Ms. Glaze's Pommes d'Amour

A Parisian Thanksgiving

It's November 27th, 2003. The fourth Thursday of the month. I'm living in Paris and will be for the next five years. And I am freaking out right now and drinking Champagne like it's Coca-Cola.

In fact I'm drinking American Champagne from California that I have had shipped over. It's J Champagne from Healdsburg – special stuff. At this rate I'm the only one who's going to find it special.

This is my first American feast that I am hosting for a large group of ex-pats. My husband is travelling and will be home any minute from Germany. For the first time in our marriage I get to cook Thanksgiving dinner without begrudgingly turning it over to one of our families. We all want turkey more than anything in the world because it symbolizes America. Where once this holiday was just an excuse to get stuffed and wasted and pass out on the couch, now it has meaning: We Are Americans & We Must Eat Turkey & Have Pumpkin Pie or Die!

Seriously, lives depend on it. And specifically mine because the thought of letting down a hungry pack of ex-pats salivating at the bit for some good ol' fashioned American grub is like telling French peasants to eat cake or brioche or whatever Marie Antoinette said to get her head cut off. 

And, I'm attending Le Cordon Bleu so the bar is high and so is the talk around town – if you know what I mean? Expats gossip shamelessly. 

Now that I have a French food vocabulary from my prestigious Le Cordon Bleu education I can tell the butcher what I would like and I can actually read his sign outside asking Les Americains to order their dinde (turkey) early this year. I live in the 17th arroindissment about three blocks from L'Arc de Triumph and Les Champ-Élysées and there are many American dignitaries and political people in this area. Shop keepers have caught on to zheez crahzy Americain 'oliday, 'ow do you say eet? Tanx-gee-veeng?!?

The French hardly eat turkey. A year later when I start cooking at Guy Savoy, I serve it weekly for family meal. Family meal mostly consists of offal and butcher cuts that are cheap: lamb brains, boudin noir, tongue, etc. so one can see where dinde falls in the French meat hierarchy. 

Just to be safe, I order my turkey three weeks in advance.

The week beforehand is spent running around Paris in search of American products. In the Marais, the orthodox Jewish and gay quartier (where else can you get the most amazing falafel ever, then drink champagne under the rainbow flag, then shop in cutting edge designer stores? Love it!) I find the Thanksgiving store. Yes, it is really named the Thanksgiving Store, and it is a total ripoff. But when you're in the eye of the storm, price is no object. 

A bag of pecans for 6 euros? Great. I'll take 4 please. The euros is trading 1:2 or there abouts at this time. I think $48 is a steal for 4 bags of nuts. I pick up Libby's pumpkin pack, condensed milk, Marshmello cream just because they have it, cranberry jelly, and Peppridge Farm bread crumbs for stuffing mix. Oh, and a pie pan because pumpkin tart is not the same as pumpkin pie. In just the same way that pumpkin cheesecake will never truly sub out pumpkin pie. It just doesn't cut it. No matter what, it just doesn't. 

I make my way back on le Metro to my rather conservative quartier and climb the five split level flights of stairs to my gorgeous bourgeois apartment. The days of driving to and from a supermarket and shlepping groceries easily across the threshold to my kitchen counter as opposed to up a 16th century skyscraper are long gone but my calves are looking good and I'm beginning to understand how French women stay toned.

Finally turkey day is here! I am psyched! I have my pecans, my pumpkin pack, my cranberry jelly (yuck but whatevs I can't find the fresh berries), my pie pan, various winter veggies, and all I need now is to pick up my turkey. But before I can saunter down my two hundred stair steps, I get a call from a classmate:

"Amy, some one said that you have pecans. Do you? Do you have extra? Can I buy some from you? I just need enough for one pie..."

Seriously, I'm like a drug dealer now.

"Yeah, I got some. I can give you one bag." I say recluctantly because pecan pie can be finicky to make and I really like it and only eat it on Tanx-geev-eeng. 

"I'll pay you double, I just have these ex-pats coming over for dinner and..."

"Yeah, don't worry, I got you covered."

"I promise I'll get you back."

We make the exchange at my apartment within the hour and I can see her expression of desire mixed with jealousy as she glances over my assortment of American canned products and various American wines. And make no mistsake about it, Thanksgiving in Paris is big business and all the ex-pat stores sell out of the Americana foods quickly. I have also set the table with American linens from Williams-Sonoma and this adds to her contained resentment. Feeling guilty in my pilgrim decadence I fork over another bag of pecans.  

When I do Thanksgiving, I do thankgiving. I don't care what country I'm in and I have spent one third of my life living outside America. I've lived in London, Ireland, India and now Paris and I know darn well Thanksgiving is one of the hardest holidays to not celebrate. Christmas or Hannukka you can do just about anywhere – even India – but not Thanksgiving. I brought these linens with me when I first arrived in Paris and the wine too and my good old out of print edition of Joy of Cooking for authentic holiday recipes.

I walk my classmate out the door and make a dash for the butcher shoppe and my turkey. My butcher pulls out a bird wrapped in paper and my mouth drops. You call this is a turkey?

C'est quoi, monsieur? Mon dinde? (What's that, my turkey?)

Buh qui cherie, tu es Americain non? (Yes dear, you're American no?)

Qui, mais il est trop petit! Les dinde Americain sont gros! (Yes, but it is too small! The American turkeys are big!)

The butcher laughs and tells me how he has heard about these huge American birds. He reminds me that I wouldn't be able to fit a bird that size in my oven. Most French ovens are small because most French kitchens are tiny. Yet French men and women cook up miraculous meals without the gargantuan kitchens we find so necessary in the States. 

