The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (15 page)

Now I never, ever back up for anyone.
Ever.
You’ll never get any kind of respect around here if you’re going to pull that kind of behavior. I do have to watch it when I head back to the States, though. I’ve been in a few situations where it wasn’t clearly understood that people were expected to move for me. And I’ve had to do a bit of apologizing and backpedaling as a result. For safety’s sake—notably mine—it’s something I’m glad that I haven’t completely forgotten. I don’t know if my insurance covers a broken nose if I’m abroad. And I’m not exactly anxious to find out.

SALADE DE TOMATES AU PAIN AU LEVAIN
TOMATO AND SOURDOUGH BREAD SALAD
MAKES 8 SERVINGS

One major reason I live in Paris is that I can visit Poilâne any time I want. Of all the
boulangeries
in Paris, Poilâne is certainly the most famous, and if I’m willing to brave the city sidewalks of the Left Bank, my reward is a rustic wedge of their world-famous
pain au levain
cut from the large loaves of sourdough lined up in the bakery, with a cursive
P
inscribed in the crust.

Since I’m a regular, they often invite me to pop in downstairs to see the wood-fired ovens in action. Before I head down, a saleswoman always hollers something down to the bakers. For years I didn’t know what they were saying. But after racing down the stone steps one time a little too quickly and finding a half-dressed young man wearing only ragged cotton shorts scrambling to get his T-shirt over his head, I realized she was hollering:
“Habillez-vous!”
(“Put some clothes on!”)

If you’re ever invited downstairs, do try to descend as quickly as possible. The giant loaves of bread baking in the oven are great to see, but they aren’t the only attraction down there.

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C). Spread the bread pieces on a baking sheet and toast until deep golden brown, about 15 minutes, stirring once or twice as they’re toasting. Set aside to cool.
   

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the mustard, salt, pepper to taste, garlic, vinegar, and olive oil.
   

3. Remove the stems from the tomatoes, slice in half, and squeeze out the juice. Cut them into 1-inch (3-cm) pieces. Cut the cucumber into 1/2-inch (2-cm) pieces.
   

4. Add the tomatoes and cucumber to the bowl with the dressing. Mix in the olives, onion, and herbs and toss well. Taste, and add more salt, oil, and vinegar to your liking. (I like this salad somewhat vinegary, but feel free to use additional olive oil if you wish.)
   

5. Crumble the feta over the top in large chunks and toss briefly. Let stand 1 to 2 hours before serving.
   

SERVING:
Some people like bread salads served right away, and some prefer to let them sit for a while. Whatever you choose, I think they’re best served the day they’re made.

MACARONS AU CHOCOLAT
CHOCOLATE MACAROONS
MAKES 15 COOKIES

If you’re old enough, you might remember the television commercial where two people collide. One’s eating a chocolate bar and the other’s snacking on peanut butter. After they’ve recovered, they realize they’ve mingled two tastes, which in turn created one great candy bar.

Since few Parisians like peanut butter, I can’t imagine peanut butter-filled cookies being much of a success over here. But they sure love cookies filled with dark chocolate.

Anyone in search of chocolate eventually makes the pilgrimage to Ladurée, the world-famous tea salon just off the place de la Madeleine. Pressed against the window, you’ll find everyone from tourists to normally blasé Parisians looking to see what flavors they’re featuring that month. Someday, I’d love to see chocolate and chunky peanut butter—but I’m not holding my breath. Still, I’m always content to walk out with a little box of
chocolat amer
, the darkest of their famous chocolate
macarons.

Not many people know that this chic
salon de thé
was the first public drinking spot in Paris where women could mingle with their friends without male companions and not be considered “loose” or “for sale.” Nowadays the only things sold loose at Ladurée are the
macarons
, which are lined up individually by flavor, and find their way into gilded boxes as fast as the salespeople can package them.

1. Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and have ready a pastry bag with a plain tip (about ½ inch/2 cm).
   

2. To make the cookies, grind together the powdered sugar, almond powder or sliced almonds, and cocoa in a blender or food processor until there are no lumps and all the dry ingredients are fine and powdery.
   

3. In the bowl of a standing electric mixer or by hand, beat the egg whites until they begin to rise and hold their shape. Gradually beat in the granulated sugar until very stiff and firm, about 2 minutes.
   

4. Carefully fold the dry ingredients into the beaten egg whites in 2 or 3 batches with a flexible rubber spatula. When the mixture is just smooth and there are no streaks of egg white, stop folding and scrape the batter into the pastry bag.
   

5. Pipe the batter onto the baking sheets in 1-inch (3-cm) circles (about 1 tablespoon of batter each), evenly spaced 1 inch (3 cm) apart. Rap the baking sheet a few times firmly on the countertop to flatten the cookies a bit, then bake them for 15 to 18 minutes, until they feel slightly firm. Let cool completely.
   

