Back to reality

After a month away, I am back home. No thanks, however, to American Airlines.

Our hotel on the last night of the trip was The Sheraton at Charles de Galle airport in Paris. I chose this hotel after reading that it had easy access to Terminal 2 from which we would be departing the following morning. "Easy access" turned out to mean it was actually located WITHIN terminal two. Talk about convenient! I am not sure if I mentioned it previously, but the train from Provence back to Paris returned to a train station in the city center. We did, of course, have the option to take a train that came into the station located directly below the airport. But NOOOOO...that would be too easy. Since we were told by the cooking school not to make departure plans prior to 4pm, we had to take a train from Avignon to Gare de Lyon in the heart of Paris. Our arrival time was 6:15pm...rush hour. We dragged our bags once more, plopping down in the taxi line, with 4 people ahead of us. No taxi in sight. After about 10 minutes, one taxi arrived. The next arrived after another 10 minutes, then another 10 minutes, etc. Finally, it was our turn. When the driver saw two people and 3 bags, he waved us away with a gruff, "Non!" I tried my best to argue our case, saying the bags and the two passengers had been able to fit into a much smaller vehicle in Provence just a few hours before. He was not buying it and pointed to another taxi - a van - pulling up to the line. At that moment, a woman still 2 - 3 people behind us, decided to try and take the van ahead of her turn. My French may not be perfect, but rest assured, yours truly won that argument. One hour and $75 later, we arrived at The Sheraton. Needless to say, we were simultaneously thrilled to find it was so close to the terminal and horrified to find it so close to the train station we could have traveled directly to, avoiding the long drive and expense.

The Sheraton was very nice and geared toward catering to business travelers. There was a huge bank of computers with 27 inch monitors, a tower that was a charging station for every imaginable electronic device, a massive monitor constantly updating flight information on every possible airline, and 3 restaurants, including a Michelin-starred option. The entrances for all of the restaurants was in one area, manned by a small, French maitre 'd. When we approached him to be seated, he took one look at the travel-weary mother-daughter duo and said, "We have a bar serving snacks just across the lobby".

We were up early for our flight and, after one last, frantic search through terminals 2B and 2C, I was able to locate and purchase more macaroons. Our flight from Paris to Chicago was uneventful. Long...but uneventful. I watched a few movies and read a few magazines and we were there. As we taxied up to the gate, the flight attendant announced that all passengers traveling on to Los Angeles should check with her. The bad news -- Susan's flight had been cancelled and she was rescheduled to another flight, giving her a 3 hour delay. I knew i had a 3 hour wait before my flight to Raleigh was departing, so we went to the Admiral's Club, charged our phones and answered some email. When I went to my gate for my 5:15pm flight to RDU, I noticed the Dallas flight was still at the gate. Turns out, my flight was postponed and would not be departing until 6:15pm. Up to this point, I was not entirely surprised or disappointed. But then, we boarded the plane and the fun began...

Now, I have read about these flights that become "hostage" situations, with passengers trapped on the plane without food, water, or bathroom facilities for several hours. But didn't they come up with some regulation forbidding that kind of thing this past winter? First, we waited at the gate for 45 minutes. Then, we taxied out and got in line...in this case, "line" is defined as 100 other planes ahead of us (storms to the SE, runway issues, etc.) As luck would have it, getting the smart, cute man in the seat next to me on the flight going to Paris meant I would have the abrasive, aggressive, female CEO next to me going home. An hour and a half after getting in line, the pilot came over the speakers and said, "I am not sure how to tell you all this, but...". Typically, this is not the kind of thing I want to hear from my pilot while on a plane. However, since we were on the ground and not in the air, I was slightly less disturbed. Until the pilot announced we were getting out of line and returning to the gate...our long wait in line now meant he was over his allowable number of hours flying before requiring a rest period. I'm not kidding. As a totally paranoid flyer, I was not arguing this rule. But I was tired and hungry and ready to be in my own bed. Back at the gate, the pilot announced - as he exited the plane - they were going to try to find a replacement. After more than an hour and several announcements that we might be stuck in Chicago til morning (it was now nearly 10pm), the still perky flight attendant said a pilot had "been found". At this point she happened to be standing next to me, explaining to the seething woman in the seat beside me why we couldn't have anything to drink. So, I lightly tapped her arm and said, "I really hate to sound like one of those people who has to be medicated to fly...but, I do have to be medicated to fly. So, I am wondering what you mean when you say you 'found' a pilot? Was he at home, on the street, in the bar...on Craig's List?". (Those of you who have had the misfortune to fly with me can picture this moment.)

