parisian pleasures

As I'm sitting on the train in Paris behind a poet who is writing about a love lost, I can't help but peek between the seats in front of me.  His words remind me of one of my favorite dark poems by Verlaine, a 19^th century symbolist poet. 

During our recent trip, I spent Sunday like most Parisians do, at the Jardin du Luxembourg, putting my feet up in the sun and people watching. My favorite corner away from the senate building and the marble statues of former queens, is on the quiet side by the statue of Verlaine. He struggled to get to know himself, much like I did and speaks beautifully of that exploratory journey of self-realization, including its darkest melancholic moments in this poem:

“Il pleure dans mon coeur

Comme il pleut sur la ville;

Quelle est cette langueur

Qui pénètre mon coeur ?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie

Par terre et sur les toits !

Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie,

Ô le chant de la pluie !

Il pleure sans raison

Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure.

Quoi ! nulle trahison ?...

Ce deuil est sans raison.

C'est bien la pire peine

De ne savoir pourquoi

Sans amour et sans haine

Mon coeur a tant de peine!”

It weeps in my heart

like it rains on the town.

What is this languor

that penetrates my heart?

Oh the soft sound of the rain

on the ground and on the roofs!

For a heart in pain

oh the song of the rain!

It weeps without reason

in this disheartened heart.

What! No betrayal?

This grief has no cause.

And nothing is worse pain

than not knowing why,

without love or hatred,

my heart has so much pain.

Our visit to the jardin last Sunday was neither painful nor rainy. The sun inspired us to stop at the marché bio (organic farmer's market) on blvd. Raspail and pick up some cheese and fruit to head to the park. Sadly we had forgotten to get wine and the shops were not open. Quelle horreur! So we made the most of it and gleefully spread out the baguette, artisanal foie gras, Brie de Meaux, Crottin d'affiné, Tomme de Brebis, and Roquefort cheeses next to the gorgeous sweet small fraises (strawberries) and fragrant myrtilles (blueberries). The charentais melon looked beautiful but would have to wait until after the impomptu picnic when we would have a knife. It didn't take long before we were greeted by the park police with “la pelouse est interdite”. 

I have to admit while I had not forgotten the incident with the same message years ago when my sister and nephews sat on the lawn with me, I feigned innocence and quickly apologized before taking to our chairs near the Verlaine statue for the rest of the picnic. In the southern most corner of the park, there is permission to use one long patch of lawn.  The rest, including the large circle around Verlaine’s statue, is forbidden.  I might have to make the same “mistake” again next time I visit the park but won't forget the wine to go with the picnic!

My weekend in Paris always has a juxtaposition of simple pleasures one day followed by decadently rich culinary meals the next. Steps away from our rented apartment on rue du Dragon in Saint-Germain-de-Prés, opposite the direction of touristy hot spots of Café Floré and Aux Deux Magots, where the literary greats and poets used to hang out and drink the infamous green halucinatory absinthe, is my favorite last stop in Paris.  In a little square with no corners called La Place Recamier, Chef Gerard Idoux makes the most decadent fluffy soufflés at La Cigale Recamier. Some favorite savory (salés) and sweet (sucrés) dishes include:

- Soufflé farine de blé noir et champignons des bois (buckwheat with wild mushrooms)
- Soufflé foie gras figues (foie gras with figs)
- Soufflé chèvre au thym (goat cheese and thyme)
- Soufflé fromage (cheese)
- Soufflé aux figues fraiches (fresh figues)
- Soufflé caramel à la fleur de sel (caramel with salt)
- Soufflé Grand Marnier [Note: A bottle of Grand Marnier is served alongside this delicate flavored soufflé sucré. Don't try to take the cork out of the bottle... the cork has holes like a fine salt shaker for drizzling just the right amount without flooding the dessert.]

Suffice it to say the salade verte served with the soufflé is obligatory. On many other occasions I've had the caviar d'aubergine with the dorade or agneau dishes and you can tell that the soufflés are only one of the specialties that draw older local regulars such as politicians to the restaurant.  Order from the regular menu or the daily specials on the blackboard presented tableside and you can’t go wrong with any of your choices.  Recamier has a chef who knows how to prepare great food without pretense.

