The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (8 page)

Whenever I’m having a difficult day, my remedy is to treat myself to a small sack of
chouquettes
, which bakeries sell in little paper bags. Ten
chouquettes
per bag seems to be the magic number, which coincides with exactly how many I need to eat before I feel better.

When I stopped at Aux Péchés Normands, a bakery in the tenth arrondissement, I discovered
chouquettes
studded with chocolate chips, so I now toss a handful in mine whenever I make them at home. The only problem with making them myself is that I can’t make just ten, and I always end up eating the whole tray.

Pearl sugar is the key to the irresistible appeal of
chouquettes.
The large, irregular chunks of sugar provide a toothsome crunch that makes them as popular with adults as they are with children, who often get one as a reward from the baker when stopping by with their parents for the obligatory dinnertime baguette.

Shaping the mounds of dough is easiest to do with a spring-loaded ice cream scoop, although you can use two spoons or a pastry bag with a large, plain tip.

1. Position a rack in the upper third of the oven. Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat.
   

2. Heat the water along with the salt, sugar, and butter in a medium saucepan, stirring, until the butter is melted. Remove from heat and dump in all the flour at once. Stir rapidly until the mixture is smooth and pulls away from the sides of the pan.
   

3. Allow the dough to cool for 2 minutes, stirring occasionally to release the heat; then briskly beat in the eggs, one at a time, until the paste is smooth and shiny. Let cool
   completely
   to room temperature, then stir in the chocolate chips. If it’s even slightly warm, they’ll melt.
   

4. Drop mounds of dough, about 2 tablespoons each, on the baking sheet, evenly spaced.
   

5. Press pearl sugar crystals liberally over the top and sides of each mound. Use a lot and really press them in. Once the puffs expand, you’ll appreciate the extra effort (and sugar).
   

6. Bake the
   chouquettes
   for 35 minutes, or until puffed and well browned. Serve warm or at room temperature.
   

STORAGE:
Choquettes
are best eaten the same day they’re made. However, once cooled, they can be frozen in a zip-top freezer bag for up to one month. Defrost at room temperature, then warm briefly on a baking sheet in a moderate oven, until crisp.

NOTE:
Pearl sugar—large, white, irregularly shaped chunks of sugar (roughly the size of small peas)—is available from King Arthur Flour (see Resources, page 271) and in some Ikea stores. Scandinavian baking supply places carry it as well. Or substitute the largest sugar crystals you can find.

WHAT THEY SAY VERSUS WHAT THEY MEAN

When they say,
“Non,”
they mean, “Convince me.”

When they say, “We do not take returns,” they mean, “Convince me.”

When they say, “It’s not broken,” they mean, “Convince me.”

When they say, “You need a prescription for that,” they mean, “Convince me.”

When they say, “The restaurant is completely full,” they mean, “Convince me.”

When they say, “The restaurant is completely full,” they mean, “We already have enough Americans in here.”

When they say, “Do you mind if I smoke?” they mean, “Do you mind if I pout and scowl for the next five minutes if you say yes?”

When they say, “It does not exist,” they mean, “It does exist—just not for you.”

When they walk right into you on the street and say nothing, they mean, “I’m Parisian, and you’re not.”

When they say, “We don’t have change,” they mean, “I want a tip.”

When they say, “Do you want directions?” they mean, “I look forward to telling you what to do for the next five minutes.”

When they say, “I’d like to practice my English,” they mean, “For the next twenty minutes, I’d like to make you feel like a complete idiot while I speak picture-perfect English.”

When they say, “They’re up on the seventh floor,” they mean, “They’re right around the corner from where we’re standing.”

When they say, “We don’t have any more,” they mean, “We have lots more, but they’re in the back and I don’t feel like getting them.”

When they say, “It’s not my fault,” they mean, “It is my fault, but I’m not taking the blame.”

When they say, “That is not possible,” they mean, “It is possible, but not for you.”

When they say, “I am a Socialist,” they mean, “I’m not responsible for picking up my dog’s poop.”