The problems continued with the American Airlines computer system going down, preventing take-offs for another hour or so. The woman next to me spent a a few hours of this ordeal trying to control the pilots, the flight attendants, and the air traffic controllers, including detailed instructions on how they could have avoided this problem if they had just planned better. I am not sure whether it was the Ativan or that you learn which verbal battles you won't win while living in a foreign country for a month, but I was very calm and quiet through all of this. Six hours after we got on the plane, we finally received clearance and took off. As the wheels lifted off the tarmac, the majority of the passengers broke into applause. "Mary Sunshine" next to me asked why I was not clapping. I explained that a celebration seemed premature at that point and that i would clap when we landed safely in Raleigh. (privately i feared the early celebrating might send the plane plummeting to the ground...perhaps the Ativan was wearing off after the long wait.). We got home after 2am and I was very happy to see my puppy and my bed.



What I learned during my month in France:
1. The majority of people in France are very friendly and are very patient with tourists trying to speak French.
2. I like Italian wine much better than French wine.
3. There is not much better than a perfectly cooked dish, especially when you have prepared it yourself.
4. I still love to learn and could cook all day, every day, without getting bored.
5. I needed to learn to slow down and enjoy moments rather than always working in overdrive.
6. Le Cordon Bleu knows how to make cooking fun, while working your rear off simultaneously. Their school is well-run and very professional.
7. There are great people and wonderful friends to be made from all cultures and backgrounds.
8. What we eat and how we live really does make a difference. Somehow, with all of the food, wine, and sauces, I lost 5 pounds while I was away. Since I had a similar experience while attending cooking school in Italy, I believe I can say with some certainty that ridding the diet of processed foods, eating fresh produce and protein, and being in an environment where a car is not an option leads to a healthier lifestyle and body. While I was in France, I did not consume a Lean Cuisine, any Crystal light or diet drinks, and there were no televisions to watch. I took the steps to my 4th (6th??) floor apartment and walked to and from meals. Very different from what most of us do each day in the US. My son, who lives in Peru, has been telling me this for years and now I am a believer, too.

I have enjoyed writing this blog and hope it has given each of you a picture into my journey.

Large mountains and big hips

Provence is full of many wonderful villages and markets as well as magical landscapes. Before departing Provence on Thursday, we visited Les Baux-de-Provence, a village that was once a fortress, with one of the most amazing views I have seen so far. A brilliant view of Arles, the Camargue and the Alpilles can be seen from the look-out points. This immense stone fortress is without doubt a "must-see". Unfortunately, as great as the camera is on my iPad, it was difficult to capture the view. So I focused on shots of the village.



While much of the southern part of the Alpilles is exposed rock, the northern slopes, where the road zig-zags down to (or up from) St. Rémy, is thickly forested. The road up to Les Baux from the southeast passes through olive groves and vineyards, and passes the Cave Vignoble Sainte Berthe where you can stop and taste the local wines. The rock formations are incredible. Just inside the entrance to the village are narrow cobblestone streets, terrace cafés, and souvenir shops. The only downside - a lot of tourists. It was the first time during our visit to Provence when I really felt like I was in a tourist area. Even so, given the beauty of the mountain and fortress, it was definitely worth the visit.