6. 6. To make the chocolate filling, heat the cream and corn syrup in a small saucepan. When the cream just begins to boil at the edges, remove from heat and add the chocolate. Let sit 1 minute, then stir until smooth. Stir in the butter. Let cool to room temperature before using.
   

7. To assemble the macaroons, spread a bit of chocolate filling on the inside (the flat side) of one cookie, then sandwich it together with another one. I tend to overfill mine, but you might not be so generous, so you may not use all the filling.
   

SERVING:
Let the macaroons stand at least one day, in an airtight container at room temperature, before serving to meld the flavors.

STORAGE:
Keep in an airtight container for up to five days or freeze. If you freeze them, defrost them in the unopened container to avoid condensation, which will make the macaroons soggy.

NOTE:
Some almond flours can be a bit chunky, so I recommend pulverizing them to ensure they’re as fine as possible.

NE TOUCHEZ PAS!

Everything in Paris is here for a specific purpose. Even if I haven’t figured out exactly what mine is yet.

Each and every church, boulevard, lamppost, monument, department store, bridge, pastry shop, park bench, café table, sewer cover, hospital, and garbage can—everything in the city is carefully placed where it is, as a result of much thought and reflection. A team of thirty people moves about under the cover of darkness each night, constantly adjusting, focusing, and softening the lights to give Paris and its monuments that extraspecial glow. The lime-green brooms the street sweepers use are chosen for style over
efficiency. And you won’t find any frumpy, beignet-eating cops in Paris: they’re all given well-tailored uniforms to wear. Sometimes I’m a little embarrassed when I see them; I never imagined that I’d come across a policeman with a much better sense of style than I have.

And, of course, the food is stunning in Paris as well. Store windows are lined with bursting puffs of yeasty brioche, neat cubes of sugary
pâtes de fruits
, and rows and rows of unctuous chocolates filled with everything from creamy
ganache
to whipped
mousse au caramel.
The outdoor markets tempt with tight clusters of dewy grapes, lush, ruby-red strawberries, and mounds of plump Burlat cherries with their perky stems. All are just begging to be scooped up and brought home. And what about those bins of sun-dappled apricots, fresh from Provence, their sunny orange skin promising sweet, succulent juices? Or the tiny
mirabelles
, those sweet little plums that you can’t wait to get home and stew into the most marvelous jam you’ve ever tasted? They all look so tempting too, don’t they?

Well,
ne touchez pas!
Don’t touch them!

Things in Paris are arranged just so, and great pains are taken to make sure they stay there to remain in the most pristine condition possible. And that means keep your grubby hands off them.

In a city where window-dressing is an art, you’ll find a note of apology in any
vitrine
left uncompleted:
“Excusez-nous, vitrine en cours de réalisation
(“Excuse us, window under production”—which is also a clever way of skirting the law requiring that prices be displayed in windows.)

During my first trip to Paris, I remember seeing a nice-looking shirt in a window, and I stepped inside to try it on. After a few minutes of parading around in front of the mirror, I told the salesperson I liked it, but wanted to think about it.
“Pourquoi, monsieur?
It looks so good on you!” She was right, it did look good on me. After I went through the trouble of trying it on and she went through the bother of carefully taking it off the
shelf and unfolding it, she just couldn’t fathom why I didn’t buy it. I slunk out of there, embarrassed beyond belief.

I learned that once you’ve touched anything, you’re pretty much committed to buying it. So be careful what you put your hands on. Whether it’s an ordinary orange or an orange Kelly bag, once you’ve made that first move, the next step is to take the relationship to the next level. So a warning to those who have trouble with commitment: if you don’t want to get involved, keep your hands to yourself. Because like most relationships, once things reach a certain point, waffling is no longer an option, and you’re going to get stuck for life.

There’s a lot of justifiable griping about the lack of a Customer Is King attitude, or any sort of “customer service” at all, in Paris. If I have to go into a store for a service issue, I spend hours practicing my speech in my head before leaving the house, occasionally making notes and looking up any specific vocabulary that might be thrown at me, so I’m ready for anything.

I almost didn’t win over a salesclerk who wouldn’t let me exchange a broken ice cream scoop, since I had the temerity to open the package and use it. I begged and tried to convince her that if I hadn’t opened the package to use it, I’d never have known that it was broken, which she didn’t understand.

So I tried a different tactic. After I got up off my hands and knees, I told her that I was a
glacier
, and either she felt sorry for me, or was impressed by someone who made ice cream professionally. Only then did she hand me a new one off the shelf.

(Which broke the first time I used it, too. But I’ve since learned, to preserve my fragile sanity, that when something breaks, it’s simply better just to toss it and buy a new one elsewhere.)

Since no one’s under any obligation to help you, you need to prove you’re worthy of receiving their attention. It’s nearly impossible to fire anyone
in France, so why
should
they help you? You need to make them
want
to help you. Believe me, it’s worth it. There’s something truly wonderful to be said for French service when it’s bestowed upon you.