Deflated, I take my bird home. How is this tiny poor thing going to feed everybody? I should have bought two. I didn't even ask what size the bird was because I was just happy to be able to get one and no one asked me – for that matter – what size I wanted or how many people I was cooking for! 

It is 2P.M and guests are arriving in 2 hours. We have planned an early dinner just like in the States. The eating and drinking will go on all night without a doubt. I have pecan and pumpkin pies cooling on the counter, yams cooking on the stove top, brussel sprouts ready to roast, turkey stock reducing for extra turkey gravy, bird roasting, stuffing waiting to be baked after bird because there's no room in the oven, potatoes boiling, carrots simmering in tarragon butter, heater going strong because it's freezing cold outside...

...and the electricty dies. 

It just cuts out. I flip back on the circuits and they flip back off. I pop open a bottle of J Champagne and start drinking. Liquid courage. What am I going to do? I call my French girlfriend Marine who will be joining us for dinner. "Amy, c'est normal, you have too many burners on, you cannot use all that electricity in a Parisian kitchen. Can you cook the turkey at your neighbor's house?" 

I knock on my neighbor's door and they are mysteriously silent even though I can see lights on. Perhaps they have a six sense about this Holiday? And then the inspiration dawns on me: take the turkey back to the butcher and see if he will stick it on his enormous floor to ceiling rotisserie. 

My butcher is confused at first when I try to explain what I want him to do. He thinks I am trying to return the turkey after I have already started to cook it. My French fails to transcend language and culture boundaries. So I do what any self respecting American would: I motion for him to follow me to the rotisserie and I mime bird on skewer turning around and around. The butcher laughs. I knew those years of acting school would pay off somehow. 

He puts it on the skewer and asks if I want farce inside the bird. This is stuffing. I tell him no thank you but register the idea for next year. I'm not a big fan of the French version of stuffing, it's too dense with too many unidentifiable mixed meats, like ham and sausage. And it tends to come out of the bird like an unbreakable football. I think this is because Americans normally toast the breadcrumbs first or dry them out and they don't. 

I run back through the snow that is now falling heavily but soft and silent and sprint up to my apartment. My breath is cold and steams the air as I leap stairs two at a time. My apartment is still blistering hot and I tear off my hat, gloves, and jacket that are now wet from snowflakes melting.

Et voilà, my electricity decides it wants to come back on and stay on once I flip the switches. I pop the stuffing in the oven, and then brussel sprouts, mash the potatoes, candy the yams, reduce the turkey stock. But wait! What will I do about the gravy? Zoot Alors (shit!)! That's my favorite part! You can't have turkey without gravy!

Guests arrive, the remainder of the champagne is poured, and I pop open oysters on the half shell for hors d'oeuvres and pass smoked salmon & caviar on blinis. Putting my wet winter gear back on I race – a little tipsy – down the stairs and up the street to my butcher. 

Wow, my turkey is sexy. Especially compared with the small little poulets next to it. It's perfectly cooked and glistening a warm reddish chestnut brown color that only turkey's can when roasted. He packages it for me, and sends me home with two huge jars of jus. 

How did he know I would need that so badly for my gravy? And why even bother with the gravy when there is rich salty jus from the forty birds he's been rotissering. I love, love, love that drain tray that catches all the good stuff.

I race back with my bird, this time taking the stairs more cautiously with my precious cargo underarm, and serve up the most amazing turkey I've ever had. Forget the brine, or the deep fryer, or the barbecue; turkey on the rotisserie is succulent with crispy skin and breast meat that doesn't taste like sawdust.  

And size does matter. The smaller the better. Next year I will order two turkeys.

In my family we have a tradition that before we feast upon the foods we take hands and say one thing we are thankful for. I am still relatively new to Paris and not missing home just yet, but I am grateful for my family and friends and especially for my butcher. My ex-pat friends who have been living in Paris, some for over ten years, choke up during their turn to share what they are grateful for. When you are living far from home, the thoughts of what it means to be American come flooding back unexpectedly with a wave of patriotism not previously unearthed.

We dig in, drink heartily, pig out on pie, and retire to the living room for after diner drinks, music, laughter, and dancing.  

Next year my butcher places a sign outside his shop reminding Americans to order turkeys early and advertising that he will rotisserie the birds for a small extra charge. Yes, some things I am very thankful for. 

 

Otis the Pup & Chicken Processing

Time to do some weeding. This blog is seriously overgrown.

After two years of barely having enough time to respond to email let alone cleanse the ridiculous spam from my inbox, I'm back. Refreshed. Renewed. And seriously annoyed that I have let Viagra Online take over my blog.

Even my namesake website address, Msglaze.com, which I failed to renew has been poached. Why would anyone use my name for a Japanese travel site? And a Russian site has been copying my content and won't remove my plageurized posts. Ha-rumph! And double shaking fists!!!

Regardless. Today is a big day at Echo Valley Farm. And I have not slept.

My nightmares have been disturbing. I wake in the middle of the night paralyzed with fear and force myself to move again. My throat is tight and no scream could escape even if life depended on it. After what feels like an eternity of frozen hell, I crawl out of bed and lock up my sweet little cottage just in case there is anyone on this enchanted farm that feels like making my fears a reality.

6A.M. comes around much sooner than expected. Man, doesn't it always?

Voici! The New Executive Chef at Michel Rostang in Paris

Introducing Nicholas Beaumann, the new Executive Chef at the two Michelin star restaurant Michel Rostang in Paris!  

Nicholas did his apprenticeship at Michel Rostang after culinary school and worked his way up through the brigade to Chef de Parti. After five years, he left to take the position of sous chef at Le Meurice, under Executive Chef Yannik Alleno, and helped drive the team to 3 Michelin Star success. 