We also made one last market stop, visiting the Thursday morning market in St. Rémy. It was a good chance to pick up some last minute souvenirs. When I planned the visit to Provence, I knew that I wanted to bring home some artwork -- nothing elaborate or expensive – just a small watercolor or oil painting of the landscape. I was fortunate enough to meet Franck, a local painter, who had some great pieces. So I was able to get two small watercolors highlighting the Luberon and Alpilles. Very exciting. Susan purchased a beautiful tablecloth from a woman selling linens. As we were leaving the market, I stopped at a vendor with great cotton garments as well as some beautiful crepe de chine. One dress caught my eye immediately and I told Susan, “I have to have it”. There were 3 sizes available. Now, I am not always the Queen of Diplomacy, but I do know good marketing. This lady clearly needed some brushing up on her people skills and sales techniques. I chose the size I thought most appropriate. As I was holding it against myself, thinking of the places I would wear it and the perfect shoes to wear with it, the woman approached me loudly exclaiming, “NON”. She grabbed me, placed her hands on my hips, shook me a little as if taking a mental measurement, and handed me the larger size!! It goes without saying -- I left without buying the dress. Those of you who are female understand perfectly.






As any self-respecting female knows, when you strike out on shopping, you eat. Susan and I spent the remainder of the afternoon sipping Kir Royale on the terrace of the hotel and enjoying our lunch of vegetable salad and dessert of fresh fruit with one last scoop of the delicious cacao sorbet. As we headed for the train station, the mistral was out in full force. This made lugging baggage to an elevated train platform a bit tedious (and my hair was quite the sight), but it was a welcome relief to the hot day and prepared us for the cooler temperatures in Paris.

So, I left Provence sans the silk dress, but full of good food, good memories with Susan, and some great pictures of a region I have wanted to visit for many years.

The old grey goose is dead...

I stand corrected. Mint and licorice are not the ingredients I dislike the most. Foie gras and duck are - hands down - the two dishes I never, ever want to see or taste again. And, trust me, I have seen them a lot the past several days. I am sure our hosts think they are being generous and providing us with an outstanding cooking and dining opportunity. But I was (literally) getting a little sick.


















They did inquire about food "issues" when we arrived and i confessed we were not meat eaters. They nodded their understanding, saying that was important since we would be eating what we cooked. That night, we were served duck for dinner. We both took one, tiny bite - followed by discreet little heaves - and left the rest. Fortunately, there were potatoes and dessert. The next day, we arrived at class to find the starter we were preparing was foie gras (the liver of a goose, fattened specifically for the purpose of consuming the liver) that was cigar-rolled in - what else - duck breast. Okay. I do think I should win an award of some type for the most creative cutting of duck breast to hide the fact that it has not been eaten..at all. The following day, duck and foie gras were served again. I feel horrible about it. I know they consider this a delicacy and an extravagant meal and we are really not weird Americans with neurotic eating habits or an uneducated palate. But it was time to be more direct. If for no other reason, to avoid wasting food. (that, and we had run out of creative cutting techniques and our fellow hotel guests from the Netherlands had stopped bringing their dog to dinner with them. Mademoiselle Fifi, as Susan and I refer to her, seems to eat everything dropped on the dining patio.). As it turns out, the chef had finally caught on himself and fish and vegetables became the focus during cooking classes and dining options. Just to be clear, duck is seen frequently at Le Cordon Bleu...and you do take what you cook home with you after class. But you can give it away to a meat-eating classmate and stop at the local cafe for a dinner of your choosing. Here, what you cook is what you eat -- or you don't eat.









The lesson learned: the French clearly put a different emphasis on animals than Americans...or maybe it is just Susan and me? While I definitely would agree that extravagant birthday parties for pets are a little over the top and privately laugh when I see dogs in elaborate sweaters and outfits, I have a real attachment to my dog. One of the reasons I became a vegetarian at age 28 was a concern for animals. Over the past several years, I have added chicken to my diet, but fruits and veggies are my preference. The French, on the other hand, seem to consider most animals a potential meal and each sighting of a bird, horse, or other furry friend prompts a story of how that animal is best cooked. It can be a wee bit disturbing. As Susan put it, "the whole fatten up the goose, just to kill it and eat it, is a little Hansel & Gretel-ish for me".


















