Out of Order

Due to a recent development, I may have to renege on my irritation of late with obsequious American customer service.

To provide some background for this strange turn of events…N and I are currently residing in temporary housing until our shipping container is delivered to our new, permanent apartment. The shipping process takes about six to eight weeks, as the container travels by sea. We had been waiting patiently in a small yet fully equipped place for the past five-plus weeks, but now that we have the keys to our new fabulous home, our patience is starting to wear thin. We want outta here already so we can get settled and truly begin the next chapter of our lives.

Naturally, we have been on top of the moving company to get updates on our shipment status. And naturally, the moving company has been falling over itself to make sure we are satisfied with our move—there is a customer satisfaction survey in our future and they want a high rating. The latest news is that our shipping container has arrived at port and has cleared customs. Now the moving company is trying to overcome the final obstacle: obtaining a parking permit from the police for the moving truck, which will be parked on our street for half a day while the movers empty it of our belongings. I asked if there was anything the moving company could do to expedite the process, or at least ensure that the Thanksgiving holiday doesn’t cause any unforeseeable delays—implying that our satisfaction with the entire move depends on it, but in doing so, in no way anticipating what was to come.

Yes, that’s when the customer service magic happened. Our contact became a bit alarmed and showered us with all those niceties that just the other day had me rolling my eyes. He then stated—no, rather, insisted—that he send us a gift basket to make up for our troubles. Um, WHAT? You’re going to send us a present because we’re being a bit pushy and whining about what is a normal part of an intercontinental move? That left me speechless. Only in America would a heaping basket of wine arrive for something like this. (P.S. The day after we were offered this embarrassment of riches, we learned that our belongings will most likely arrive this coming Monday. We are thrilled we’ll have some bottles to uncork to celebrate.)

If such fawning customer service doesn’t impress you, let me draw a comparison to the utter lack thereof in France.

Again with some background…Our moving budget afforded us a hotel stay for our final two nights in Paris, as the movers had at that point packed our bed. We stayed at the Holiday Inn Paris on the basis of convenience alone (it was a five-minute walk from our Paris apartment). Turns out the Holiday Inn Paris is a four-star hotel—who knew?

Anyhow, we had a very early flight out of Paris, so the night before N called room service to pre-order breakfast. While this would be a perfectly normal maneuver on a hotel guest’s part in the States, it caused quite the stir. The room service employee who answered the phone was baffled by the concept of ordering food twelve hours ahead. “Mais, c’est pas normal, ça.” Well, obviously it’s not normal, but have they never had any other customers with a 6am hotel departure and in need of eating something before an eleven-hour flight?

After the initial shock wore off and the employee agreed to process our order, he proceeded to give N a very hard time about our culinary choices. N wanted an omelet, which was on the room service menu. “On ne cuisine pas des oeufs au matin.” WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T COOK EGGS IN THE MORNING? Now, I understand the French may like their omelets for dinner, but: 1) eggs were on the menu; 2) the menu made no indication of there being a time-of-day requirement for any food item; 3) isn’t this room service?; 4) isn’t this an American hotel, where eggs might readily be consumed in the morning? N tried his best, but was ultimately DENIED. He wound up with a ham sandwich, which is entirely unsurprising given it's France, but a little strange given the French don’t normally eat jambon crudité before noon.

Then N moved onto my order: smoked salmon and fruit salad. The latter posed no problem, but the employee actually mocked the former, guffawing and asking why anyone would want to eat that for breakfast. Again, I understand there’s a cultural difference at play here (smoked salmon is a typical appetizer on lunch and dinner menus in France), but are you really making fun of a customer’s order? Either the hotel doesn’t teach the value of tact to its employees, or this guy was absent that day. (Although I don’t know why I was so surprised—French servers and chefs do not accept any deviations from their menus and will flat out refuse any alterations, however small. Sucks to eat out as a diabetic or someone with food allergies in that country.) In the end, the employee did agree to providing the two items I requested. At least we didn’t fail twice.

