Window Licking Good

I've come to the conclusion that 3 pairs of shoes for a week in Paris are not enough. I was really so proud of myself for keeping the number down. But these old hoofs are sore and though I've been re-shod several times, I'm still feeling lame. 

Sore feet led me to peruse the shoestores in my neighborhood today. Of course I would be doing this anyway but sore feet seem as good an excuse as any. As I wandered, I came  across a teeny-tiny shop on Rue des Entrepreneurs. A wee bit small for a shoe store but you know what they say about small packages!

I first noted these (not for me, of course but good looking nonetheless) in a chocolate brown.

 Then I noticed the women's shoes in the same window that came in a multitude of colors that caught my eye....but also in varying degrees of chocolate brown. 

I'm not sure if you're getting the picture here....so let me clarify.

Have you figured it out yet? 

Yeppers...I'd landed in a chocolate shop. With my mouth open for all kinds of obvious reasons. This little unassuming shop in the 15 arrondissement and off the beaten track was a feast for the all the senses. 

In case you're wondering, this is what one does with a chocolate shoe.

 But the folks at Jicara make all sorts of containers for their fine chocolates.

Form follows function is an underlying principal in modern architecture and design. In this case, I'm not sure which follows what!

Here in France, instead of window shopping we "lecher les vitrines" or lick the windows. Of course, we don't really....except maybe in this case!

Jicara Chocolat

91 Rue des Entrepreneurs

75015 Paris

Have a great weekend everyone. Gotta go. I've got more windows to lick.

Feet and Packages

I know nobody has slept a wink since I promised an article on meat last week. Nothing better than good  old, Monday morning meat read. And now, so that all the world can finally get a little rest, I will fulfill my promise....

During one of my investigative trips to the big supermarkets here in southern France, and after I’d managed to extract myself from the cheese aisle, I did an exploration of the meat aisle. I first hit the cooler that bore a striking resemblance to the cooler in my old biology lab.  I mean, what are these things before me that look so much like body parts and innards? After writing down the names and doing a translation I discovered that they were….indeed... body parts and pieces!

Here’s a sample of the sizeable selection of delicacies that somebody must be eating. We’ve got Tête de Veau, Pieds de Veau, Langue de Veau, and Cervelle de Veau, which translate to head of veal, feet of veal, tongue of veal, and brains of veal. Poor little baby cows.

Then there’s Rognon de Boeuf  (as in beef kidneys) and Rognon Cubes (it’s nice to know you can buy these little waste processing factories pre-cut, don’t you think?) Then we move on to Cours d’Agneau (heart of lamb) and Crépine de Porc (the casing of pig intestines).  Followed by Pieds et Paquets Marseillais, a gross looking pile of flesh that translates to “feet and packages”. But packages of what? I finally just found a definition today. It’s little packages of chopped ham, garlic and herbs all wrapped in the pretty paper of…. sheep’s stomach lining. And a particularly Provençal specialty. Oh goody!  AND to top it all off, you can get the feet and packages in a value pack…enough for all your friends and family.

I realize that people in all countries eat these unusual things. And probably more so in certain ethnic groups or in particular regions of a country. When I was a bush cook in British Columbia, I prepared moose heart, elk liver, caribou tongue, mountain sheep brains and goat testicles. But we didn’t have anything else to eat! (I did. I had peanut butter. Which I lived on and which is where my whole peanut butter sickness began) I have asked my French friends explain to me... who eats this stuff? Many don’t, of course. But last time I inquired about brains at a dinner party, a grand argument began about the best way to prepare this delicious delicacy. I pretended to write down the recipes...but I had absolutely no intention of testing them in order to form my own opinion.

Okay, so on to the regular meats. Yep, we’ve got it all. We’ve got chicken and turkey and, of course, duck and rabbit which are both often eaten here. So we’re sure what we’re eating, there’s usually a little picture of the animal somewhere on the label. Then we move on to pork, beef and lamb (which is also a staple).  So, I’m moving down the meat case, checking it all out and I land on Cheval Haché. Of course, that’s horsemeat and, yes, it’s eaten in France. Judging from the selection, it’s not eaten all that much, but it’s there and I’ve seen it on menus at a couple of restaurants. And a friend of mine told me it makes the very best tartare. 