I met Chef Beaumann during his tenure at Le Meurice five years ago. And if rumors in the Parisian cooking world hold true, he was highly regarded then for his consistency in leadership and dedication to perfection. He's a bit of a whip cracker, but a good one.

Now he is back at Michel Rostang as the Executive chef, and I am sure he will be reaching for a third Michelin star in the near future. 

 What a small world the Michelin star restaurant business is. Everyone knows everyone... 

I sit down to dine at Michele Rostang and instantly I'm treated like an old friend. Bruno, The Maître D, and Alain, the Chef Sommelier, who I've met only a few times in the past keep me company asking about my exerience at Le Bernardin in NYC. 

How's Maguy Le Coz? (the owner of Le Bernardin). Is there a man named Tommy there? He works on the floor? We remember Le Bernardin when it was in Paris! (This was over 20 years ago and once located in the space that is now Guy Savoy). Are you coming back to live in Paris? (No, wish I was). Work at Guy Savoy peut-être? (No, don't think I could handle the long hours again or the double taxation).

Guy Savoy, the restaurant I cooked at in Paris is located just a few blocks away from restaurant Michele Rostang in the 17th arrondisement close to the L'Arc de Triumph and the Champs Élysées. The two restaurants share clientele, a similar style of cuisine (traditional yet modern), and often cooks jump ship from one to the other. It's a good relationship and one that has spanned 20 years.

This small world does have it's perks. The Maître D takes me with him to another table to demonstrate how the 'duck press' works. (I just asked to see it, I didn't ask to be part of the table-side presentation.)

 "Are you sure they won't mind? I don't want to disrupt their dinner."

"Oh don't worry, they won't mind, they're regulars, come on, I'll show you how to press a duck, it will be fun!"

I can't imagine being a regular at any Michelin star restaurant, but follow along for the ride. Bruno expertly cuts the legs off the duck and then the breasts. He places them to one side. 

"Amy, you cook the duck rare, very rare. See? The breast is almost bleu."

I watch from the side feeling slightly self-concious that I have now been included in the entertainment. But at the same time realize that this little teaching demonstration is something special. 

He takes the bones and the legs and put them expertly in a silver canister. Then loads the canister inside a very large silver hand cranked press that is decorated with ornate silver ducks.

  "Now watch. You must come over on this side to see. I will turn the press, and the blood of the duck will run out of the spout. I add it to this duck jus here and the blood thickens the sauce turning it a rich dark brown color."

It's beautiful and a little bizarre at the same time. What Bruno is really doing is crushing bones in a very expensive bone-crusher machine. I watch in amazement at this lost art of table side presentation. Servers in France go to school to learn how to do this sort thing. It is a career – a profession! – not a temporary job to make a few tips in between Broadway musicals auditions.

The Maître D whisks his mixture over a low burning flame. As the blood heats up it acts as a thickener turning the thin duck jus into a velvety sauce thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. Blood, as we all know, coagulates. 

He pours the chocolate colored sauce onto a large porcelain platter that rests above silver bunsen burners, not exactly camping material. Next, he returns to the breasts and slices off extra thin cutlets placing them directly into the sauce

"You see, the sauce will cook the duck just a little more. If you cook the sauce too much over the heat it will separate because of the blood. You must pay attention here. It's a strong tasting dish, but a good one."

  I have tasted several blood sauces in my Parisian past and made plenty at Le Cordon Bleu. For me they are normally a little too rich for my taste. And blood does have a special metalic taste. Nonetheless, the platter is gorgeous with bright red cutlets of duck breast floating in the earthy sauce. A server whisks away the platter to serve immediately. 

I am escorted back to my table which faces the kitchen so I can watch all the action of the evening. Chef Beaumann has prepared a truffle menu that is truly inspired. I wasn't presented with a menu upon arrival, just a glass of champagne and a huge basket of truffles to ogle over! Some one pinch me please?!?!  

  I love truffles, but in many cases truffle menus can be somewhat redundant with the same flavors repeated. Not so in this case. 

The menu begins with a special amuse bouche: 1/4"-thick slices of black truffles sandwiched in between two pieces of pain de compagne (country bread). The sandwiches are toasted in truffle butter and cut into bite size fingers. Simple yes, but totally decadent. 

Actually, I'm lying, the amuse bouche is not so easy to prepare and it must be assembled days in advance to allow the truffles to fully permeate the bread and butter. But the idea is easy enough and the ingredients, although expensive, are few.

My two favorite courses of the evening are the seabass and pigeon. The fish is cooked sous vide (in a water bath at low temperature with a thermo circulator that holds the temerparture steady) garnished with thinly sliced chestnuts, perfectly cut triangles of leeks, and a frothy truffle infused seashell foam.

 But the real winner is the last course: pigeon stuffed with foie gras and black truffles under the skin, cooked sous vide until perfectly tender and then pan roasted to sear the skin crisp. The plate is garnished minimally with caramelized salsify. A perfect pairing for the pigeon. 

  Caramelizing (glazing) vegetables is an art. Too cooked and the vegetables fall apart, too much butter and the lacquer separates, too much sugar and the flavor is ruined.

The pigeon jus is just what jus is supposed to be: pure. There is no roux, no flour, no butter – just pigeon jus reduced for a long time until it has the consistency of oil. I know from experience, this is time consuming. We're talking hours of reduction here.