Duck/goose issues aside, I have cooked and eaten some great food this week. One standout, papeton d'aubergine, a dish made with roasted eggplant, olive oil, garlic, and cream and served with a tomato and pistou sauce. Wonderful! My favorite culinary experience in Provence: learning to make macaroons. Ours were not quite as pretty to look at as those at Laduree, but they tasted almost as good. Best dining experience was outdoord at a small, family-owned restaurant in a setting at the base of one of the Alpilles mountains, surrounded by olive trees and lavender. I had a delicious fresh fish, daurade, cooked with herb d'provence, fresh veggies, perfectly turned, and a dessert of dense chocolate, presented with berries and cream.



















We are on the TGV headed back to Paris after an enjoyable stay in Provence. The cooking classes were not quite as organized or intense as I had expected. But I came away with more experience. The staff at Domaine De Valmouriane is the best and were our favorite part of this part of the trip. They treat guests the way any business owner hopes his or her staff will treat customers. They make you feel you are their only guest and seem to take a personal interest in assuring you are enjoying yourself. If you ever find yourself headed to St. Remy, it is worth your time to stay there.

Real men wear lavender...

Whew! We started our day at 9am with a short drive to reach the market in l'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. The village is best known for it's maze of canals, earning it the nickname "Venice of Provence". It is also regarded as the best place in southern France to shop for antiques. Philipe tells us he once ran into the actor, John Malkovich, and has also seen the director, Ridley Scott, shopping for antiques for his home here. I am not certain, but it did not seem Philipe was particularly happy to have Ridley as a neighbor. (Something about Mr. Scott's constant objections to the roosters crowing each morning?). They do have an amazing assortment of antiques with some wonderful old iron pieces, long ceramic tile tables I would love to have, and great cabinets and linens. Believe or not, most of these items were not priced in the "tourist price range", but were quite reasonably priced.


















I'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue is quaint and friendly and how I imagined a small town in Provence might look. Narrow, cobbled streets, foot bridges, cafes, and flowers amid terra cotta buildings with sun-washed shutters. The number of options made it a little overwhelming with vendors selling fruits and vegetables, meat and fish, olives, spices, cheese, bread of all kinds, as well as clothes, flowers, and linens. I could have spent two days just walking among the carts and trays. But Philipe had us on a bit of a schedule, so we did not pause long at any one vendor. I did manage to buy a few small pastries and a cotton sundress. I feel compelled to explain this purchase. I did not go to market this morning on a mission to buy clothes and, considering my suitcase (a superb purchase on my part) is bursting at the seams and zipper already, I should have walked away. Unfortunately, most of the pieces I brought along for the trip were based on requirements for cooking at Le Cordon Bleu (long sleeves and closed-toe shoes). It was also around 65 degrees in Paris, while I now find myself in 105 degrees. I left for market this morning in a long-sleeved denim shirt.). Thus, the cotton sundress. Philipe, on the other hand, was on a mission. During the drive, he kept mentioning it was time for a summer purchase. His son, Max, was along again and agreed they had something important to buy.









One of the things you have to love about French men is their lack of self-consciousness about showing affection toward other men, sitting side-by-side with another man, wearing certain colors, etc. The cart Philipe and Max were determined to locate was the shoe vendor where an assortment of espadrilles were being offered. Espadrilles are normally casual flat, but sometimes high-heeled, shoes originating from the Pyrenees. They usually have a canvas or cotton fabric upper and a flexible sole made of rope or rubber molded to look like rope. In the US, espadrilles are typically worn by women. If a man WERE to wear them, it would likely be in a shade like black or brown. While Susan and I were checking out the bread, the guys went to make their purchases. I had to smile when they returned, happy as could be, with Max wearing espadrilles in pastel stripes and Philipe in bright lavender.


