And finally, I arrive at the last meat case. Five shelves high and stacked with all sorts of packages of meat bearing the picture of…a dog! NO! No...no...NO!

Please say it isn’t true. Not dog! This is terrible… more terrible than horse hamburger and pig intestines.

On closer inspection, I realized this was meat FOR dogs, not meat OF dogs.  The French do love their dogs after all, and I was able to let out the breath that I’d been holding in horror.

I’m a reasonably adventurous soul but I’m not sure I’ll be eating sheep kidneys anytime soon. I’ll leave that to Chef Andrew Zimmer who, long ago,  taught me to make a mean crème brulée and now makes a REALLY good living traveling the world for The Travel Channel and eating all sorts of disgusting things. Me, I think I’ll stick to writing. But I’d settle for making a REALLY good living traveling  the world and writing about all the bizarre stuff that Andrew Zimmer is willing to eat.

Bon Appétit!

Aisle Pick Up Something For Dinner

Aside from those rare days. …even rarer in the summer, when I go into some sort of cooking flurry, I really don’t need much food. Gone are the days of feeding 2 teenage boys (they're generally normal...unless I'm taking their picture), 17 of their nearest and dearest friends and a couple of neighbor kids thrown in for good measure. Also gone are the days of enough storage space to have one extra of almost everything in case of famine or plague. I buy my vegetables precisely when I need them at the daily market down the street, my bread at the patisserie, fresh daily also, and the tiny grocery around the corner suffices for anything else I might need (save Skippy Super Chunk).

But whenever a friend with a car heads out to one of the big supermarchés on the periphery of the city, I hitch a ride. I love to poke around, checking out what’s available, what’s prevalent, and what is non-existent. This sport is only fun when I have nowhere to be because the grocery store lines are un-flipping-believable. But that’s another article.

So here’s my rundown. The fruit and vegetable section is enormous. I mean, HUGE. And busy. I’ve never had to wait in line to get at the tomatoes before, but it’s happened to me here.  This section includes most things I’m familiar with although it’s really light on broccoli. Which is just fine with me. Don’t tell my kids but I’d probably be happy if I never had to eat broccoli again for the rest of my life. There is a higher preponderance of endive, shallots, leeks, fennel, and zucchini, a gazillion types of lettuce and various bean pods that mystify me. I mean, who really takes the time to shell these things, anyway?

The fresh milk section is about 2 feet wide and there is no such thing as a gallon of any of it. A pint is all you’re going to get…although you can buy the type of milk that will last, unrefrigerated, through a nuclear holocaust…but I am genetically incapable of buying it. People just don’t drink milk here. When I tell them I love a tall, cold glass of milk with a sandwich they come dangerously close to gagging.  I’m a little disappointed because one of the first phrases I learned on my Rosetta Stone French program…. actually the only one…was “the boy drinks milk”. I have NEVER been able to use that sentence; although I’m sure French boys drink milk…somewhere!

The proportions of the chip section….that enormous, colorful and caloric aisle in the U.S. is only a little  larger than the milk subdivision. Oh they’ve got salty snacks and some are REALLY nummy, but they obviously do not carry the importance in the French diet of…say….CHEESE.

The cheese aisle…now that’s another story! Do not get stuck here at 6 o’clock at night when you need to be somewhere in a hurry. You won’t get there. Trying to get through the mob is problem enough but making up your mind also takes time. Hard, soft, pasteurized or not, fresh or aged, goat, sheep or cow.  This thing goes on forever and doesn’t include the deli section of cheese (a small portion of it on the left), which also blows the mind for variety. The yogurt sector is the same. I don’t know what the French fascination is with yogurt, but they’ve got an entire aisle of it…. that and creamy pudding type desserts. So I shan’t worry about them. They’re getting their vitamin D.