The wine pairings are fantastic, and by my last course I'm wondering why I'm still not totally wasted. This little wine habit I've developed has definitely got to be reined in. I have tasted (and finished, bien sûr!) five glasses of wine. Starting with a glass of lively Gimonnet Blanc de Blanc Premier Cru Champagne 2002 and ending with an earthy Nuit St. Georges Premier Cru Vaucrains 2003. 

But the most exciting wine of the evening for me is the golden yellow Beaucastel Blanc 2005, paired with the seabass. I absolutely adore white Chateauneuf du Pape Blanc and it is so difficult to find in the U.S. 

If you've never tried a white Chateauneuf du Pape, I suggest you do. It has viognier grape blended with 12-13 other obscure white varietals. It's sexy with a nose of ripe melon, pear, peach and loads of minerality. A heavier white for sure, compared to other French whites.

The desserts start rolling in and Chef Beaumann takes a break from the kitchen and joins me at the table while the rest of his kitchen staff is scrubbing down the stainless steel.

I sip a 6th glass of wine, a nicely acidic Gewurztraminer Grand Cru Furstentum 2005, while inhaling an apple-truffle pastry as he fills me in on his last few years: his recent marriage (Congrats! It's about time!), his beautiful son (adorable!), his bid to be the next M.O.F (scrreeeeech – wait whuuuuut????). 

  For those not familliar with the title of M.O.F. it stands for Meillure Ouvrier de France and it is a craftsmen competition held every three years in France. To win this title for cuisine is like winning an Emmy. Every chef that makes the grade gets to wear (forever) a special chef's jacket that has a collar made of red, white, and bleu – the French flag. It is an honor hard won.  

The sommelier refills my wine glass and now I'm headed straight to hell, because I'm still not even close to tipsy. I finish it, of course, then slurp down an espresso with little cakes and cookies.  

  Normally I would never get this kind of attention, but it's a slow Monday night. For the most part restaurants in Paris are closed Sunday and Monday and folks generally stay home. And I think it's fun for the staff to treat a cook to 'the other side' once and awhile. I know we do it at Guy Savoy and at Le Bernardin.  

Chef Beaumann takes me back to the kitchen to meet some of the staff and I am happily surprised to see an equal number of female to male cooks. I recognize the female Chef de Viande (meat chef) as the wife of the Sommelier at Guy Savoy (small world, small world) and we exchange greetings before she goes back to scrubbing.

"Chef Beaumann, you have so many women in the kitchen!"

"I knew you would like that." He laughs.

And just when I think the evening can't get any better the daughter of Michel Rostang, Caroline, who is the director of the restaurant introduces herself. Another female in the kitchen! I couldn't be happier.

 I float out the front door (glass slippers and all) a little high on the whole experience. The frosty winter Parisian air hits my lungs and my thin silky dress instantly feels like cheesecloth. The wine has no doubt warmed my core and my spirits or I'd be a five foot five ice cube. 

I catch a taxi, replay the photos on my camera during the drive home, and wonder if I'll ever have another dinner quite like this one... 

Restaurant Michel Rostang

20 rue Rennequin, Paris, 75017

+33 1 47 63 40 77

Festival of Pain

It wasn't really the Festival of Pain but the Festival de Pain (festival of bread). But I still find it curious that the word 'pain', pronounced 'pahn' in French, can have two completely different meanings in two different languages.

Bare with me as I attempt to establish a connection between the two.

I was in pain after I walked into the tented makeshift bakery just outside Notre Dame to witness the festival of French bread bakers, because the smell of freshly baked pain hit my stomach and instantly rendered me starving.

This hunger pain, turned to physical pain as hundreds of people pushed themselves up to the counters eager to snatch up free samples. (In fact, I still have a very large black bruise on my arm). Nonetheless, in need of pain, I managed to squeak up to the front of one counter and my effort was repaid with a whole free piping hot baguette.

No pain no gain. Or rather: no gain no pain.

The artistry that went into making some of these loaves must have been painstakingly difficult. I mean, look at the ribbons and detail work made of just water and flour! Who knew such creativity was possible?

Perhaps these bakers should be called painters instead?

And then of course there's the historical connection between pain and pain, The French Revolution, that left many nobles headless because of their failure to aid the starving working class. Those crabby peasants.

We all know that Marie Antoinette's famous quote, "Let them eat cake" was really not in reference to a Betty Crocker gâteau but rather a tasty type of French bread that is cake-like, called brioche.

In theory the Queen's statement, "Qu'ils mangent de la brioche" was really a good suggestion. Brioche is higher in nutritional value containing an outrageous amount of butter and egg yolks. In those days fancy breads were sold at higher prices and normal bread was price fixed (and still is to some degree).

The Queen's idea to make brioche the same price as bread so the working class could eat well was probably better intended than history has suggested. Nonetheless, if you can't buy bread at any price, fixed or not, heads are going to roll.

My head went happily back to my apartment munching my free hot baguette. Thinking, all the way home, of the significance one food item could have in a country's history: the prestige and honor of the profession of bread baking today and the suffering and bloodshed that lack of the product has caused.

France has taken great pains to achieve it's status as 'best bread in world' and I can't think of a country more deserving of this title, all things considered.

Technorati Tags: bread, brioche, french

French Life: Laverie Automatique Part IV

Why do I have such bad laundry karma? Is there a God I can pray to that will take away my washing problems? Is it symbolic of my life? Is the world trying to tell me something?

If you have followed my laverie automatique stories from the past (aka: As The World Spins) you will remember that my experiences are often plagued with kids who smear dog doo around the floors, coin machines that eat twenty euro bills, French housewives who snap up all the dryers with their wet house-washed laundry, and random drunk cooks who hang out on their midday breaks.

But I moved from the bourgeois 17th arrondissement to the boisterous 5th arrondissement and I thought things would be different.