During our post-dinner briefing last night with Marianne, I must have missed something in the details about our plans for today. I thought we were going to market only, with the goal of purchasing produce and protein for our cooking class this afternoon. Au contraire. A big day was planned with a side trip to one of the family's favorite places, Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. I am certainly not complaining. It was beautiful!! Situated around a spring a valley at the base of the mountains, there are wonderful water falls and majestic mountains and cliffs. Visitors can hike up the mountain to the source of the spring. The water is completely uncontaminated in this area and crystal clear. The foliage is breathtaking during the ascent to the top of the mountain. I only have one, tiny complaint. In an ideal world, I would not have been making the climb in a pair of Cole Haan sandals. Evidently, "Voulez-vous de gravir une montagne?" does not translate to, "Do you want to go to the market?", which I should have known. Market = du marche. du montagne = mountain. Regardless of the slight shoe inconvenience - and kudos to Cole Haan sandals, by the way - this is an idyllic location with a view that must be seen.









I cannot get enough of the bread in France. But then, carbohydrates have always been my closest friend. The two types offered at Domaine de Valmouriane are a wonderful round, yeast-based roll that looks a little like a drop biscuit and a sliced brown bread with delicious seeds/grains. I hope the French will forgive me for this comparison, but it looks a bit like the bread at Outback (the color from the use of molasses) but it is served sliced and not by the loaf. Dinner tonight was duck, so let's just say Susan and I were both very, very happy to have the bread!!

From Paris to Provence

The cooking continues, the food continues, and the view just gets better and better.

As much as I love the farmer's market in Carrboro, it cannot compare to the numerous outdoor markets in France. The variety and amount of produce, meat, fish, and flowers is just staggering. In France, meat of any variety is presented in, shall we say, the natural form -- not butchered and cut into pieces as we are used to seeing it in a supermarket in the US. Rabbit is sold totally intact, fur still on, head on, etc. As our instructor pointed out, this is to ensure the buyer he - or she - is getting what they asked for for and paid for. In the case of the rabbit, the consumer can relax knowing he is actually getting a rabbit...and not, as chef explained, a cat. If the visual weren't disturbing enough for this animal lover, the rationale was the clincher. Does one actually NEED to be assured one is not purchasing cat?? Has someone actually made a purchase of "rabbit" at the market to discover it was, in fact, cat? (un chat in French). I decided it was best not to inquire about what other mistakes one could make purchasing meat at the market. The biggest concern I have shopping at the Carrboro Farmer's Market is whether the mini muffins will be gone before I get there.



We took the TGV train from Paris to Avignon, in Provence, yesterday afternoon. Although I need medication (right now) just thinking about my flight back to the US, for some reason I was not disturbed to find you can walk into the train station in Paris 15 minutes prior to departure and hop on board - with all sorts of luggage and packages - without benefit of passing through any type of screening or security. I am sure that should be very, very frightening on many levels. But it was such a great experience, it seemed easy not to think about that little detail. Modern, clean, friendly, well-organized. The couple traveling across from us was from Paris, traveling to their weekend/summer home in Provence (yes, I was slightly jealous). They were kind enough to assist when I ran into a rough patch translating what the conductor was trying to tell me when she came around to punch tickets. (The Rosetta Stone program did not adequately cover train terminology, obviously.) They were also wise enough to bring food from a gourmet market in Paris for the train trip. When they realized Susan and I were splitting a bottle of water and sandwich au poulet et aux legumes (chicken and vegetable sandwich) - purchased in the train station - they offered us one of their beautiful salad nicoise and some of their eclairs. Just so we didn't seem totally without provisions, Susan and I broke into our box of Laduree macaroons as an offering.



Avignon was not my cup of tea. I am sure I will hear from some of you who disagree, but it was a little "creepy" as Susan put it. The meal we had was expensive and bad and not really what I would call French cuisine. The bread was even bad, for goodness sake! Aside from a few historical structures, it seemed totally over run with tourists. Actually, I am not sure I would describe them as tourists so much as, perhaps, loiterers? It is hard to describe. But I am hopeful that our hosts will take us back before we depart to show us a side of Avignon we may have missed.