Which brings me to the deli. There are sausages (some of which I just don’t even want to know their origins) a few salads, you can ask for sliced meats, sauces, cheeses and a few ready-made savory pies, pastas and roasted meats. But I want to point out there is not one, single, shuddering bowl of pink fluff or pistachio goo. Nor, have I seen a single clear plastic catering pan heaping with bright yellow, over-mayonaised potato salad. In fact, in spite of the fact that mayonnaise is French, I rarely see salads bound together with the stuff. Perhaps that’s different in the north…but this here is olive oil country, cowboy!

Chocolate also has an aisle of it’s own and I have been known to spend 20…okay, maybe more…minutes there examining my options. And don’t bother me while I’m pondering either!  It could get ugly. Chocolate chips are not included in the French penchant for the cocoa bean, however.

The wine aisle is not an aisle. It’s regional airport landing field. And it’s not one runway…. it’s three. It’s miles bigger than the beer section in a Wisconsin liquor department, which is saying something!  Local wines, wines from all the other regions of France, very little foreign wine, red, white, rose, dessert wines, wines for 75 euros and wines for 2 euros. Boxes of wines and cases of wines. Wines on special and wines for special occasions. This is just too much for me! While I may have a genetic inclination to drink real milk, I do not have that special, distinctly French gene that seems to just understand wine. Mind you, that doesn’t keep me away from this particular aisle. I look at it as research.

I haven’t even started on the meat aisle, but if I continue, this article will just be too long. So I won’t. That will be next week. As I sit here in the square, sipping a glass of red and eating a bowl of tapas, which in this case is a spicy, marinated version some of those mysterious, aforementioned beans, I’m thinking of what to make for dinner. I’ve got loads of fresh veggies given to me by a friend. Along with my string of garlic hanging from the ceiling and a bottle of olive oil and one of shallot vinegar, and a wedge of some variety of savoie cheese, I should be good. The Skippy is coming with friends in two weeks!

                                                          

Cherry, cherry

For a summer that seemed a little bleak, things have been shaping up quite nicely. I had zero plans coming back to France after my trip to the states. But I haven't seemed to stop since I got home. I spent last weekend in the Camargue with my friends and what seems to be my new family. I spent time at the beach and attended my first Course Carmagaise (a bullfight...more like bullplay, native to the Camargue, which does not involve killing the bull or hurting him in any way, although I do think he's got to be traumatized by the whole thing).

Tuesday night I went to my friend Lynn's for dinner. As usual, I was asked to bring dessert. I'm always happy to do this because I can't make desserts simply for myself and expect to stay away from them. But I see so many great recipes from fellow bloggers that I am dying to try and my friends know it.

 It's cherry time here and I just can't stop eating them. Numerous varieties which I never understand, but the venders always know which is the best fruit for my purposes. I saw this recipe on Sharon's site over at My French Country Home.  Yes, again. Sharon's going to be the death of me, I swear!  But this recipe, Cherry Clafoutis, is typically French and this was my opportunity.

As I said,  I love cherries. I just don't like anything...ANYTHING...made with them. Not ice cream, not yogurt, and especially not cherry pie. So I made this recipe with low expectations. In spite of the fact that is was just "good" for me, my French friends loved it, said it was honestly the best Clafoutis they've ever eaten and asked for the recipe. So if you like cherry stuff...try this. (by the way, when she says corn flour she means corn starch...oh yes, and don't bother pitting them...just warn people ahead of time)

So anticipating ONE MORE TIME boarding a bus with baked goods, I stopped at the culinary store. I asked the vender if he one of thoses boxes made to carry les tartes. He said, "you mean one of those round, plastic boxes with a handle?"

"Yes, yes...exactly!"

"Madame, this is a German idea...or perhaps American."

"What do you mean?"

"This is not in the spirit of the French. We make cakes....we eat cakes...but we DO NOT carry them around."

"Really?"

"No madame, when we are asked to dinner....we take flowers."

