LA VESPA

Before my parents had a kid (me!) and before they had a car, they owned a Vespa. As newlyweds, they first lived in Choisy-le-Roi near Paris, in a little bungalow at the back of my maternal grandparents’ garden. They drove to Cannes for their honeymoon, on the Vespa. I’m sure it sounds very romantic but imagine yourself riding un deux-roues for some twelve hours. Even if you make one overnight stop on the way.

Besides taking the train, the Vespa was their only vehicle for the first six years of their marriage. During their last jaunt to Gourdon, Mom declared that her butt was too sore and that she had had enough of this tape-cul. She did not complete the trip: my uncle René had to come and rescue her by car in Souillac, a mere 15 miles away from their destination. Obviously, the female derrière has a mind of its own. Dad rode alone for the rest of the way. A few months later, he bought a 2 CV.

Legal car-driving age in France is 18. Needless to say, most teenagers want to get their own wheels –and acquire some automotive independence– before they’re “mature enough” to borrow their parents’ car. Hence the high number of mopeds and small motorcycles on French roads. In another post, I’ll share my own adventures on the two-wheelers I rode before I got my permis de conduire.

When I noticed that pink Vespa on rue au Maire in the 3rd arrondissement a couple of years ago, I immediately thought about my parents. I see them walking on La Croisette: young, in love, carefree. Giving their sore butts a rest… Mom keeps a picture of that moment in her portefeuille.

Vocabulary
Le deux-roues: two-wheeler (bicycle or motorized)
Le tape-cul: lit. butt slapper, a vehicle with poor suspension
Le derrière: no, no, no, you don’t need a translation for this one
Le permis de conduire: driver’s license
La Croisette: the boulevard that stretches along the Mediterranean sea in Cannes
Le portefeuille: wallet

THANKSGIVING, FRENCH-STYLE

Like all French expats I’ve been asked, more than once, how we celebrate Thanksgiving in France. Well, we don’t: I suppose we really want to save our appetite for Christmas. Just kidding: the French would never turn down an opportunity to party and eat good food but I’m certain we would approach it differently.

Attending my first Thanksgiving dinner was an eye-opener. After watching my mother-in-law and my sisters-in-law frantically shop and cook for three days, I was dismayed to see how quickly the meal was over: everything –except for dessert– was set on the table all at once. All dishes, hot and cold, savory and sweet, were served together and mingled on the plate. Everything looked fabulous but this French girl was a bit, uh, overwhelmed by the pacing of the meal. I think the guys in the room gave up on me and retreated to watch football while I was still working on the cranberry ambrosia.

When Rick and I moved to our current home in 1991, the floor plan allowed us to set up a separate salle à manger, one that would accommodate holiday dinners with the whole family. We were finally able to use the leaves on his grandparents’ dining room table and have 12-14 people over for dinner. I quickly volunteered to host Thanksgiving that year. Of course, it was going to be my own take on the beloved American celebration.

I wanted the meal to last more than half an hour so I decided to serve it in courses. First, une soupe. Pause. Then, une salade composée. Pause. Then, le plat de résistance. That year, it would not be a turkey: I was making confit de canard and pommes de terre sarladaises thanks to a business connection who supplied me with 10 lbs of fresh yellow chanterelles. Green beans with garlic sautéed in duck fat. And the cranberry ambrosia that Debbie makes (I love it, it’s like dessert to me.) Pause. Then, pumpkin pies and an apple pie that Debbie baked especially for me because she knows that, to this day, I will not eat pumpkin pie. I do believe that most French are genetically programmed to reject la tarte au potiron, le beurre de cacahuète and la bière de racine.

I was pretty happy with myself and thought I had conquered a seminal American holiday: my convives enjoyed their meal and, although it did not end in song and dance like most French celebrations do, we actually spent a couple of hours sitting and conversing at the dining room table, somewhat of a record from what I had previously observed.

Ten months later, the cruel reality hit: although my Thanksgiving dinner had been enjoyed by all, Kim pointed out that it didn’t really feel like Thanksgiving because: no turkey, not dressing, no leftovers. I realized that holidays are not just about the food itself but also about rituals.

For my 1992 edition of Thanksgiving, I relented and roasted a turkey. It was epic. And worthy of another post one year from now. In the meantime, I’ll share with you what the French love to make with a nice pumpkin.

