The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (17 page)

My most unnerving mangling of the French language was at Sur les Quais, a fantastic
épicerie
, where I was explaining to out-of-towners the different flavors of jam made by Christine Ferber, a famed
confiseuse.
(Yes, there’s a gender-specific word for a female who specializes in cooking sugar.)

I was translating the lineup of flavors for each
pot de conserve
, to the best of my abilities, for someone. (An empty jar is
un bocal
, but putting jam into it turns it into
un pot.
) When I mentioned there were jars of red currant jam,
confiture de groseilles
, my guest perked up, “Oh yes! That’s what I’d like.”

So I asked the salesclerk for a jar of
confiture de groseilles
, which is pronounced “gro-zay.” But with my less-than-stellar command of the language, I asked for
“confiture de grosses selles”
(which I pronounced as “gross sells”). The saleswoman’s jaw nearly hit the counter: I’d ordered turd jam … make that big-turd jam.

At this point, I realized that I needed to seek professional help, an assessment that salesclerk probably shared, and enrolled in a French class.

Paris is rife with schools that advertise in the freebie expat papers distributed around town, promising to help us all “learn French—the easy way!” Flip through the pages or search the Internet and you’ll find everything
thing from classes that meet in a park where the admissions procedure consists of “finding the guy with the bowler hat” to another that lures potential pupils with an ad showing two ruby-red lips pursed in an undeniably French manner, poised and ready to give pleasure to the Eiffel Tower.

I wasn’t sure that was the kind of French I needed to learn—maybe later. Right now, I needed to get serious, and I chose a school located up near Père Lachaise cemetery, affiliated with the Ministry of Culture. It promised supervision
“rigoureuse,”
and for a world-class
procrastinateur
like me, they were speaking my language.

As I opened the creaking door of the school, I was confident I was on my way to becoming a true Parisian, excited by the possibility of joining an international coterie of expats and locals engaged in lively debates on Proust and Existentialism, all the while mastering the merits of the
plus-que-parfait de l’lndicatif over
the
plus-que-parfait du subjonctif.

I stepped into a grand courtyard jam-packed with Korean teenagers playing Ping-Pong. Most of them were sucking on rank-smelling Gauloises, furiously texting messages back and forth between friends standing a few feet away, and gulping inky vending-machine coffee from plastic cups. This was not the intellectual environment I had envisioned.

The upside was that I developed my first Parisian crush
d’amour
on a special someone. It was Laurent, my French teacher. He wasn’t anything particularly special, but like the best French lovers, he was patient and careful, tending to my needs. He taught me how to wrap my lips around complex verbs, and most of all, took pity on me for all my embarrassing Americanisms.

But like most things in Paris, just when you think you’ve got it all figured out and things are going smoothly, something happens and you’re thrown for a loop: one day, in walked a new teacher and
poof
, dreamy Laurent was gone. Our new professor strutted through the door, hugely muscled, looking like a living, breathing Michelin man—as
gonflé
as those puffy breads at La Brioche d’Or. For once, I can aptly apply the cliché: both resembled pastries on steroids.

Unlike lovely Laurent, this
mec
didn’t care how much any of us were struggling, and as the days progressed, I was sure he was determined to
belittle me—which frankly, wasn’t all that much of a challenge—as much as possible in front of my classmates.

On his first day, I made the common mistake most Anglophones make and pronounced every letter of every word: if there’s a letter there, it just seems logical to pronounce it. I’m sorry!

For that infraction, Monsieur No-Neck came strutting over to where I was sitting, stopped in front of me with his hands curled into tight fists by his side, and proceeded to shout at me for a full five minutes in front of the class. My Korean classmates were cringing in their seats, clutching their electronic translators in fear of this Gallic Godzilla, breathing his fiery wrath on me.

And that, I vowed, would be my last French class there. I later ran into one of my classmates, who told me shortly thereafter the professor walked over to the wall and punched his fist right through it. “Yikes, that could’ve been me,” I thought to myself. It probably would have been, had I stayed.

My eagerness and enthusiasm for learning French was diminishing rapidly, yet I did dabble in some of the other schools around Paris. As I went from one school to the next, however, I soon became sympathetic to the urge to punch someone out: in the classes I attended, there was always one
sac à douche
whom I dubbed “the corrector.” No matter what their skill level in French was, whether or not their comprehension was any better than mine (it was usually worse), these people felt they were doing me a favor by constantly correcting me when I spoke up.

I got to the point where I could spot “the corrector” types the moment I began a new class, and could see them out of the corner of my eye practically wetting themselves in anticipation that I’d make a mistake so they could chime in with the right answer. No matter how hard I tried to block them from my peripheral vision, I could see them almost leaping out of their seats, their heads volleying back and forth, from me to the teacher, as if watching a tennis match at Roland Garros, hoping,
praying
, that I’d make a mistake so they could fill the enormous gap in my intelligence with their words of wisdom.

So before I put my fist through something, or someone, I gave up on French classes altogether and decided my best teachers were going to be the Parisians themselves—whether they liked it or not. It’s a task not all of them seem to appreciate very much.