Well, I guess I've been told! You have to understand that this guy is a comedian and all the old ladies hang out at his store just to laugh with him. But still...I've been told!

And I don't care one single bit. Sharon and all the rest of you, keep bringing on those recipes. They rock! And I will continue to board buses with my cakes wrapped in Glad Press n Seal, squished at the bottom of my ever-present bag...

I'm off to Malta for the weekend. Have a great one whatever you are doing.

Old Enough to Know Better

The other day I was cleaning my very old bathroom door. I know it's old because it is put together with wooden dowels rather than nails (although I'm certain it was not originally a bathroom door and its paint has been stripped off). 

I was doing what every normal Minnesotan (land of the clean and home of the disinfected) would do. I was cleaning the dusty and dirty mouldings with a toothbrush. 

Then I had a go at my ancient shutters which I've been told are at least 300 years old.

Yep, a little elbow grease and I'll have this place looking like new. It's spring cleaning time!

Yesterday, I finally decided to buy a real piece of furniture...not just something I've found in the dumpster in order to make do. I absolutely must have some storage here and I hate things sitting out in the open collecting dust (back to that genetic Minnesota thing). I've searched everywhere for something small enough to fit up my winding stairs, practical enough to hold a bunch of junk my valuable, personal belongings, and since I'm going to actually pay for it, something great looking and well made.

I found this. I chose it because it's beautifully crafted (fairly new but with a very old door and hardware) and its builder had done such an excellent job of making the entire piece look old....as in slightly dirty and dusty.

I think I'll just stop there.  Does anybody else see the twisted irony in this situation?

Sometimes it's just good to take note of how ridiculous I can be. 

I do think though, that I'll consider retiring my toothbrush and find something better to do.

Cinderella graphic provided by The Graphics Fairy

Daphnée Does Paris

Planning a trip to Paris soon? Language woes got you down? Never fear, Daphnée's here! Yeah, I guess I'm advertising (unbeknownst to anybody who would ever think to pay me for it)  but I spotted this new I-Phone/I-Pad application today. My old blackberry doesn't qualify and I hope to own a Kindle (mom.....) rather than an I Pad....but I did view all the trailers and these French lessons might be a fun way to learn a little French.  Click here to go to the web page. 

  

Actress Anne-Sophie Franck of the film Inglorious Bastards stars as Daphnée in the series, and it covers everything from shopping to dining, nightlife to ....a different type of nightlife. The entire series is only $2.99 and can be downloaded from the apps store.

I have once or twice had the opportunity to say "tu me fais mal!" However, I have never, ever gotten to say "tu les trouves jolie mes fesses?" Now that I know how to say it....well... I gotta go!

Lingerie questions....answered

This afternoon I browsing through one of my favorite deal sites, Vente-Privee, and thought I'd check out some new lingerie offerings. Hey, it's high end stuff at a fraction of the regular price, and I will NEVER pay 150 euros for a bra. NEVER!  Now, when shopping on-line one has to be sure, so I clicked on details where I found a complete description of this particular black lace number. There were a few words that I didn't fully understand (hey, I can buy carrots and sign up for health insurance but this is learn as you go!) so I ran the description through a translater. This is what I now know about French lingerie thanks to Google Translate:

Balconette bra underwired

Moulded cups

Adjustable straps

Contrasting embroidered tulle on top caps

Closed with staples

Don't ever let it be said that this blog isn't jam packed full of good information! 

French Dressing

It's Monday! I really need to write an article about my trip to the Dordogne but...I'm too tired and I have too much homework. So, as usual, I'm posting a Monday Memory....written a year ago before I cracked the mystery. I won't even attempt to try to get you to believe this photo is of me. But man, what I wouldn't give to own this little ensemble!

In one of my first articles I briefly mentioned French lingerie. I remarked about the number of lingerie stores here in France, how they were always bustling with women or women and their men, and how I really must explore this further.