Vocabulary
La salle à manger: dining room
La soupe: soup
La salade composée: mixed salad
Le plat de résistance: main course
Le confit de canard: duck confit
Les pommes de terre sarladaises: potatoes sautéed in duck fat
La tarte au potiron: pumpkin pie
Le beurre de cacahuète: peanut butter
La bière de racine: root beer
Les convives: dinner guests

Pumpkin soup
Soupe au potiron

2 tbsp olive oil
5 large shallots, chopped
2 large cloves of garlic, minced
3 lbs pumpkin flesh, peeled, seeded and cut into 1-inch cubes
1/2 lb russet potatoes, cut into 1-inch cubes
1 tbsp sea salt
Black pepper
4 1/2 cups of chicken stock
1/2 cup heavy whipping cream
1 Tbsp fresh parsley or chives, chopped

In a large pot, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the shallots and garlic; cook for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally until the shallots are soft and translucent. Add the pumpkin, potatoes, salt and freshly ground pepper. Cover and cook over medium heat for 10 minutes. Pour in the chicken stock and simmer for 45 minutes until the pumpkin is tender. Puree the soup in batches until smooth. Return to the pot, add the whipping cream and the parsley and stir. Check seasoning and serve immediately.

MOMENTS PARFAITS IN PARIS

Many people dream of being writers. I was not one of them. As a math major in high school, I didn’t focus on creative endeavors and certainly didn’t imagine I would ever publish a book. But here we are: my book is out.

Madame Delaborde, my 8th-grade French teacher, gave me a 16/20 on a story I wrote about my grandparents’ farm and I was beaming with pride when she read it out loud to the class. Seconds later, I felt completely embarrassed when she pointed out –in front of the whole class, of course– that she deducted one full point because of a spelling mistake. Such was the French school system or, perhaps, a “tough love” teacher.

Over the years French friends urged me to write. In French. A couple of decades later American friends told me they enjoyed my writing. In English. I was a hybrid writer navigating between two different worlds and two different realms of punctuation. I was not convinced I had anything meaningful to share but my outlook changed a few years ago: people not only liked my stories, they also liked my photography.

Every book has a genesis. The first one –the first born– is always close to the heart: this book was inspired by my conversations with my ailing father. Moments Parfaits in Paris blends some of my favorite photographs with my most beloved stories. It is a series of forty vignettes covering every arrondissement of Paris: a photo, an anecdote, some historical notes and travel tips. Like me, this book is a bit of a hybrid... I hope you’ll enjoy it. Here is a preview of the book with photos, a sample story, and the table of contents.

And now, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that spelling mistakes (and Madame Delaborde) will not come back to haunt me!

CATS IN PARIS

In honor of National Cat Week, I’m pleased to share some of my favorite photographs of cats, all on location in Paris. The city is well-known for being dog-friendly and, indeed, I see a lot of dogs on a leash or quietly lounging under café tables. Since cats roam more freely and don’t have the patience to sit still for table scraps, I usually meet them while walking randomly. Most of my feline encounters happen within the “outer” arrondissements (i.e. the double-digit ones) where car traffic is lighter and the streets open onto private courtyards, alleys, and villas. Let me guide you to some of these havens for cats…

I thought I saw a tweety bird... at Hôpital Saint-Louis, 10th arrondissemnt

28% of French households own at least one cat, the most favorite animal de compagnie. In 2016, there were 12.7 million cats in France which means that some 400,000 cats might call Paris their home.

Chat de gouttière? Well, he/she is standing on a rain gutter... Rue des Thermopyles, 14th arrondissement

The most prevalent “breed” is, of course, le chat de gouttière, a generic tabby. Next down the list of favorite breeds for the French: Maine Coon, Birman, Persian, Bengal, and Chartreux.

Profession: chat de garde. Rue Frochot, 9th arrondissement

Should we expect anything from our matou or our minette besides good looks and entertaining qualities? 

Un gros ronron au soleil. Villa du Borego, 20th arrondissemtn

Perhaps a cat’s raison d’être is just to simply be… there?

Rue du Mont-Cenis, in the 18th arrondissement. Who did you expect? Le Chat Noir?

This cat in Montmartre was named Minette, the most popular cat name. The second favorite in 2016 was Maya; in 2017, it seems to be Nala. 2018 will be the year for names starting in “O”: Opale, Olive, Olympe, etc. What do you think would be an interesting French name for a cat next year?

Anybody home yet? Rue Crémieux, 12th arrondissement

On an early evening, the wandering cat remembers where he settles for the night

Mais où sont les croquettes?

Sometimes, helpful signage gives you a clue about what to expect when you meet a random cat.

My therapist's couch makes a fantastic scratching post

Passage de la Voûte in the 12th arrondissement. It really should be renamed Passage du Chat, don't you think?

