In Gervita’s packaging, a spoonful of this whipped fromage blanc floats among the clouds in a blue sky. It’s a spoonful of pleasure coming in for landing. On the first bite, the mousse melts on the tongue with the smooth, fresh milk taste of cream cheese, then that characteristic yogurt tang kicks in. And then it’s back to the smooth taste of cream again. Although I was a bit surprised the mousse was just a layer on top of a bed of fromage blanc, it is a pleasing flip flop of changing textures and character. Here is a 4-pack that won’t last more than a day at chez moi.

I have seen Gervain Petit Suisse in the refrigerators of most families and all of my serious friends who have a properly stocked fridge. It’s an after-dinner kiddie treat. Although I’ve tried unsuccessfully using a spoon to just dig in, Petit Suisse can be a bit deceiving. The Petit Suisse must first be squeezed out of its container and carefully disrobed of its colorful paper sleeve and served standing tall on a plate. Kids love presentation, eh? With 9.2 % fat content, this fromage blanc is more comparable to cream cheese.  Although it lacks the fresh cream taste of Gervita, it has the decadently rich texture of strained Greek yogurt and the tangy punch of crème fraiche.   Hence, a perfect accompaniment to all chocolate and fruit desserts.

So there you have it. I love fromage blanc, I like Petit Suisse, and I would marry Gervita.  But I think it is all gone.

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!

EuroDisney. A gobsmacker’s moveable feast.

Paris is begrudgingly hailed by some Parisiens as a Disneyland for Americans.  Frankly, it is a moveable feast for all the world’s wealthy gobsmackers. But did you know that EuroDisney is the most-frequented attraction in France?  Hands down, it beats both the Eiffel Tower and the new Abercrombie & Fitch on the Champs Élysées.  (But don’t worry, I still have seen Parisien women wearing neither sweatpants nor the A&F bedazzled bottom variety.)

Considering my childhood dreams were A.) to convince my parents to take me Disneyworld and b.) become a Snow White impersonator by trade, it was not difficult to enjoy EuroDisney.  Regardless of its European sensibilities like Perrier on tap, like any Disney institution, the pizza at Euro Disney is still bad.  But how about those Mickey Mouse meringues?

What are your thoughts on Euro Disney?

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.  

I usually have no problem putting my own foot in my mouth, but my phone has been helping me out a lot lately.  Bless its heart though, the poor thing isn’t completely bilingual yet either.  It has not adapted its predictive text to French yet.  Consequently, I have sent a few doozies lately.

When a friend texted proposing to get a coffee, intending to reply “oui, avec plaisir” (aka “I’d love to!”), my phone responded with “oui, avec plaudit”.  No, we did not plan a rendezvous, but rather a rigoletto.  Comment-allez vous?  Comment-allez voucher.  Fortunately, my phone has a thing for the opera; he will do just fine here.