I put the idea off because, in fact, these stores scared the hell out of me. All the fancies in the windows are so beautiful, or sexy, or coy, or dainty, or all of the above rolled into one. And so completely out of my realm of understanding, that I delayed my research project. In fact, I was such a scaredy-cat that I actually ordered my bras and panties in the US and had a friend bring them over during a visit.

I have had several people ask me to finish the mission that I initiated early on, so this fall I decided it was time to put on my big-girl panties and attack the issue. I began by visiting almost every lingerie store along my daily routes to and fro. And in this town, that amounts to a lot of underwear enterprises.

First observation: this stuff is gorgeous! Captivating color, delicious design, and embellishment beyond compare!  I can’t even begin to describe how beautiful it all is. I had to touch it, see how it was made and revel in the exquisite color combinations.  It was completely overwhelming. How does one choose?

Second observation: This stuff is expensive! I visited numerous stores that carry lines of lingerie at all different prices, but even the cheap stores ain’t cheap! However, price point was obviously going to help me narrow down the choices.

But before I ventured any further I needed to find out who is buying this stuff and why? After a little on-line research, I discovered that French women spend more on lingerie than anyone in the world and they spend a much larger percentage of their clothing budgets on it. So back to that question…why? Okay, time to do a “man (make that woman) on the street” as we say in the news business.

So…. what’s the deal with the underwear? A French friend was a little incredulous when I asked her that question. She asked my why in the world I would bother to put on nice clothes if my underthings weren’t just as nice? She told me a woman is not dressed unless her underwear is looking as good as her outerwear. It just makes you feel good, she explained.

I brought it up with an American friend who has lived here for quite some time. What’s the deal with the underwear?  She laughed and showed me her two lingerie drawers. One for her American underwear, one for her French lingerie. I laughed and asked her how she could afford it. Simple, she said. French men buy it for you. Okay, now I’m even more intrigued.

I persevered and interrogated another American friend who has lived here for almost 30 years and is married to a Frenchman. What’s the deal with the underwear? She laughed too. Apparently, this is a question that many have asked. She explained that French girls begin buying nice underwear at a very young age. It’s simply a French Fact. Like the preponderant use of conditional verbs. She too asked me a simple question.  Why would you not buy something pretty when faced with a choice between utilitarian and lovely?

Well, I’ll tell you why! It’s uncomfortable, unnecessarily frilly, it shows through your clothes, it doesn’t give enough support, and…. who sees it anyway?

Well that attitude just flagged me as an imposter when what I really need to do is  assimilate!

You see, the consensus is, that French women buy these beautiful underthings for themselves first and foremost. In fact, it is a part of their complete outfit. Bras always match panties and the entire ensemble should match or compliment your outfit. Because if a little bit peaks out, (which is okay) you need to be put together. And if you feel good under, it makes you feel good over.

And French women ARE put together. This is a subject that has been endlessly written about and is often a matter of controversy with American women. French woman seem to dress nicely all the time. Not necessarily dressed up, but dressed well.  Well thought out and not necessarily trendy. Clothing is more form fitting and they are very comfortable with that. I have never, ever seen a French woman walking down the street in a pair of yoga pants and sneakers (as was often my custom at home). Or, heaven forbid, a sweatshirt.

The conversations I have had about French underwear have often evolved into conversations about French women in general and I think that topic is one on which I’m not ready to write…. yet. One friend says French women are more narcissistic. Another friend says they are simply more comfortable being female and enjoy accentuating the differences between men and women.  I don’t know and since I have very few female French friends as yet, I haven’t uncovered their collective psyche. And I’m not saying their way is right and ours is wrong. I happen to like being able to go out in a big old fleece sweatshirt and my old white tennis shoes…. if I want.

But. …again…when in France. So back to the lingerie store; the only one I found on my previous fact-finding mission that I could even remotely afford. I perused my array of choices, passed by the inevitable section (always in the back of the store) that features American style underwear…. you know the flag words…. “comfortable”, “invisible”… and really kind of ugly!