When they say, “Your package hasn’t arrived,” they mean, “I’m just about to go on break. Come back Monday and wait in line for forty minutes again.”

When they say, “The fat’s the best part!” they mean, “I’m under forty.”

When they say, “The cheeses in France are the best in the world,” they mean, “We are indeed a superior culture.”

When they say, “We are tired of American culture,” they mean, “Please don’t show us Sharon Stone’s vagina again.”

GATEAU A L’ABSINTHE
ABSINTHE CAKE
ONE 9-INCH (23-CM) LOAF CAKE

If you’re a recipe writer, there are no better taste testers than the French. When I made this cake for the first time, I brought it to Luc-Santiago Rodriguez, who runs a tiny absinthe-only shop in the Marais, Le Vert d’Absinthe, which is certainly one of the most unusual shops in all of Paris—and perhaps the world.

He’s serious about absinthe, and the next day there was a message in my in-box from him telling me that the particular absinthe I used in the cake wasn’t the best, and I should try another one that he carries. Although absinthe is now flowing freely in America (see Resources, page 271), I’m not going to recommend any specific brand. If you come to Paris, stop in; the bottle of turf-green Duplais he suggested was just perfect. (He bristled when I told him I was going to advise readers who didn’t have absinthe on hand to use another anise-based liqueur. So if you go, don’t tell Luc-Santiago I told you that.)

I love this cake when it’s made with pistachio flour, also known as pistachio powder or meal, which gives it a lovely green color similar to
la fée verte
, the green fairy that allegedly one sees if too much absinthe is consumed. Almond powder or cornmeal can be substituted.

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Butter a 9-inch (23-cm) loaf pan, then line the bottom with parchment paper.
   

2. Crush the anise seeds using a mortar and pestle, or in a freezer bag with a hammer, until relatively fine. Whisk together the white flour, nut flour or cornmeal, baking powder, salt, and anise seeds. Set aside.
   

3. In the bowl of a standing electric mixer or by hand, beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, until completely incorporated.
   

4. Combine the milk and absinthe with a bit of zest.
   

5. Stir half of the dry ingredients into the butter mixture, then add the milk and absinthe.
   

6. By hand, stir in the other half of the dry ingredients until just smooth (do not overmix). Smooth the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 45 to 50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.
   

7. Remove the cake from the oven and let cool 30 minutes.
   

8. To glaze the cake with absinthe, use a toothpick and poke 50 holes in the cake. In a small bowl, gently stir the sugar and absinthe until just mixed, making sure the sugar doesn’t dissolve. (You can add a bit of orange zest here too if you like.)
   

9. Remove the cake from the pan, peel off the parchment paper, and set the cake on a cooling rack over a baking sheet.
   

10. Baste the cake with the absinthe glaze over the top and sides. Continue until all the glaze is used up.
    

If you want to go somewhere in Paris and sip absinthe, on one end of the scale is the Hôtel Royal Fromentin, up near Sacré Coeur in Montmarte, where artists got a cheap buzz before it was banned. If you’re looking for something more unusual, check out Cantada II, a goth bar with a menu of absinthe. But consider yourself warned: skip the
cuisine médiévale
—one bite and you’ll understand why people in the Middle Ages didn’t live very long.

LINES ARE FOR OTHER PEOPLE

In Paris, there are only two reasons you can cut in front of others waiting in line:

1. Because you’re old, frail, or have a physical disability that prevents you from standing for long periods of time.
   

2. Because you don’t think you should you have to wait in line behind anybody else.
   

Aside from our ability to form ourselves into nice straight lines in service-oriented situations, one of the most endearing traits of Americans is our ability to be self-deprecating
and laugh at our foibles. Late-night talk show hosts make fun of current events, celebrities, politicians, and American culture in general. Few are spared and everyone has a good laugh. It’s a cultural quirk I miss.