Things were different the first couple of times.

Okay, so I have to walk five blocks to my laundromat because the two in my hood are closed (Why? Wouldn't you think an area filled with tourists and Sorbonne students would warrant an array of places to wash clothes?) But still, my new laverie automatique is clean, has a plethora of dryers, and never eats my change.

Today the bubble burst. I took my laundry over to my sparkling clean laundromat, popped my clothes in, and left to do some shopping. When I came back one machine had finished and the other was overflowing with suds everywhere. My machine had turned into Mount Everest with a large white snow peak that bubbled up from the soap dispenser on the top.

Why me?

Both my machines were the same type and on the same cycle and they were started within seconds of each other. I asked a nice man (and the only other person in the place) what I could do, because the doors of the machines lock and you can't get your stuff out unless the caretaker comes to physically unlock them with a key. Furthermore you can't even stop the cycle. There's no emergency breaks.

He told me to switch the cycle button, which I did. Immediately all the suds and Mount Everst evacuated.

Much relief.

As my other load of laundry was drying I noticed that my wash machine was still stuck on one cycle. It was supposed to be a rinse cycle, but there was no water. So my chef's jackets were just flopping around endlessly from top to bottom, white arms waving around for rescue.

I asked the man again what I could do and if he could call the help number for me. But then he told me, the problem is that the water had been cut.

Why had I not noticed the men right outside working down in the manhole? He then pointed out to a paper on the door that said the water would be off until 6PM at night.

"But how long has your machine been running?"

"Une heure. Mais je pense que elle travaille bien. Elle est presque finie" (One hour, But I think she works well, she's almost finished)

"Normalement le cycle prend 45 minutes." (But normally the cycle is 45 minutes.)

He looked to his watch and then back at his machine.

I asked him when the paper on the door had gone up and he replied that they had posted it twenty minutes ago. Great, so while I was out enjoying my ONLY day off this week, the Parisian water department snuck in and posted their little incognito sign and dropped into the bowels of France to check out the drainage problems.

I only hoped that l'eau de toliette had not been washing my clothes all day.

We called the help number on the wall and they informed us that they had no workers available to help today. So then my new friend came up with an ingenious plan. He told me that maybe if I went outside and smiled and talked with the head water dude, that they might have our water back on.

"Plaisantez-vous?" (you joke?) I asked.

"Non." He replied and gave a helpless shrug.

So I did, I went outside and smiled and apologized for my bad French and asked what the situation was with our water. The head water dude told me that they were working on it. And, indeed they were. I peered down to see three men suspended with ropes and little headlights attached to their hard helmets.

I then lied and told him (in French):

"I have a problem, I'm a cook, and I have all my jackets in the washing machine and it won't stop and I can't unlock the door. I think without the water the cycle won't stop and I cook in two hours and I have nothing to wear."

He came in to the laverie automatique to examine the situation and look at my sad jackets waving endlessly for mercy. My new friend and the water boss had a quiet serious man conversation for five minutes and then the boss left to shout down into the manhole.

Twenty minutes later our water was back on and all the guys in the manhole came up to say "bonjour". We graciously thanked them over and over again. They packed up and moved on to the next water problem.

So all that's wrong is right again. And before you go thinking that I'm terrible for using female persausion in such a contrived way, think about working for 12-14 hours a day, six days a week, and then having to spend six hours at the laundromat on your one day off.

Not only that, but all the bistros and cafe's on the street could re-open with water, so really I was helping out the whole area. (My halo and wings are glowing can you tell?)

In fact, aside from being perturbed about my laundry taking three hours, the chivalry of the French water department truly made my day. They were so sweet and helpful and I will always have a special place in my heart for the water depatment of Paris.

Oh, and just as my second load of laundry was finished drying and my new friend's laundry too, the caretaker called back to say they would send some one over to stop the washing machines.

Too late, but at least they made the effort.

Google Maps: Paris Teen Tours

Well, one could say the best way to entertain a college student in Paris is to give them a whole bottle of Champagne and a very long straw and watch the magic happen. But there are other more educational and thought provoking ways too.

I taught Cooking and Theater before coming over to Paris and now all my students are in college. Some are actually out of college. And all of them have drivers liscene's which scares the bejeezus out of me. You know how teens are with their zippy tricked out cars, mobile phones, and loud blaring music. Yes, I prefer to be far, far away from my hormonally challenged students during their final indoctrination into adulthood.

However, their parents keep sending them over to me. So I've developed a tour that is two-fold: it's educational and it tires them out thoroughly. Matthew was my first Paris guinea pig and he was also one of my very first students. And I might add, that he is also exceptionally talented (NYU Film major!!!) along with his younger brother Andrew (Dartmouth freshman!!!). Those two kept me laughing and crying for years.

Enlarge the maps for the full tour details and then CLICK on PINS for photos and background info. Puh-leeease check it out, it took hours to do.

TEEN TOUR RIGHT BANK (6 hours walking)

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TEEN TOUR LEFT BANK (4-5 hours)

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Technorati Tags: google maps, Ms. Glaze, Paris, paris tours, students, teens, walking tours

Holiday Help

Although there is something magical about walking into a warmly lit bookstore and finding a book that ends up relating to your life more than expected, missing the holiday shopping chaos and buying online is a close second. Here are my book picks for the holidays that I have selected from bloggers I enjoy, foodies I admire, and novelists who transcend time with words. I like to support publishing companies that are either local (Bay Area) or small and spirited that might or might not appear on the New York Times best seller list.