Philipe and his 9-year old son, Maximus, picked us up at the hotel this morning and transported us to Domaine Valmouriane in St. Remy de Provence. St. Remy is about 12 miles south of Avignon and the Alpilles Mountains run just to the north. It is the birthplace of Nastradamus and is where Van Gogh lived when he painted his famous "The Starry Night". It is a beautiful area with a warmer climate than Paris. Although the temperature is probably more than 80 degrees today, it feels cooler due to the mistral, a cool, dry regional wind in France that blows from the north or northwest and accelerates as it pass through the valleys of the Rhone and Durance rivers to the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. Nice in the summer, but it can mean quite cold temperatures when it passes through in winter. Philipe's wife, Marianne, is great and they have been wonderful hosts so far. Our "light" lunch of melons, vegetables, and homemade sorbets (apricot, cocoa, and raspberry) was one of the best meals yet. All of the produce is local and the olive oil was produced just down the road. Everything is organic and very fresh.






We just returned from dinner and, my goodness, the food is exceptional. The cuisine of Provence differs somewhat from what one finds in Paris where meals are prepared with emphasis on cream and butter. The cuisine of Provence has a Mediterranean influence and is much like what you find in Italy where olive oil is used far more than butter and a lot of vegetables are used. Fresh fish is also a common protein in main course dishes. Our meal opened this evening with an eggplant "caviar" with tomato coulis on top, served in a shot glass-sized container. Our appetizer was the best dish I have had since I arrived; shrimp, lobster, and white asparagus pieces in a light tomato-fumet sauce inside a puff pastry shell. I have photos of this one! Our entree was grilled sea bream on a potato "hash" with a small portion of carrot puree and diced eggplant. THEN...a cheese course where three small servings of cheese were presented - all local. Dessert was a licorice semifreddo with a mint syrup, all on a delicate coconut-shortbread biscuit. Now, those of you who know me well know that there are two things I do not eat: 1) mint, and 2) licorice. THIS, however, was just exceptional and did not actually taste of LICORICE. And the mint was not peppermint, it was just a lovely, fresh, delicate mint syrup. I am sorry I cannot show photos of the entree and dessert. By the time those were served, the dining location was full of people and I had to weigh my options: take photos with an iPad and hope everyone realized I was writing a food blog (a stretch) or take photos of the food with my iPad and look like I was taking my first trip outside of Arkansas. I ordinarily do not worry too much about what others might think in these situations, but I did have Susan's feelings to consider as well.



The one cultural difference I am still struggling with here is dinner hour. As we all know, my ideal dinner time is 5:30pm but I can live with 6 or 6:30 if my dining companions prefer it...and I have been known to agree to 7pm if I am a guest in someone's home. But starting a meal at 8pm - when you know it is going to last 5 courses and 3 hours - is tough, especially on my 53-year old digestive system. In Paris, I just walk to dinner and back home with an extra mile thrown in. In Provence, it would be a dark and treacherous situation if one chose to take a walk at midnight with this hilly, rocky terrain.






I am off to market early tomorrow morning with the chef. After enjoying two of his scrumptious meals today, I am really looking forward to cooking with him and learning from him!

Chef's Secrets at Culinary Boot Camp

Most classes at Le Cordon Bleu begin with a demonstration by the Chef. After this two hour demonstration and lecture, we (the students) are expected to recreate the dish on our own. The "recipes" in the program binder consist of only the ingredient list -- no instructions. So, one should be taking thorough notes and, as you've seen, I take photos whenever possible. Something as normal for the American cook as the temperature for preheating the oven is NOT on the recipe. If you did not get it when Chef started the demonstration, then you just didn't get it. There really is a logic to this approach, I am sure. I just haven't figured it out yet.






