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October 2008
Paris Politicking
The number one question proposed to me since arriving in Paris is “Who are you going to vote for in the U. S. presidential election?” Not surprising, the French have a definite opinion. The overall consensus here is that the perfect majority of those whom inquired said they would vote for Barack Obama, if given the chance.
Then there was that obscure moment, when people first asked where I was from. Realizing I was from Texas, they either mimed someone galloping on horseback waving a lasso in the empty air or they analyzed me in an awkward silence honoring their sixth sense that I must be personally related to George Bush.
In one discussion, a young man said, “the United States needs a big change.” While others began to affirm his opinion by nodding their heads, another interjected, “Yes, the United States definitely needs change. The U.S. economy is bad and that makes things bad for us.”
If this was only a select group of people and one experience during my stay, I might think this was an overstatement. Not so. This was quite a cross section of people with representation from diverse age groups, income levels, and education. Taxi drivers, waiters, chefs, managers, coworkers, professionals and educators in a variety of realms both personal and professional all cried, ‘Obama for president!’
Even a popular bookstore in Paris exhibited its opinion with an entourage of books on U.S. presidential candidates with four titles touting Obama and two showing McCain.
Just today, as a discussion took place within a gathering of people, the lead in the meeting stood up and said, “there are people in every nation of the world that have their fingers crossed on both hands just hoping Barack Obama is elected as the next president of the United States.”
Jean Pierre from the South of France, summed up his thoughts on one of the election dialogues. “Who really cares what I think? It is the election in the United States of America. Let them decide. I am French,” he grimaced stating the obvious, “I can’t even vote.”
So here it is, for my friends back in East Texas. This has been my experience when conversing about the U.S. presidential election in France with the French.
Democrats and Republicans both agree that the United States of America needs change. This Tuesday, November 4, 2008, we will get just that.
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Is April from the bakery going to be Ratatouille?
Elizabeth, a loyal customer and friend could hardly hold back her excitement as she told me the story about her toddler son’s conclusion about April from the bakery. She explained to little Trent that April, who made his birthday cakes every year, was leaving to go to New York City and to Paris. A few days later, making sense of it all, Trent questioned proudly from the back seat of the car, “Mommy, is Miss April going to be Ratatouille in Paris?” I stood on the sidewalk of Rue Cambon. I was at the entrance of the Ecole Ritz Escoffier and for a moment the world seemed to stand still. Finally, I had made it to this place I had dreamed about! I entered and showed security my ecole i.d. and passed through the heavy door to the staircase that led below. Walking down the long corridor, the smiling faces of the ‘Ritz employee of the month’ framed photographs greeted me as I arrived at the place, I would soon come to adore. Mitsuko, the lovely liason for the school was versed in three languages, she met me underneath the Ecole Ritz Escoffier sign to escort me to get my chef’s uniform. We went two and a half flights below to the lingerie cave and then back up to the school level to have opportunity to see some of the school. After so patiently going over pass codes and helpful hints, she showed me back to the changing area and left me to sort through my uniform. I finished changing and glanced in the full length mirror. It felt so nice to be in my professional chef’s uniform again. I wandered back down the hall to the class room, looking in each open door as I passed hoping to see a little bit of the Ritz ‘magic in motion’ as I passed.
I peered in the hotel’s restaurant kitchen with gorgeous hand-painted tile covering the walls. I viewed the largest copper pots ever made(I have no doubt) and a bounty of sterling serving pieces gleaming from all of the stations. I had yet to see a commercial kitchen this stunningly beautiful. The chefs scurried around gathering their ‘mise en place’ (everything in its place) for the morning breakfast and brunch rush. The time would come when I would share the pastry kitchen with the other chefs at the Ritz, but, for now I ducked back into the school, anticipating the enchantment of the week to come.
Finding the library conference room, the table complete with a sunny yellow table cloth, I waited to meet the chef and my classmates. Before I had the opportunity to sit down, Charlotte, the English translator for the class, breezed through and asked if I would like some coffee or tea. “Yes, please, coffee!” I was relieved. I had wanted to be early this first day, so I had missed my morning cup. In seconds she came in with a shining porcelain coffee and tea set, porcelain cups, silver spoons and crusty croissants. I thought to myself, not yet personally accustomed to the Hotel Ritz and its ‘gilding the lily’ ways, I wonder what little event they are catering this morning?
Wishing I could see the special event (or actually work it—which is more like me), Charlotte broke the silence and served me, “April, would you like sugar in your coffee? We are very glad you are here this week. The program is going to be intensive, but, we will all make it! Take some time to relax before the class begins.” It would be a few moments before the other students in my class would arrive. I blushed as I realized this beautiful spread was for our class. I sipped the delicious, strong coffee and nibbled on a croissant. I was so excited, I could hardly anticipate my time at the Hotel Ritz.
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French Market Tour with Le Cordon Bleu Master Chef
The open air markets of Paris represent the gastronomic soul of the city, according to Le Cordon Bleu. Paris boasts 82 markets and we would visit one this morning with a Master chef as our guide.