David Lebovitz worked for Chez Panisse as a pastry chef for fifteen years and now resides here in Paris. His blog is spirited, funny, and warm chronicling his food adventures in Paris. His six cookbooks fall nothing short of fabulous with the same beautiful photography of his blog paired with his extensive knowledge of all things sweet. Published by Ten Speed Press.

My mother gave me this cookbook when I started working the viande station at Guy Savoy. She thought the nicely illustrated diagrams would help me to figure out the difference between American and French cuts of meat and they did. This is for the carnivores and bone suckers in your family. Includes tasty game recipes too.

Suite Française is one of those books that caught me in Shakepeare & Co. and I just couldn't walk away without buying it. It's not a charming little ex-pat story, it's a stunning poignant novel written during World War II in France that was just recently discovered and translated. The author Irène Némirovsky, a Russian jew by birth, was prevented from publishing this novel when the Germans occupied France. She moved to Issy-l'Evêque with her family during the war (German occupied) and died in Auschwitz. A must read.

Fires written by Nick Antosca is an edgy fiction book printed by the upcoming hip publishing company Impetus Press. Nick's style of writing is difficult to resist and the author draws you into the dark lives of three Yale college students as they struggle to come to terms with their childhoods and futures amidst fires both real and imagined that threaten to turn their dreams to ashes. I read this book in one day. I just couldn't put it down. This book contains some graphic language and images.

4 Seasons À La Table N˚5 can only be ordered from the Amazon French store and it's worth the extra bucks. It was recently mentioned in the December issue of Gourmet magazine. The book was co-authored with one of Hotel Meurice's regular clients Kazuko Masui, who always dines at table number five. The recipes cover four seasons of food and are the executive chef, Yannick Alleno's contributions to 3-star cuisine. This is some of the most beautiful food in Paris if not the world. The recipes are written in French and are not practical for the home chef, but the pictures and ideas are stunning. I can't express enough how beautiful this coffee table book is. A very special and unique gift for the foodie in your family.

Technorati Tags: books, cookbooks, tag

Bon Beaune Burgundy

JOKE: What do French wines and French train strikes have in common?

PUNCH LINE: They both cost you a lot of money!

Okay, that wasn't funny. But that's how rock-bottom my sense of humor is right now. You thought this post was going to be about the oldest and biggest charity wine auction in the world! NOT!!! This post is about the French Grève (the strike) and how it practically ruined five peoples long awaited vacations.

No, just kidding, it's a little bit of both.

My friends and family came to visit from various parts of the world so that we could gather in Paris and head off en mass to Beaune, the famous city in the heart of Burgundy, for pinot noir and chardonnay tasting. We've been attending the wine festival for the last three years. It's become a family tradition.

We don't go to the auction itself. I'm sure I could weasel some press passes, but if you don't have big money, it's boring. Just a lot of tall hat texans, cold Russian mafia, and riotous rich Scotsmen in kilts with the odd Frenchman thrown in and a ton of media. My posse is not interested in paying 15,000 euros for a barrel of wine. Even if it does go to charity and even if we do get our names put on the Hospice de Beaune labels. It still is just a wee bit out of our league. We like to smush our faces up against the windows of the auction hall and watch the numbers go flying up along with the prices per barrel. Much more satisfying.

So just how did we get to the Beaune festival this year? My brother-in-law, "Clyde" Wittman, lassoed a private plane down to the ground while his sass talkin' girlfriend "Bonnie" held up the pilot with a snickers bar in her pocket. The rest of us climbed in while Bonnie and Clyde blackmailed the crew. No, that's not it. We just got there. Not all at the same time and not all on the same day – merci SNCF for costing us extra money and vacation time!

One activity we do like to participate in when we're not hijacking airplanes is the wine tasting at Patriarche Pere et Fils located in the town proper. They open up their extensive underground wine caves to the public once a year and share newly released wine along with several special vintage bottles. Patriarch Pere et Fils are wine brokers that have been in business since the 18th century! They buy the cream of the crop from the surrounding areas (Meursault, Chassagne, Pommard, Chambolle Musigny, Gevrey Chambertain, etc.) and bottle it privately under the famous Hospice de Beaune label.

Buying wine at Patriarche Pere et Fils is fun. We normally begin with the programed public tasting of 15 wines that meanders through the cool stone caves and then end with a private tasting.

The part I like about the private tasting is how our salesperson cages us in one of the smaller caves while she pulls out more good stuff for us to taste. There's no escaping! All and all it's around 30 wines to sniff, swish, gargle, and spit (or swallow). This normally annoys the rest of the public that doesn't get to come along but is allowed to watch us taste special wines through a locked iron gate. Peasants – let them drink 2001 Musigny! If you want to buy wine they will do the same for you. Just ask for a salesperson when you get to the last public tasting and they will customize the rest of your tasting according your interests.

My favorites from Patriarche Pere and Fils this year were the sexy Vosne-Romanée 1980 (pinot noir), The feminine Musigny Grand Cru 1960 (pinot noir), and an stunning 1957 Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru. The last one, a chardonnay was one of the most memorable wines I have ever had. I could have put a straw in that magnum and sucked down the whole thing. Talk about gold clover honey with a clean acidic citrus-y finish. I couldn't believe it. Most old whites loose that fresh acidity and turn to vinegar.

Of the newer vintages, all the 2005's I tasted both in the Pinot noir and in the Chardonnay varietal were outstanding. Drinkable now but structured enough to last for a decade or more. The Perrier Corton and Chassagne were my fav's.