Our dishes for class today were entree: (here, that is the appetizer) zucchini blossoms stuffed with crab meat, oven roasted tomatoes, which appear often since they make a nice garnish/presentation, and nicoise salad greens. The main course was sautéed veal medallions with mushroom, rosemary and cream sauce and potatoes with caramelized onions. I think I have mentioned, students are given whatever they cook each day (after it has been graded) to take home to eat. I was EXTREMELY thankful for that appetizer and the potatoes since I knew the veal was not going home with me. A few "secrets"/rules from Chef: 1) a perfectly cooked potato should be the same consistency as a wedge of butter just out of the fridge when you insert a knife in them. This explained a lot about why my potatoes are usually a little dry and mealy, 2) NEVER put sauce directly on meat, 3) for a perfect sauce, your roux (most sauces begin with a roux) must be cold and your liquid hot--or vice versa, 4) cut an onion thru the root (end to end) not around the middle. The root keeps the onion intact for easier slicing and dicing and there are actually less tears this way because less oils are released. Last, but not least...5) they WASH mushrooms! They just do it quickly and dry them well and contrary to my years of worry about it, did not absorb the water. This will certainly save me time since I have been gently rubbing each mushroom with a paper towel for years.

Another important thing I have learned -- I do not want to work as a demonstration assistant at Le Cordon Bleu! Class is stressful enough as it is without this thankless job. It is already a little like the military with students expected to respond to each comment with, "Oui, Chef". But the assistants, if they drop something or, heaven forbid do not understand the request spoken in French, they become the center of attention and it is not a good position to be in!



Susan and I took time today to go to tea at the famous patisserie, Laduree. What fun, how filling! We ordered what I thought were moderate dishes for lunch. (Susan had the Champs-Elysees Salad (wonderful, moist crabmeat on top of a thin pastry wafer drizzles with a balsamic reduction and served atop a mound of diced nectarines, passion fruit, and watermelon with a nectarine puree). I had the Club sandwich Laduree, which came on a brioche-type bread and had a filing of avocado, crabmeat, and sundried tomatoes...and the most amazing French fries I have ever eaten. Admittedly, I am not a fry eater. But this could convert even the most disciplined. They were square cut and HUGE and roasted/fried in such a way as to be crispy, but not at all greasy. Anyway, a moderate meal. Yet the waitress became bug-eyed when we suggested she bring an assortment of sweets, which Laduree is most famous for producing, for our dessert. "Oh no, Madam! It will be too much!". Adequately humbled, we ordered a plate of MINI macaroons in salted caramel, pistachio, rose petal, vanilla, and lemon-thyme.
















Tomorrow we are traveling by high-speed train (TGV) to the south of France to visit and take an intensive 4-day cooking course on the cuisine of Provence. France and much of Europe are far ahead of other countries with their public transportation system and the high-speed trains allow you to travel across France - or to Switzerland, Italy, or Germany - in a matter of hours. Our train is a double-decker and we are on top, so I am excited to watch several regions of France pass by. I have always wanted to go to Provence and I am anxious to see if the reality is anything at all like I have imagined.

We will lug a bag or two down our wooden, narrow, winding steps tomorrow. I adore my apartment, but the tiny wooden steps were not made for my size 9.5 (okay, size 10) feet and it is quite a balancing act each time I make the six flight trip down to the street. Susan likes to go behind me -- just in case I miss one, she does not want to become collateral damage.


I will post photos from the road! Bonne nuit de Paris. (good night from Paris)

Food...Wine...Chocolate...Expatriates. PARIS!