Primary colored tents lined the French street brightening the overcast skyline. Walking in between the rows of produce and amazing food displays, it was as if we had walked behind the curtain, if you will, of an amazing performance.
The shopkeepers were no doubt ‘characters’ with their joie de vivre and robust pride for their goods. Each shop was full of energy displaying, butchering, wrapping or sampling their wares. Some stores had been owned by the same family for many generations, creating a rich heritage and way of life.
Endless time and doting care went into the meticulous presentation of the merchandise. The farmers laid out their bounty of grape varieties and root vegetables and cherished each piece of fruit as if it were their last. To quote Sacre Cordon Bleu, “to the French every tomato is an heirloom tomato.” Vibrant splashes of natural color washed over the scene in every direction. Moving through the market, each shop displayed their offerings in their own signature way. Huge displays of whole, fresh fish, glistened full of color as the fishmongers prepared the fish according to the customer’s specifications. The patrons waited patiently as the butcher finished butchering a hen or leg of lamb so intricately, it was a work of art. The customers did not mind waiting in the aisles painted with red, blue and green striped backdrops. Why not wait kindly, when the best of everything is right here at your very whim?
Fresh sausage was being made in the charcuterie shop. French favorites such as terrines, galantines,pates and confit were flaunted, as well. The Middle Eastern area paraded homemade breads such as Indian Paratha , Afghani Naan, and Turkish Lavash—all unique, aromatic and rustic. Across the way, an artisan specializing in dried fruit offered me a fresh, ripe date that was still on the cluster— absolutely the divinity of fruit. Long tables featured an abundance of fresh olives. Gorgeous bread, regional foie gras, exquisite Perigord black truffles, homemade honey from Provence and fresh-cut exotic flowers by the bundle, lined our passageway. Chestnuts, mushrooms, pumpkins and figs received an encore on the stage today, as the season’s best hits.
The chef was definitely the star of this outdoor performance with his vigor and penchant for storytelling. As we passed the fresh oyster display, he was reminded of a story. Apparently, years before, he had purchased some in-season, high quality oysters from his favorite local market. He wrapped the oysters in seaweed, boxed them appropriately and shipped them to a friend in America. A few weeks later, he received a thank you letter. ‘Dear Michel, I received your package. Thank you for the salad. I thought you should know, there were large rocks in it!’ The chef shrugged dramatically, making a face as if he was speechless. He laughed first and loudest and we all followed with laughter, as well—partly because of his story and partly because of his theatrics!
Learning from the French Master chef to choose the best local ingredients in the French market and to create a seasonal French menu, we all left the market with more intellect and the insatiable desire to experience more of the French culture. As we made our way back to Le Cordon Bleu Paris, I held the bar in the subway and reflected on the simplicity and pure pleasure of the marketplace. Glowing with contentment, I smiled gratefully and closed my eyes to savor the moment.
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Better to Speak the Language, Part 2
(Continued from part 1)
I didn’t know what else to do but turn on the bathtub and totally submerge my head under the water. In America, this would have been a grand idea, but, in France, the water pressure is similar to that of a water gun (and not near as fun). I couldn’t get the soap out of my hair fast enough as I envisioned being platinum blonde—or perhaps, blonde like the little tow-headed babies everyone adores. I did not look in the mirror, I just twisted my hair into a towel on top of my head and decided to relax in a hot bath, to let my feelings pass. Well, whatever the verdict, it’s me now. I’ll just put on my makeup and smile a lot (which is typically what I do, when I find myself in a fix). As I toweled off and put on my pajamas, I checked the color of my hair in the mirror with somewhat relief. It definitely stripped my last dye job, but, a few highlights never hurt anyone, right?
Trying to forget the whole hair and soap situation, I decided to tidy up the kitchen before turning in for the night. As I strolled down the hallway to put my clean dishes away, I saw what looked like water pooling around the corner. My mouth dropped in disbelief.
The dishwasher had bubbled over. Bubbles were happily nestled around the legs of my French table and chairs—like freshly fallen snow in a holiday window display at Neiman Marcus. Meanwhile, water was creeping towards the door. Panicked, I could see myself unloading water out the stairwell window with buckets. Corralling the bubbles, I couldn’t get Disney’s Fantasia “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” out of my mind, hundreds of steps and pouring water—except I don’t have those broom people to help!
Snapping back into reality, I turned off the dishwasher. “How much water goes through one of these regular cycles anyway?” I thought accusingly, as I crumpled my nose at the machine. I grabbed the soap bottle that I had used in the dishwasher feeling bitterly betrayed. With my lack of French language skills, for the second time in one night, I zeroed in on yet another French label with words I did not understand.
“The soap was thick and creamy and white with little specks in it. The label had pictures of dishes on it. It looked just like the kind of soap I use back in the U.S. I had NO DOUBT this was the right kind of soap!” I whined, as if filibustering congress.
Excuses, excuses…
I recounted a saying, “The only thing worse than a stupid person is a stupid person with confidence.”
With NO DOUBT, I mopped up the bubbles and water from the living room floor.
It is definitely better to speak the language.