What can we conclude here? First, the hotel kitchen clearly did not want to cook any hot food at 5am. Second, they probably put together our order when it was placed at 6pm. (So much for a fresh start to our new lives beyond Paris.) Third, a French branch of an American hotel will adhere to the customer service mores of the country in which it is located—in other words, ones that are totally abysmal or absent altogether.

And so, I’m eating my plate of crow and taking back my own mockery of American customer service. I’d take an unearned gift basket over unwarranted derision any day. Even the French themselves would.

Super Sized Shopping

Today I learned that I was out of the country long enough to have almost completely forgotten what the American supermarket experience is like. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t stepped foot inside a large supermarket in over a year; it’s just that it didn’t happen all too often in France, and there’s also truly nothing like an oversized, professionally merchandised American supermarket—so much so that I felt like an alien visiting Planet Earth for the first time.

I entered the surprisingly sparklingly renovated Safeway on Church and Market and immediately entered panic mode. The place felt cavernous, on a whole other scale than the cramped aisles of Parisian supermarkets (even the upper crust ones). And it was meticulous! This is Safeway, one of the biggest chain markets in California, hardly a paragon of the dreamy natural food market-type places that I prefer to frequent. I’ve seen Safeways with dirty floors and crap lying around in the aisles. I’ve seen this particular Safeway trashed from hordes of shoppers picking through Halloween candy and thronging the check-out aisles. This was a shinier, more soothing Safeway—and the squeaky-clean grandness kind of freaked me out.

I needed to grab lemons and tomatoes from the produce section, nothing more, but I wound up spending close to ten minutes wandering around because there was just.so.much stuff! Completely overwhelming! There was produce to last for weeks and weeks and weeks. The fruits were enormous (I was kind of scared of the oranges; don’t even get me started on the melons). I agonized over buying a five-pound bag of clementines, as I haven’t eaten them for a while and it seemed like a brilliant idea…but five pounds? Really? Can’t I just pick out a half dozen? (Not) surprisingly, that wasn’t an option at Safeway. I ultimately decided against the excess. Moving onto the veggies, I saw varieties of cauliflower I’ve never, ever seen in my life—green, orange, purple (ooh, pretty!)—which left me to wonder, have these always been around, or has there been some new, radical G-Mod breakthrough since I left America? In fact, there were nearly endless varieties of everything—“omnivore’s dilemma” indeed. At the fanciest Monoprix in Paris, you still get a tiny produce selection. All fruits, whether at the farmer’s market or at the hypermarket, are miniscule relative to here (and they taste soooooooooo much better, to boot).

Another strange phenomenon was occurring in the produce section. All the Safeway employees were saying hello and asking if I needed help finding anything. Imagine this level of service in France! You practically have to chase and then put employees in a headlock to get help. Well, I also suppose that considering the breadth of products in the produce section alone, it’s not an asinine assumption that one might need assistance locating something.

Speaking of finding things, it took me a while to wade through the double-wide aisles to get the rest of the items I needed—not just because the store is so incredibly huge, but also because of (you guessed it) the variety of products to choose from. Over 20 types of mustard? Pfft. This isn’t even France, where moutard is king. Indecision paralysis overcame me in the laundry detergent section. I think there were more types of detergent than there are of yogurt in France, and believe me, that is saying a lot (every market there, whether a hole in the wall or the Monoprix, has a dedicated yogurt AISLE). At that point, I had reached the end of my shopping list, not to mention the end of my rope. I berated myself for no longer being the speedy, efficient shopper I once was and just grabbed the first jumbo-sized (of course) jug I saw. That’s another thing that was a little hard to swallow—there’s not much super/economy-sized products in Paris. Apartments and fridges aren’t big enough to house the likes of Costco goods. I got used to buying enough of what I needed / could feasibly carry on a ten-minute walk home.

The check-out process was lightning fast and the checker was chatty and sunny and I lingered for an extra moment just to continue our conversation, he was so nice. (We can score two bonus points for America, there.) He reminded me that the paper towel six-pack (which filled nearly half my shopping cart) I bought was buy one, get one free. I did something absolutely shocking and turned down the free six-pack. It violated all the rules of my bargain-hunting cultural heritage, but my goodness, I just couldn’t stomach taking home a dozen bulging rolls of paper towels. It just felt too…too, you know? It seems living in France has heightened my awareness of American glut, but I’m back and so I’d better get reacquainted enough so that I don’t get paralyzed every time I go to the supermarket.