Suddenly as I take a spoonful of the delicate soufflé on this rainy final eve in Paris, I find myself forgetting Verlaine's heartfelt pain and hear songs of joy inside my head with every melting bite.  The only weeping in my heart is from the thought that I need to wait until my next trip to savor these flavors again.

tradition! la tradition!

As a certain milestone birthday approached last year, I reflected on the fact that I had promised myself I would move to Paris by then if I were to remain single. I had been tired of dealing with the ups and downs of dating and this move would have been my consolation prize. Four years ago I had perfected my "rrrrr's" and had my beret and luggage tags that read "Paris" ready. As luck would have it, it was then that I met my love, got married and we put the move on hold until our retirement. This means that until that day arrives, I will miss Paris, most of all the baguettes.

To me a baguette is not just a piece of bread. It is a symbol of tradition. Living in a society that went from buying Wonder Bread to Organic Spelt and Flaxseed bread from fancy bakeries, I admire the simplicity and continuity of buying the day's baguette fresh from the boulangerie each day on the way home for dinner. In Paris, I witnessed the sight of business men and women in their suits after the day's hard work followed by a cocktail and cigarette at a café heading home with two things in hand: a briefcase and a baguette. You rarely see this in the metro because the baguette is bought from your local boulanger right near home. And its always bare with just a 2-inch square piece of paper wrapped around its middle.

It is this very simple square piece of paper that got my husband in trouble during our honeymoon in Paris. We love riding the metro and getting around the city. The gypsies hop on the train with their accordian and sing a song, collect some change, and hop off at the next stop to catch the next car or train. It is so romantic to watch the Parisians kiss without oblivion. To stamp this trip to Paris as our "honeymoon" and make it stand out from the rest, we made it a point to find an amourous couple in the metro and each time kiss like them. At times to maintain stability this required holding the handrails. Afterwards we'd run back to our little apartment on rue du Dragon to wash our dirty hands. Our apartment was directly across from Boulangerie La Boule Miche and every day we asked for our "une baguette tradition, s'il vous plait!" A "baguette tradition" differs from the typical white French bread ("baguette ordinaire") we think of simply as a baguette. It is made by hand using a higher quality wheat flour with yeast and salt, sans additives, just like in the old days.

One particular afternoon, we stepped out of the metro stop and the sight of delicate pastries called us into a different patisserie/boulangerie. In addition to some lovely treats, I had a baguette in hand as we walked out. Hot from the oven, it was ready for a bite. I held out the baguette to my husband in a "you go first" gesture, waiting for his mouth to encircle the bread for his taste. Instead in painstaikingly slow motion I saw his hands, the ones that had touched what seemed like all the handrails in the metro, envelope the bare naked baguette above and below mine which was over the square piece of paper. He was looking for a firmer grip before his bite. Arrrghhh... he had ruined my hot fresh baguette with metro germs!!! In not so slow motion, my hand which never parted the baguette fiercely yanked it out his and I started to hit him over and over again on the shoulder with it yelling obscenities in French about his filthy metro hands. This passionate moment of baguette-beating rage was not a typical Parisian scene and luckily did not ruin our honeymoon although we re-enact it on every subsequent trip to Paris just for laughs. Who knew a new tradition could be born out of the "baguette tradition"?

suggestion:

Don't beat your husband with a baguette. Instead buy two and eat one fresh and hot on the way home.

where to find:

For the best baguette tradition, no doubt go to Paris and try a different boulangerie until you arrive at your personal favorite. In the Bay Area, the closest I've gotten to a baguette that reminds me in flavor of my Parisian favorite is from Brickmaiden Breads made with Sel de Guérande from France. A baguette costs $4.00. Brickmaiden does not have a retail location but can be found at the Sunday Marin Farmer's Market. The Marin Farmers Market takes place in the parking lot behind the Marin Civic Center on Sunday mornings 8 a.m. - 1 p.m. year round.