We didn't just come to wine taste ourselves silly. We also came to eat. You've got to eat well if you're going to drink well! The city turns into a festival of food and crafts for the weekend complete with corking competitions and marching bands. Traditionally we start the morning out with a breakfast of champions: foie gras, baguette, comté, chevre, jambon, croissants, pain aux chocolate, and coffee. Then we leave our hotel room stuffed and head straight for the town hall for oysters and escargot. They shuck the oysters for you right from the crates and they are 4:00 A.M. ocean fresh.

This year we included a winery tour outside of the town with Susan Boxell who began the original tours or the area (in English) with her company Burgundy On A Plate. She has access to many private wineries and long standing relationships with the wine makers so the experience is special. One of the hits of this tour was getting to meet and talk with Monsieur LeFlaive of legendary chardonnay and pinot noir greatness. He's a third generation wine maker in Burgundy and quite an upbeat character. His wines are in restaurants across the world and he spent two hours just with our small hung-over group taking us through his cellars and explaining his traditional methods of wine making.

Our last tasting of the weekend, at a small wine shop in town that promised vintage tastings, was a let down. It was so bad. I tasted a wine that smelled exactly like bong water and another that tasted like Crackerbarrel cheddar cheese. And you know what? My whole family agreed that they smelled and tasted exactly that same way. (Parker's got nothin' on me baby.) This only goes to show you that not all wines, even from the most prestigious areas like Pommard and Gevrey Chambertain, are good. Before you go and buy a case of something you think is going to be outstanding, taste it. Even if it claims to be a Grand Cru. Each winery has their own style and the differences even between hectares of the same varietal and same classification can be extreme.

We weren't quite as rowdy as we were last year. I think the Scotts and Texans out-did our partying this time around. Mainly because somewhere along the weekend half our group was food poisoned. Must have been the escargot. We had a long ride back to Paris with the strike and our queasy stomaches. And I won't even mention how we left two 1980 Vosne-Romenée magnums on the train. Oh wait, I just did. But we'll be back next year gluttons for punishment and fantastic wine. I think next time we'll ship all the wine home.

When to go: The second weekend of every November
Where to Stay: Hotel Cep
Wine Tours: Burgundy On A Plate, Susan Boxell
Where to Eat: Ma Cuisine for bistro fare, Bernard Loiseau for Michelin cuisine, Town Hall for oysters and escargot
How to get there: lasso a plane and hijack the crew or take a train from Paris to Beaune
Fun Bars: The Pickwick (this is where all the Scotts go to for dancing on the tables in their kilts), La Parte Des Anges for wine tasting and local clientele.
Wine Tasting in Beaune: Patriarche Pere et Fils

Technorati Tags: Beaune, Burgundy, chardonay, festival, hotel cep, ma cuisine, pinot noir, wine auction

Pierre Hermé Fetish Macarons

Look, it's over. I'm sorry but I've met some one else. What does he have that you don't? He's just really sweet. I know you're really sweet too, but it's different. No, I didn't want it to end this way either. But, we're in love and I have to see him everyday.

Yes, we've had some really good times together, but my new man has me on this demanding schedule and I just don't have any extra time. What schedule? It's a macaron schedule, he's coming out with new flavors all the time now and I have to be there when he does. No, I'm not crazy! Why do you always say I'm crazy? I hate it when you say that! See, this is why we can't be together. Because you always put down the things that are important to me. Macarons are really really important to me, why can't you understand that?

I can love a man for his macarons if I want to. And I certainly don't have to justify my feelings to you. Well let's see you make a silvery sexy truffe blanche macaron made of orgasmic earthy white truffle cream sandwiched in between two handsome Italian hazlenut biscuits that dust your fingertips with edible glitter on each luscious bite.

Not impressed? Then how about whipping up his huile d'olive macaron with vanilla and chopped green olive cream. With each taste I close my eyes and think of warm sun tanned skin drenched in virgin olive oil and sprinkled with glistening vanilla sugar. Let's see you do that!

All your good for is opening a can of beans.

It's not just a cookie! How can you say that?!?!?! MACARONS ARE NOT JUST COOKIES! And I do not have a fetish problem. That's it! We're done. I am NOT a fetish freak and don't ever call me that again. In fact, don't call, don't write, don't text. We're over. O-V-E-R!!!! It's just me and Pierre now.

Forever.

For more fetish macarons from his fétiche desserts visit Pierre:

Pierre Herme
72 rue Bonaparte
Paris 75006.
Telephone: 01 43 54 47 77.
For more locations and information, see www.pierreherme.com.

Technorati Tags: fetiche, fetish, macaron, Pierre Herme, Pierre Hermé, truffe blanche

Guy Savoy: Ah Buh Oui, Uh?

French Expression: Ah buh oui, uh?

Meaning: That's just the way things are. That's life. Some things will never change. Yesssirrybob. I told you so. Welcome to France. Tough shit.

Anyone who's ever taken a linguistics class or traveled abroad knows that the flavor of a language – the essence of its soul – is not in the words themselves but in the unwritten expressions and gestures. Once the point of understanding these sublties is reached, then either you've been in that country too long, or it's too late and you're in-culturated.

I came back head waggling from living in Southern India for a year. It drove my mother so crazy that she would grab my head to stop me shaking it back and forth. I couldn't help it! I didn't even know that I was doing it. That's just part of talking and listening in Southern India. Studying in London, I picked up phrases that sounded like I smushed every vowel in the alphabet together at one time: "aaoouuw-right mate?" and "aaoouuw's it going?" From a summer in Ireland I picked up more of a drinking habit than anything else (it's part of the language I swear) and from a different summer in Spain I learned how to use my hands simultaneously when talking to punctuate feeling.

From France? No doubt I will come home blowing through my lips in exasperation and shrugging my shoulders while rolling my eyes slightly to the heavens above. Ah buh oui uh? Notice that this sentence only contains one word. The rest are sounds.