Believe it or not, most French people do want to be helpful. A lot of shopkeepers and merchants are rightly proud of what they are offering. It’s just that
le marketing
is a cultural no-no and many feel odd, or
très commercial
, if they try to push something (behavior I’ve also heard described as
très américain).
Handing out samples is considered
vulgaire
, and if you come from a capitalist country, you need to forget that vendors should be eager to make a sale. Here, if a vendor has high-quality products, it’s up to the client to be worthy of their wares. Losing a sale is nothing compared to loss of pride.

To get good service, I’ve perfected my own special blend of politesse with a soupçon of obsequious groveling. First, I use all the proper salutations when entering a shop—
“Bonjour, madame”
or
“monsieur.
” Then, whatever I’m inspecting for purchase, whether a bar of chocolate or a bar of soap, I consider it with a bit of reserve and disdain—as though I’m wondering if that soap is really worthy of my skin. This puts the staff on high alert, right where you want them. Still, I never touch anything, whether it’s tomatoes, chocolate, flowers, shirts, bread, soap, newspapers, suits, peaches, or shoelaces, without first getting permission.

The most baffling cross-cultural divide occurs at
la fromagerie.
Or to be more specific: why don’t they let you sample the cheese?

There’s no cheese shop in America that doesn’t encourage you to take a taste before you buy. Whether confronted with the walnut-crusted cheese balls chopped into little tidbits at Hickory Farms in the mall, or a wispy shaving of Red Hawk cheese at Cowgirl Creamery in San Francisco, we’ve become accustomed—some feel it’s our right—to being offered a bite before deciding. And to take all the time we want, tasting as many as possible.

Much to the disappointment of visitors, shopkeepers in Paris are rather meager on samples. (I used to think they were just being stingy until I was almost crushed to death at the Salon du Chocolat in Paris, and now I can’t
say I blame them.) You’re expected to rely on the expertise of the
fromager
, who’s the master of his or her subject, to suggest a cheese that you’ll like. They’re experts and can deduce from your responses to their questions—like when you’ll be serving it or what you’ll be serving before it—what cheese is best for you. Then you’re supposed to rely on their judgment and buy what they suggest. While this may seem like a funny arrangement, in all my time living in Paris, I’ve never been steered wrong. The secret is to trust your
fromager
and you’ll be amply rewarded for your loyalty.

Julia Child wrote in
My Life in France
, “If a tourist enters a food stall thinking he’s going to be cheated, the salesman will sense this and obligingly cheat him. But if a Frenchman senses that a visitor is delighted to be in his store, and takes a genuine interest in what is for sale, then he’ll just open up like a flower.”

When I brought guests on market tours, standing among the blooming flowers and salespeople, they’d inevitably ask, “Why don’t they give out samples? Wouldn’t they sell more cheese if they did?” They never understood my response: “They don’t care if they sell more cheese. It doesn’t matter.” It’s something I wouldn’t have understood before I moved here either. Now, of course, it makes perfect sense.

There is an exception to the rule, a lone
fromager
who stands out in front of his shop on the He Saint-Louis, offering nibbles. Even when the normally tranquil He Saint-Louis turns into a tourist stampede on Sunday afternoons, he’s out there with a bounteous
plateau de fromages
—
mon Dieu!
—giving them away! In an unscientific poll I conducted, nearly 100 percent of the tasters headed into the store to buy some cheese afterward. After I took a bite of an eyes-to-the-skies-good Comté he handed me, I went home with a slab, too.

Perhaps this is the wave of the future in Paris. After all,
le marketing
is a relatively new concept around here, but it’s starting to take off. “Yes! I speak Wall Street English!” say the young, smiling French people, pumping their fists in the air in the ads for a “business” language school, which are plastered across Paris. They may be reaching for the skies, but they’re not touching it. They know better than that. After all, they’re in Paris.

CAKE AUX LARDONS ET FROMAGE BLEU
BACON AND BLUE CHEESE CAKE
ONE 9-INCH (23-CM) LOAF CAKE

In my opinion, the French don’t do
“cuisine branchée,”
or trendy food, very well. For some reason, most of the experimental cuisine I’ve had in Paris comes off as precious or contrived. And don’t get me started on the subject of square plates with a line of sauce in one corner and a dusting of ground cumin on the other.

One trend I do like, though, is
le cake
(pronounced “kek”). A departure from their sweet American counterparts, these savory quick breads are welcome served as an hors d’oeuvre before dinner, thinly sliced, with glasses of cool Muscadet or a snappy Sauvignon Blanc. Midafternoon, I hack off a slice or two for
le snack.
At that hour, unless you live in Paris, a glass of wine is optional. But for me, after a long day, it’s sometimes
obligatoire.