With the aid of a most helpful saleswoman, I tried on, discarded, checked prices, and eventually passed by all the truly exquisite colors and patterns and settled on a little white bra with beige lace and an actual…bow! And of course, the matching panties. Yes, I know. I really haven’t moved very far along in my assimilation process. White and beige. One bow.

But it’s a bow, and the bra is little…and I match!

I obviously have a long way to go. But it’s a start. Perhaps I’ll try again in a few weeks and buy myself a gorgeous Christmas present…. the turquoise number in the window of the chic store down the street, beautifully cut, embellished with appliquéd flowers, in a multitude of rich colors…. and really expensive.

Which brings me to the last mystery. How do you accomplish the final feat of getting French men to buy the lingerie for you? I’ll venture to say that If I ever do figure that one out, I probably won’t write about it.

 

Addendum: One year later. I am proud to say that though I haven't got a drawer full (which means I must be doing something wrong), I am now the owner of a lovely red set...that I did not buy, and I am developing a relationship (strictly business mind you) with the guy at the market that sells last year's Charmel at a great price. He completely understands about pantyline. As he proudly told me as we were discussing correct sizes, "I am a man. I am an expert at watching women's behinds. That line is just not pretty".  He PROMISED me he would be at the market Saturday with new stuff...and he wasn't. Ruined my whole weekend! And, I have now spotted a few women wearing tennis shoes...but still no sweatshirts.                                           

Attention Deficit

Visitor season is not quite over yet. My mom and my aunt are arriving Saturday and will stay for two weeks. In December, my niece will be staying with me for a week as part of her after-college-European-adventure (feels kind of good to be included in a  22-year-old's adventure!) Anyway, all this is well and good and I am excited about their visits. 


However, I'm a college student now. And just as when I was a student 25  30 years ago, diversions are...just so diverting!  I have absolutely no innate attention span. I can't even get dressed in the morning without finding something else that interests me more... in between my dress, my boots, my hair, etc....Geez!  I thought I'd grow out of this eventually! And I'm trying so hard to be a good student. You know....tow the line...get home immediately after class and start my studies. But let me just say, it's not easy getting home from school each day without being redirected from all my good intentions.

First there's the Parc Jourdan. On a beautiful, sunny day...which is most days...I just want to "park it".

It's a great place to study but I really want to do this...

Then there's the flower shop. When my favorite vendor at the market stops selling her garden sunflowers for 5 euros a bunch, this will be more difficult to pass up. Because a house SHOULD have flowers in it at all times!

And then I have to pass this scene...at least 4 or 5 times depending upon which route I take. Yesterday, I was not strong.

When I arrive at Cours Mirabeau I have to walk past about 5 cafes that call my name...my favorite is Le Grillon.

 And of course, there are the shoe stores. My little problem is boots. OMG! I WANT them all! This is a lifelong weakness that has only been exacerbated by living in France.

Why the hell do they leave their doors open? It's an evil trap, that's all I'm sayin'!

Then of course, there are at least 5 lingerie stores on the way. This has never been a weakness before...but France has changed that!

If I were to fall to my need (okay...want) to own this little set, it would put me out to the tune of 150 euros.

 Then, just when I think I'm out of the woods, there is Place Richelme.  A coffee and a little people watching can't hurt, can it? But no...I must keep moving.

then there's the wine store... the ice cream shop...more boots, more bakeries, the roasted chestnut vendor...

and when the finish line is finally in sight... there is one more shoe store. And this pair of red boots. I'm hoping they will eventually just go away so I can wipe the drool off my mouth and think about more important things. Like world peace.

But I have not succumbed. And just as the smell of victory begins to waft beneath my nostrils, I need to walk through the Place de Marie. And between the sunshine, the jazz musicians playing under the Plane tree, and the cafe crême that I must have...as a reward for walking past those red boots, I cannot stop myself from sitting down to delay...for just a few moments...writing my paper that's due tomorrow morning.

I guess I won't have to worry about visitors diverting me from my studies. I have (almost) proven how strong I can really be! However, it would be nice if they brought a little Ritalin with them in their carry-ons.