The French have a pretty good sense of humor, too, which may explain the popularity of Sharon Stone films here, but they tend to get a wee bit touchy when criticized by outsiders. And while they’re masters of the art of argument, when really trapped, sometimes they’ll say something so bizarre or illogical—that the danger from secondhand smoke is a myth, for instance, or that snipping off the ends of green beans is a simple way to remove radioactive matter—that there’s just no comeback possible. I’ve had lots of spirited discussions with locals defending the behavior of their fellow Parisians, but the only two things they can’t justify are the dog doo on the streets and line jumping.

I’m not touching the dog doo, but I’ve tried to understand why Parisians are such fanatical line jumpers. I’ve been told it’s “because we are a Latin culture.” Yet I’ve seen scant evidence of any other aspects of Latin culture inserting themselves into Parisian daily life, except for the occasional honcho peeing in a corner. And how Latin can they be if you can’t even find a decent-sized burrito around here?

Parisians are always in a big hurry, but are especially frantic if they’re behind you. They’re desperate to be where they rightfully feel they belong: in front of you. It’s a whole other story when you’re behind
them
, especially when it’s their turn: suddenly they seem to have all the time in the world.

Line cutting is rampant in Paris. So much so, that there’s a word for it:
risquillage
, or “taking the risk.” And believe me, anyone who has the temerity to slide in front of me is definitely taking a risk.

Although I lived for years in San Francisco and have seen many public displays of close, intimate physical behavior, I still find it disconcerting to have an unseen stranger pressed smack-dab up against my backside, gently nudging me forward, while I’m waiting patiently for stamps at
La Poste.
Or to have someone inching beside me in line at the supermarket
with the slim hope that they’re going to be able to wedge themselves within the five centimeters of space between me and the metal railing.

What are they possibly thinking? I doubt it’s because Parisians have trouble keeping their hands off me. The only possible way anyone could slide around me, though, would be by transforming himself into Elasto-Man. And being a San Franciscan, I’m also no stranger to seeing people contort themselves in unusual positions in public places either, but that’s one feat I’d be pretty shocked to see at my local Franprix supermarket.

In fairness to Parisians, five centimeters of space is equivalent to five
feet
of space in America. Leaving the slightest area open in front of you is seen as justification to slide right in there, so unless you’re standing genitals-to-backside to the person in front of you, you may as well put up a sign pointing in front of you that says, “Please, step ahead of me.”

There was a hilarious series of television ads for the newspaper
Le Parisien
, all portrayals of Parisians at their worst. (They’re definitely worth catching at video-sharing sites: search
“le parisien publicité.
”) In one, you hear the sound of a zipper going up from behind one of the automatic sidewalk toilets in Paris. A moment after, a well-dressed man emerges and steps over the stream he just created, which is leading right into the bottom of a woman’s market basket, now resting in a pool of
pipi.
He strides up next to her and her basket, gives her a brief nod of acknowledgment, then blithely crosses the street without a care.

Another presents two confused Japanese tourists wielding a guidebook, searching for the Eiffel Tower. A Parisian gently helps them out by pointing them back down the street they came from. They thank him, nodding and bowing profusely, before heading off. As they turn and depart, the helpful fellow turns and rounds the corner, the Eiffel Tower looming just above.

But my favorite is the scenario that takes place in a supermarket, where a little old lady is shuffling down the aisle toward the bored cashier, clutching a tiny bottle of water. Just as she’s about to put her small purchase on the belt, she’s broadsided by a harried woman who waves her away with a
weak smile of insincere apology (which is
such
a Parisian touch, brava to the actress on nailing that one!) before unloading the contents of her over-heaped grocery cart onto the belt.

Just when you think she’s done, as
la grand-mère
is about to set down her bottle, the woman waves her back as her husband barges in with another armload of things. The tagline for all of the ads:
“Le Parisien: il vaut mieux l’avoir en journal”
or “The Parisian: it’s better to have one as a newspaper.” Chalk one up for the Parisian sense of humor.

“Oh, were you waiting in line?” more than one person has said to me when I’ve busted them for trying to cut in. “No, not really,” I want to come back with, “I was just standing here in the supermarket with a basketful of items at the register, since I had nothing else to do today.”