Folks in Paris tend to stay up late, at least in our neighborhood, especially on Saturday night. The result, Sunday mornings tend to be quiet - and this Sunday, Father's Day, was no exception. Susan and I had our restaurant of choice to ourselves for the first hour. As I wrote in my last post, Un Dimanche a Paris is a concept restaurant featuring chocolate. Each dish has cocoa used as an ingredient, even when it is done very subtly. This was brunch, so it was interesting to see how cocoa/chocolate was incorporated into breakfast dishes. Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I will simply attach the photos. And I truly wish I could take credit for creating each dish as they were beautiful as well as tasty. The brunch option I had chosen was a progression of dishes chosen by the chef. I could have sworn the menu listed pastries (note PLURAL). However, when it was time for my dessert course and I was lead to the case to choose, they told me to select ONE! Horrors! So, I did what any self-respecting foodie would do...and insisted on three. My choices, a chocolate cake with hazelnut praline, a citrine (lemon) meringue tart, and a raspberry eclair with pistachio creme. We waddled home.






Oh, yes, CLASS. Yesterday was a Wine Master Class. Have I mentioned the French take their wine very, VERY seriously? One poor student made the mistake of saying he preferred Italian wine...let's just say this was "une terrible erreur". The class was several intense hours of learning each element of a French wine label, food/wine pairings, wine texture, and wine regions and appellations, which is how the French typically make wine choices rather than by the grape as most Americans do. In other words, they think of Bordeaux or Alsace, or Burgundy, which are regions of France and do not choose their wine based on whether it is a Pinot Noir or Chardonnay, etc. It was very interesting and very complicated...and we were reminded AGAIN, lest any of us might forget, IT CAN ONLY BE CALLED CHAMPAGNE IF THE GRAPES AND THE ENTIRE BOTTLING PROCESS HAIL FROM THE CHAMPAGNE REGION OF FRANCE. Otherwise, it is JUST sparkling wine.






If I had to name one thing I love most about Paris, it is the people. Not just Parisians, but the interesting, eclectic group of expatriates -- individuals from other countries who are living in Paris. Some for short stints and some for decades. Last night around 9pm, Susan remembered she had finished her book and decided we should walk to the bookstore for a new one. (it stays light outside until nearly 11pm here. And I do mean, light, like it could be 6pm light.) We set out for the ultimate in Paris expatriate experiences: the bookstore "Shakespeare & Company". Shakespeare & Co. Is an independent bookstore in the 5th arrondissement. It was originally established in the 1920's by Sylvia Beach and was considered the center of Anglo-American literary culture and modernism in Paris. Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, and F. Scott Fitzgerald all spent significant time at the bookstore, which was mentioned in Hemingway's novel, "A Moveable Feast". In modern times, as it did decades ago, the bookstore is a place where writers, students, and the random ex-pat can spend the night, volunteer to work a few days, eat a meal, etc. It makes for a very interesting mix of people. A must-see for anyone visiting Paris. So...while Susan was making her selection and I was waiting outside the store to watch the world pass by, a group of five men and women ranging in age from 45 - 80 asked if I wanted to join their conversation. (Seriously, where else does that happen?) Although I was not sure I wanted to, I could not quickly think of a graceful way to decline. So I went over. All five were Brit or American expats who've been living in Paris for 15 -20 years. One was a physicist who travels frequently to the US and China for speaking engagements. The oldest man was a writer; quite interesting and well-read. When Susan joined us with her latest purchase (ironically, an F. Scott Fitzgerald book) there was a 15-minute lively debate on Fitzgerald and William Styron, who wrote Sophie'S Choice. When I said we needed to head home, we were immediately invited to join the Sunday "soiree" they attend each week at the home of Jim Haynes; writer, producer, newspaper owner and the man who, for 30 years, has hosted a Sunday dinner in his home for 50 people, including some total strangers (as I would be). Who knows if we will go. But it is a great example of what makes Paris exciting and unique. There is really a sense of camaraderie that might surprise many. I have been to two dinners hosted by ex-pats and locals since I arrived in Paris and it has been a wonderful way to meet interesting people and to learn more about life in Paris.






Tonight was a relaxing night with a wonderful, rustic French meal - complete with chocolate souffle for dessert. Hope everyone enjoys the pictures of brunch, the bookstore, my wine class, and my dinner this evening. A nice compilation of the past few days.