If you find yourself in Paris and want to interact with cats without wearing out your soles, head out to Le Café des Chats in the Bastille neighborhood for a nice cup of tea and, perhaps, a moment parfait with a dozen feline residents.

Vocabulary
L’animal de compagnie: a pet
Le chat de gouttière: lit. a rain gutter cat; alley cat
La profession: occupation
Le chat de garde: watch cat
Le matou: a tomcat
La minette: a female cat
Le chat de garde: a watch cat
Le ronron: purring sound
Le soleil: the sun
La raison d’être: purpose
Chat vorace: famish cat
Chat fort méchant et peu nourri: very mean and poorly-fed cat
Mais où sont les croquettes: but where is the kibble
 

CASSOULET

I confess that I didn’t make cassoulet from scratch until I moved to the United States. Premièrement, my mother was a very competent cook so there was no compelling reason to take over her kitchen. Deuxièmement, cassoulet was readily available in France; even the inexpensive canned versions from the grocery store could satisfy my student friends. Troisièmement, let’s face it: cassoulet is a labor-intensive dish to make. Once in California, I had to do without Mom’s cooking or French-food-in-a-can and, when sufficiently motivated, I would hunt for the necessary ingredients such as Tarbais beans, confit de canard, duck fat, and Toulouse-style sausage. Unconsciously, I may have started my mail-order business just to eliminate the hunting part.

Cassoulet started out as peasant food, a ragout of fava beans that included whatever leftover meat was at hand. White beans were not introduced in Europe until the 16th century but have become the foundation of the dish. France being France, there are arguments about which beans should be used (lingots, cocos, tarbais?) and which meats should (or should not) be added: confit (duck or goose?), pork, lamb, perdrix? And how many times to break the crust? Castelnaudary, Carcassonne, and Toulouse are the three cities claiming they have the “right” recipe. In reality, there are as many variations as there are cooks and, in my mind, it’s a good thing.

Since I was in Carcassonne a month ago, it would have been a dereliction of duty to leave town without sampling some cassoulet. So, I’m going to recommend L’Auberge des Lices in the Cité not just because the cassoulet was very good, not just because the server wore his confrèrie garment, but also because the restaurant was filled with locals who spoke with their lovely Occitan accent: if they grew up on cassoulet, they must know where to enjoy a good one.

Vocabulary
Premièrement: firstly
Deuxièmement: secondly
Troisièmement: thirdly
Le confit de canard: duck confit
Le haricot tarbais: a large white bean from the Tarbes area where a bean and a corn kennel are planted together; the corn stalk serves as a stake for the climbing bean plant.
La perdrix: partridge
La confrèrie: a guild that celebrates a particular product
L'Occitan: an old language of southwestern France

Baked in and served out of its earthenware dish

Cassoulet with duck confit
Cassoulet au confit de canard

4 cups Tarbais beans
2 carrots, peeled and cut in 1/2” slices
½ onion, studded with one whole clove
3 oz slab bacon
1 bouquet garni (thyme, bay leaf, parsley)
2 tbsp duck fat
6 legs of duck confit
1 lb Toulouse sausage
½ onion, chopped
2 tbsp flour
2 tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and cubed
2 cloves of garlic, crushed
1 cup dry breadcrumbs

Soak the beans overnight in cold water to cover. Rinse and drain the beans. Put them in a large cooking pot and cover with cold water. Add the carrots, clove-studded onion, bacon slab and bouquet garni. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 1 1/2 hours. Preheat the oven to 350ºF. While the beans are simmering, melt the duck fat in a Dutch oven; brown the duck confit and the sausages on all sides. Add the chopped onion and cook until soft but not colored. Sprinkle with the flour and stir. Add the tomatoes, the crushed garlic and half a cup of water. Simmer for 10 minutes on the stove. Transfer the confit and sausages to a bowl. When the beans are almost cooked (tender but offering a slight resistance), drain and add the beans cooking liquid to the reserved sauce in the Dutch oven. Discard the bouquet garni. Remove the slab bacon, cut into dice and set aside. Cover the bottom of a large baking dish with a layer of beans. Add the sausages and confit and about 1 cup of the reserved liquid. Cover with another layer of beans and top with the pieces of bacon and more liquid. Sprinkle with breadcrumbs and drizzle with a little extra duck fat. Bake for 1 hour, or until the breadcrumbs are lightly colored, and serve in the baking dish.

Tarbais beans, duck fat, duck confit, and Toulouse sausages are available from Joie de Vivre.