One
dame
who stepped right in front of me at the busy Ladurée on the Champs-Elysées actually turned to me when I spoke up, and said, “Is there
really
a line?”

To clarify it for her, I pointed out the ten people in single file in front of me and the twenty people waiting behind. I don’t know how her definition of “a line” differs from mine, but I gave her plenty of time to ponder that as she skulked back to the end of it.

Many expats develop certain techniques to avoid strangers pressed up against them or trying to scoot in front. One that seems to be the most popular is to wear a small backpack. Those fall into the dreaded fanny pack category for me, so my chosen weapon to defend my turf around town is something that’s easier to wield: the shopping basket.

My basket is wider than I am, with an imposing handle that I can spin to block anyone coming at me from any angle. When navigating a busy market, I hold it in front of me as I walk, like the prow of a battleship, to clear the way. That doesn’t always work, as Parisians don’t like to move or back up for anyone, no matter what. So sometimes I hide my basket behind
me, then heave it forward at the last moment; the element of surprise gives them no time to plan a counteroffensive, and when the coast is suddenly clear, I make a break for it. It’s best used, though, when waiting in line, since it makes a movable barricade that I can manipulate and position, halting even the most tenacious
risquilleur
in his or her tracks.

Unless you’re pretty courageous or your French is exceptional, don’t try anger. I caused an incident when a woman abruptly cut in front of me in line at Tati, our low-end department store. When she refused to budge, I muttered
“salope”
which, although technically the same word Americans use for a female dog, in France, it’s the equivalent of the c-word for women. I suppose that’s the price I pay for an imperfect French vocabulary. As she let loose on me, loud enough for everyone on the same floor to hurry over to check out the commotion, I certainly learned a few other new, and not very nice, words that day.

I don’t recommend humor, either, which Parisians don’t seem to get. I once turned around and told the Frenchman of
un certain âge
, old enough to be my grandfather, who was nudging me forward from behind,
“Pardon?
But don’t you think you ought to buy me a drink first?” My humor was wasted on him, and he just blankly looked at me. Or maybe he was too cheap to spring for the drink.

Even more fun when people start to push me from behind, as they inevitably like to do. I’ll slowly start backing up…taking a little step…hesitating a moment…then taking another backward. There’s no sound more satisfying than listening to the grumbling of people collapsing together behind me like a squashed accordion. You can keep your visits to the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower—this is one of my favorite things to do in Paris!

Since wheeled shopping carts are the favored weapon of those fragile little old ladies (who you’ll find aren’t really so fragile if you happen to get in their way), Parisians have developed an instinctive fear of
le chariot de marché.
I’ve taken a cue from them and transformed mine into a demarcation line between me and others. If they want to cross it, they risk an inadvertent roll across the foot, followed by a
very
sincere
“Oh! Excusezmoi!”
But at least I have the courtesy to feign regret: those women would bulldoze a blind, legless invalid if he were in their path.

After living here a while, I didn’t see any reason why I should have to wait in line behind anyone else either. So I trained my eye on Romain, who’s the pro. I watched him at work, sliding between everyone waiting patiently for their onions or Camembert, and soon joined the ranks of
les risquilleurs
myself. I now cut in line with impunity with no regard for others. And can I tell you how much time I’ve saved? So with all the free time I seem to have now, there’s nothing to keep me from passing on my tips to others.

First off, you need to know
exactly
what you want to buy. When you’ve barged in front of others, it’s not the time for uncertainty. If you falter or hesitate or have a question, you’re sunk.

Knowing the vendor helps a lot. But being French, they’ll want to chat with you. Be prepared with a few quick words, but don’t go overboard. Here, the typical “Ça va?” which can translate into either “Hey!” or “How’s it going?” does nicely. The worst is if they ask you a question that requires a thoughtful response, like, “That ice cream you brought us last week was delicious. How did you make it?” or “Can you move your basket since it’s blocking all the others?”