The first, "ah" is pronounced as written. The second "buh" is really more of an exasperation created by pursing the lips and blowing out. "oui" you know – I'm sure you've heard this one before. And "uh" is said with a slight upwards inflection as if asking a rhetorical question.

We're not done yet.

On the "ah" it is necessary to raise the eyebrows upward and cock the head to one side every so slightly. With the "buh" of exasperation, the shoulders come come up in a shrug. They remain in the shrug on "oui". And with the last "uh" there's an optional hand signal, palms outstretched and turned up, to punctuate the shoulder shrug as if asking, "what are you gonna do?"

Let's say it together now with feeling: Ah (eyebrows raised, head cocked) buh (shoulders come up with explosive lip sound) oui (remain in shrug position) uh (hands come up if you're really feeling moved by emotion)

Why am I writing about this? Because I've just spent the last three weeks trying to do two of the most difficult things for Expats in France at the same time: find an apartment and get my Carte de Sejour renewed. Ah buh oui, uh?

Lets talk about finding an apartment in France. I'm from San Francisco and I clearly remember trying to find an apartment during the Dotcom boom where high rolling geeks lavished roundtrip plane tickets to anywhere in the world on landlords. Or offered to double the rent. Or even paid for a whole year up front just to cinch the deal. You think I'm joking? I'm not.

Here in Paris, it's not about the extra cash or the perks you can offer, it's about the paper work. He who has the most paperwork wins!

Ah buh oui, uh?

When you go to see an apartment you must bring a book with you that proves you are a good person with a paying job, you have money in your bank account, and either your employer or your parents are willing to pay the bill if you cannot. If you are an Expat then you also need copies of your Carte de Sejour (oh wait, mine's expired, hope they don't notice!), your passport, and any other official looking documents that you can throw on top to make the pile look more presentable.

Once you've got this book together then it's time to start combing the listings because paying for an agency is astronomical. If you want to do it the French way, then it's necessary to go to the website De Particulier A Particulier and search through listings posted privately. Be careful about leaving telephone messages because often landlords get scared when they hear a foreign accent. Ah buh oui, uh?

And who wants to be turned down, or not have the call returned, before you even get the chance to show off your official looking Book-Of-Self.

One apartment I looked at (for an ungodly amount of money) the young owner asked if I could have my parents sign a paper saying they would vouch for me. I'm American! What was he going to do? Drain my parent's accounts all the way from France? And, I'm a grown married woman of 34, not a college student. I can afford to take of myself thank-you-very-much. I don't need my mommy or daddy to sign a permission for me.

Thankfully, I did finally find a new apartment through my connections with the Democrats Abroad. This is the other thing about living in Paris that is a must. You MUST network if you want to get anything here. Ah buh oui, uh? Now I am the proud renter of a tiny cute flat in St. Michel complete with a wood-beamed ceiling and a bed I have to climb up stairs to crawl into. I love it. It's my new mouse house. And the landlord is an American ex-pat who didn't even ask to see my Book-Of-Self. Go figure. Ah buh oui, uh?

Finding an apartment is peanuts compared to the Carte de Sejour process. Guess what you need this procedure? That's right! Paperwork!!! You must also bring the Book-Of-Self that contains everything you put together for the apartment search on top of everything you thought you didn't need and some pictures. No matter how complete your revised book is they will find some problem with it. I guarantee it.

Yesterday, I went to the police station buried deep in the outskirts of the 17th arrondisement to file for my extended Carte de Sejour, so that I can file for my re-newed Carte de Sejour next month at the Prefecture de Police. Ah buh oui, uh?

It was raining and freezing cold, so just for fun the security guard decided to keep us waiting in line outside the building, letting groups of ten enter in 45 minute intervals. I waited 45 minutes to enter the non-descript depressing building. I climbed the stairs to the room marked for Etrangers (strangers or foreigners) grabbed a number and waited in the holding pattern for my time to visit the clerk who would undoubtedly find something wrong with my revised Book-Of-Self.

I waited another 45 minutes.

Finally my number was called and I had my first encounter with the secretary who asked the reason for my visit and quickly scanned my paperwork to see that I had everything in order. Then I went back to the holding pattern to wait for my chance to see another pencil pusher who would give me the green slip – the extended Carte de Sejour - so that I can repeat the process with the big guns down at the Prefecture de Police.

My number was called again and a disgruntled unfriendly blonde took my book for review. She looked at the photos I had brought and decided they wouldn't work. What? They won't work? It's the same friggin' picture I've used on my Carte de Sejours for the last three years! I showed her my old Carte de Sejour and she took it and the photos to her boss to see what could be done about this.

I was told that even if they did work last time, they wouldn't work this time because my shoulders were ever so slightly cocked to one side. They needed to be full front. She told me to get new ones and come back. Wait, what? You want me to wait outside in the freezing cold rain for another 45 minutes? She explained that I could just come straight back inside and that it wouldn't be a problem.

So, I did what I was told. I found a place to get my pictures retaken and then marched on back to the Police station. But the guard had changed and the new guy didn't recognize me and he refused to call the disgruntled blonde upstairs. He told me that I must stand in line like everyone else. Ah bu oui, uh? (tough shit)

Another 45 minutes elapsed and finally I was allowed to see the disgruntled, blonde, unfriendly pencil pusher. She took my photo and cut it out and pasted in on my new green extended Carte de Sejour slip. 4 hours of waiting for 2 minutes of cut & paste.

Now, I have an apartment and an extended Carte de Sejour.

Ah buh oui, uh?