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Better to Speak the Language, part 1
I arrived at Rue Saint Honore at 11 a.m. and lugged my fully packed suitcase with wheels (which did not help by the way) up five lovely flights of French steps to my French apartment. After accomplishing the mountain of steps with my suitcase and back pack, I tried not to suck in air like someone who had just been hit by a car.
I greeted the lovely French lady who was waiting to give me a tour of my new apartment. She gave me my key and proceeded to go over helpful information. Unfortunately, her kindness spoke exclusively in French, which I did not understand one word. She pointed at the dishwasher, washing machine, bedroom and bathroom. After I smiled and nodded a few times, she bid me “auvoir” (a kind farewell). How hard could it really be to operate a dishwasher in France? At this point, I probably would have been better off had she bid me bonne chance (or good luck)! I spent a little while unpacking as I opened the delightful windows to my apartment, listened to the beautiful French chatter on the street below and looked at every book, painting and pillow in my new apartment.
A few days after my arrival, I decided to wash my hair before I went to bed. Remembering I had used the rest of the shampoo from the hotel, I resorted to the offerings under the kitchen sink. I remember as a child, washing my hair once with Palmolive dishwashing soap, it couldn’t be that bad. I found a bottle that resembled Palmolive and ventured back to the bathroom. I hovered over the sink and quickly rinsed my dark brown hair. I began to lather the soap and put my head under the faucet. I watched as the crystal clear French water washed through my hair and suddenly turned to dark brown.
At first my mind shifted to the walking tour of the underground sewers in Paris, then I screamed out loud a sobering, “The water is DARK BROWN!”
As reality set in, I jerked my head from under the sink my hair still soapy and drenched with water. The water lines had not been crossed.
“Oh my gosh, my hair, the soap! What kind of French soap is this, is there bleach in it?” I asked myself stricken as I shook the bottle violently and zeroed in on the label with French words that I didn’t understand…
At first my mind shifted to the walking tour of the underground sewers in Paris, then I screamed out loud a sobering, “The water is DARK BROWN!”
As reality set in, I jerked my head from under the sink my hair still soapy and drenched with water. The water lines had not been crossed.
“Oh my gosh, my hair, the soap! What kind of French soap is this, is there bleach in it?” I asked myself stricken as I shook the bottle violently and zeroed in on the label with French words that I didn’t understand…
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Welcome to Paris
A few weeks ago a dear friend and I were talking about transitioning in our lives when I blurted out, “I have found in my life that the things that cause me the greatest amount of fear are often the very things that allow for life’s greatest rewards.”
Well, here I am.
I can’t really explain how I feel. I am very excited, grateful and exhilarated. I am also shy, nervous (I can’t remember a lick of French from my intensive French course at Baylor), and well, a little scared of the unknown.
I didn’t sleep a wink on the eight-hour flight across the Atlantic with the 5,187-mile distance to destination miles. I had to be separated from my bag with all of my documentation that proves my existence. So, I made myself comfortable watching my favorite movie of all time, “Chocolat,” (set in France, of course) while keeping an eye on my bag. Upon landing, I averted two of my non-French speaking concerns, uh well, actually worries. I found the baggage claim and successfully hailed a taxi. My journey from the Charles De Galle airport to my hotel ended with a big sigh of relief.
The Hotel Claude Bernard was in the Latin Quarter at 43 Rue des Ecoles. The red awning out front touted the traditional interior and quaint ambience. I was greeted by a handsome Algerian named Mamun whom I wondered if he had a mysterious double or if he really worked 24-hour shifts. My room was perfectly to the point with the amenities with my favorite detail being the glass doors that opened to the balcony revealing the beautiful French street below. I showered and decided to sleep off my jet lag in my wonderfully inviting French bed.
I awoke at 3 a.m. like a good baker should and flung open the French doors to the French balcony to remind myself that I really was in Paris. Immediately, I was overwhelmed by the aroma of fresh baked baguettes and sweet pastries pouring into my room. I staggered and looked around. My eyes narrowed. I wondered if I was still asleep and perhaps in a lifelike dream. The freezing air whipped at my nightgown. I was definitely awake. I imagined people in their nightgowns being drawn in a hypnotic trance down French streets and over French bridges towards the indescribable perfume of buttery brioche and pain au chocolat. I pressed myself as far over the banister as I could, to search the dark streets for the source of the intoxicating fragrance. Did I fall victim to an unassuming bread truck making its morning deliveries precisely before I flung open the doors? Or could it be that this is the true Parisian experience in the wee hours every single morning? Chills speckled my arms as I fell back onto my bed and allowed the thick aroma to wash over me and everything in my beautiful French hotel room. Thoughts swirled in my mind like the ingredients in a copper pot for a creme anglaise. I could see the patissiers (French pastry chefs) and boulangers (French bakers) with their white hats gently cutting through the flutter of flour in the warm, kitchen air. The meltingly soft pastries being lovingly brushed with apricot glaze. The thick crusted breads crackling as they came out of the centuries old brick oven.
I laid there in my sugary haze on my French bed. A baker’s out-of-body experience. I am forever changed. What a welcome to France. I peeked, and yes, the carpet in the hallway was red.