My greatest gaffe in French at a social event occurred at a chic dinner party with people I didn’t know. I had just returned from a trip to Italy and was describing how terrific it was. I’d climbed high in the mountains of Piedmont to see Oropa, the magnificently situated sanctuary famous for its Madonna Nera, a black Virgin Mary who inspires cultlike worshippers. It’s an inspiring spot, no matter what your faith, and pilgrims and tourists flock there from all over the world to head up the winding mountain road, then up a formidable number of stairs to see her. (The hot chocolate and pastries they serve in the adjacent
caffè
are additional incentive to make the trek, too.)

Hoping to impress everyone with my highly cultured and richly detailed description of the lovely lady herself, I contributed my account: “Up in the mountains in Italy,
il y a une verge noir. C’est magnifique!
People come from all over the world to worship it. They kneel before it and pray to it.”

As I’m talking, rambling on and on and on in my impeccable French, I notice everyone looking uncomfortable and glancing around at one another, taking a renewed interest in what’s on their plate, rather than what’s coming out of my mouth. But like a high-speed TGV train, I keep going, picking up speed: “You drive up this long, winding road and when you open the door, you see it and it’s really, truly
incroyable.
It’s surely one of the most famous
verges
in the world.”

I fail to notice anyone getting as worked up as me about this icon, until Romain leans over, “Don’t you mean the
Vierge Noire
, the Black
Virgin?”

“Uh, yes. Isn’t that what I was talking about?”

“Daveed, a
verge
is a penis.”

I know my version of the story would have received a better reception in different company, but perhaps I was a bit hasty in dropping out of French school. I’m just happy he stopped me before I went on about all the pictures I’d taken of it, from every conceivable angle.

I’m still struggling with some of the facets of the language that are foreign to
les anglophones.
Like the two-tiered system of
tu
and
vous
, depending on how formal you need to be (what happened to
égalité?
), and
la concordance
, the insidious way that the gender of the subject changes the spelling and pronunciation of not only the noun, but the adjective and verb as well. It’s no wonder even French businessmen and women are shipped off to schools to improve their French.

Just like me, a lot of French people have atrocious spelling, and they cover it up with magnificent, cursive handwriting, which you’ll recognize if you’ve ever tried to decipher a handwritten café menu scribbled on a blackboard. I’ve even corrected the spelling of some French people, who take it in stride. So I don’t feel so bad when I make an error myself.

Needless to say, I spend a lot of time laughing, and getting laughed at. But I’ve made a truce with the French and their language: that neither of us fully understands the other, and neither of us probably ever will.

DINDE BRAISEE AU BEAUJOLAIS NOUVEAU ET AUX PRUNEAUX
BRAISED TURKEY IN BEAUJOLAIS NOUVEAU WITH PRUNES
MAKES 4 SERVINGS

I struggled for quite some time to get my
volailler
, Catherine, to understand me when I wanted turkey: I would pronounce
dinde
(“dand”), as “din-dee.” Which may sound logical to those of us who believe that letters are there for a reason.

Another thing that’s hard to comprehend is the big deal made over Beaujolais
Nouveau. Each November, specifically the third Thursday of the month, Beaujolais Nouveau is released across France and the rest of the world. There’s lots of clever marketing meant to spread excitement among Parisians, who don’t fall for the hype and remain a bit blasé about quaffing this young wine.

I share their disdain, but fruity Beaujolais Nouveau does make a wonderful cooking wine; its robust flavor holds up well when braising turkey thighs,
les cuisses de dinde.
If unavailable, substitute another fruity red, such as Brouilly, Merlot, or Pinot Noir.

The French rarely pit prunes, or
pruneaux
(not be confused with
prunes
, which are not prunes, but fresh plums), perhaps due to the lack of lawsuits, but also because the pits are said to add a bit of flavor. You may wish to alert any non-French guests if serving prunes with pits
à la française
, or just use pitted ones.

1. To prepare the prunes, put the fruit in a small saucepan along with the Beaujolais, ½ cup (125 ml) water, honey, orange zest, and thyme. Bring to a low boil and let simmer for 2 minutes. Cover, remove from heat, and set aside to plump. (Prunes can be cooked up to 5 days ahead and refrigerated.)
   

2. To braise the turkey, rinse the turkey pieces and wipe them dry. Heat the olive oil in a Dutch oven or large covered casserole. Add the turkey, season with salt and pepper, and cook, turning the parts only occasionally so they get nicely browned all over.
   

3. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 325°F (160°C).
   

4. Remove the turkey from the pot and discard the oil. Return the turkey pieces to the pot and add the Beaujolais, stock, thyme, and bay leaf. Cover the pot and cook for 2 hours, turning the turkey a couple of times during braising.
   

5. Transfer the turkey to a plate or bowl, then simmer the liquid on the stovetop until reduced by half. In the meantime, pull the meat off the bones, trying to keep it in large chunks. Drain the prunes and discard the orange peel and thyme.
   

6. Once the liquid is reduced, return the turkey meat to the pot along with the onions and prunes to warm them thoroughly. Garnish with a handful of parsley.