Arrived yesterday. . .
La Seine w/ boats on an autumn day
My friend Pat wrote today: “You picked the ideal time to be an American in Paris.” Now that we have elected “President Obama,” in France––as I found in Spain––Americans are back in favor. I guess we don’t seem so hopeless (read: stupid) after all.
La Tour Eiffel in the distance
A couple of interesting developments:
Earlier this week I was inspired to call friends in Sausalito who have a house in the Loire. Who knows, I thought, maybe they’re in Paris and we can meet. Well, they introduced me to another Calif. couple who own apartments in Paris and rent them out to Americans. Voila! My apt. sits on Rue du Dragon, right off St. Germain des Pres (a little cher for my taste, but fun to explore). Talk about good fortune. I’d been really roughing it in Barca in a tiny two-room apt. I shared with Bjorg, a 26-year-old Icelandic immigrant and her white-haired six-year-old son––a place I found through Craigslist. So, I deeply appreciate the luxury of this stylish Parisian apt. (especially my back––it’s the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in a month).
Second Bingo!: Again, on a fluke, on Weds. I emailed the LATimes restaurant reviewer. (I first met Irene back in the late ’70s, when we both attended U.C. Berkeley. In fact, I took a Moroccan cooking class from her and her friend Joanne who had traveled together to Morocco.) I thought, what the heck, I have nothing to lose. I reminded her of how/when we met, congratulated her on her reviewing gig, reviewed my resume, told her about my trip in Barca and my ideas for food & travel articles, and asked if she would be willing to mention me to her food editor and/or provide an intro.
This morning she responded enthusiastically and, in addition to giving me the food editor’s contact info, suggested I also pitch the travel editor (with accompanying contact info). Exceedingly generous.
Went hunting for (what else) food shops yesterday afternoon and again today. Images of a few of my favorite finds:
Produce market on rue de Grenelle
Packed with quality, this tiny produce market displays fruits and vegetables to equal any open-air market: brilliant orange seedless clementines from Spain, over-sized and very sweet garnet cherries (with a price to match at 38 euros/kilo!), baby eggplant, giant Heirloom tomatoes, skinny hericots verts, half a dozen types of lettuce, yellow-skinned pomegranates, several varieties of fresh mushrooms, magenta passion fruits, golden pineapples that actually smell like they’re supposed to. . . . Yesterday, when I reached for a handful of concord grapes, the seller pushed my hand away, “No, Madame!” and he pointed to his chest to let the brash American know that only he touches the produce. I haven’t made that mistake again.
The Butcher Shop on Varenne
Here one can find every offal imaginable, but, not being interested in calves liver or pig snout, I happily measured an inch with my fore-finger and thumb and ordered “rillettes de foie,” a type of goose pate. One seldom sees rillettes––unless one is in Paris, of course. At Rountree’s I made duck rillettes, but that was long ago.
The Boulangerie on rue du Bac
Bread for my rillettes. And Croissants for breakfast.
Dalloyau on rue de Grenelle
Dalloyau sells mostly baked goods––both desserts and savory, like a wonderful variety of little quiches. Their specialty is cookies made of puff pastry and crisp thin cookies made with butter, a bit of flour, nuts, and, yes, more butter.
Barthelemy for French Cheeses
Goat, sheep, cow’s milk cheeses: all sizes, shapes, flavors. Here’s another shop-keeper who put me in my place. After unsuccessfully trying to describe my order, the stout woman in a white doctor’s coat said perfectly understandably, “No, I don’t speak English. No one speaks English here.” Oh, okay, well that sounded pretty good, but. . . . A nice gentleman came to my rescue and ordered a half-wheel of camembert, a miniature circle of chevre, and a small tub of “sweet cream,” which looked very much like ricotta to me. But when I mentioned the “r” word, arms flailed and voices rose to a panicked pitch, like geese being chased for slaughter. “No ricotta!” she honked, “Only French!” Well now I know. When guests of the French, we Americans must be trained in their special ways.
Oui!
And, how could any meal end without chocolate. . .??
Chapon...Chocolaterie
Vive la France!
Cbertel: Are you in Paris?