The Wonderful World of French Food Shopping

Purchasing power. A recent study reported that it’s the number one concern among French consumers. My students frequently alternate between grumbling and fretting over it. Even advertisers have taken note, as a recent LastMinute.com billboard in the Métro boasted you could provide your family with a vacance “bling-bling” while still protecting your pouvoir d’achat.

The issue is most deeply felt in the area of food prices, a global crisis that shows no sign of letting up. Yet while the French population worries about the soaring cost of a kilo of apples, it also wants desperately to hold onto one of the oldest and dearest of French values—product quality. France has a long, long tradition of farming and people take the terroir very seriously. Each region is known for its agricultural specialties, and only the best producers boast the appellation d’origine contrôlée (or AOC) seal of approval, a government certification that the products (such as wine, dairy goods, produce) are indeed grown or made in said region. It’s a stamp of authority that the California avocado farmers could only dream of, and that New York apple-growers should seriously pursue for Macintoshes. (The fact that I think these are the best apples in the world is probably proof that I’ll always be a New Yorker at heart).

This meticulous attention to quality is reflected in the way one can shop for food. The French government has (of course) generated some laws that protect smaller businesses, limit competition, and therefore prevent prices from dropping. But is this completely a bad thing? Let’s take a deeper look in the shopping cart.

In France, you can shop at a large, chain supermarket. There you can find a wide variety of products, but not necessarily at reduced prices. Due to some bizarre law, chain markets are able to charge different prices for the same products depending where the store is located. Therefore, the same box of cereal can cost two euros more at a Monoprix in the tony 16th arrondisement than in the grittier, bohemian Belleville district. The supermarket offers the convenience of one-stop shopping, but depending on where you live, doesn’t necessarily offer savings.

You can turn to the hypermarkets if you want to shave off pennies, but those are few and far between. France has tried to restrict expansion as much as possible in order to protect small, independent businesses and avoid going the way of fiercely competitive capitalist markets. There are indeed zoning laws that prohibit more than one hypermarket within a wide geographic area, and even more laws that prevent more than one large supermarket from opening within a certain range.

This may seem strange to American consumers, yet there’s something to it. First of all, you may be able to pick up much-needed non-perishable items and household products at a supermarket or hypermarket, but the perishables aren’t necessarily of the highest quality. Second of all, there’s something sterile and uninviting about strolling the fluorescent-lit aisles of a grocery store, where employees are impassive and don’t know a whole lot about the products they’re peddling.

A much richer experience awaits shoppers in the small commercial areas of their quartiers,, a tradition that has been rendered extinct in the strip-mall-thatched expanses of America. Picking up groceries can sometimes be a chore, but I often look forward to it in my neighborhood. First, I stop at the small open-air marché where I select from a gorgeous display of produce—and most of it isn’t imported. Plus, it’s better than anything I’ve ever found in the States, even at Whole Foods (maybe just with the exception of my all-time favorite, California heirloom tomatoes). I regularly eat fruit from the market that really epitomizes the way fruits should taste. When’s the last time I savored berries or peaches of that quality back in the States? Too often in the U.S. you get produce that looks fantastic, only to have a mealy or diluted, watery taste. What also makes my shopping experience at my local petit marché so pleasant is the friendly greengrocer and his son who greet me with smiles and small talk every time.

On special occasions, I can also hit up the large outdoor markets, which tend to have lots more selection at slightly lower prices and aren’t nearly as bobo as U.S. farmer’s markets. However, I have to be lucky enough to have time in my schedule to visit these markets, as they’re often on weekday mornings and severely crowded on weekends.

Next, I’m off to the butcher. This is a relatively new experience for me, as I never shopped at a butcher in San Francisco. The miracle that is Trader Joe’s offered high-quality free range, organic poultry and meat at reasonable prices and so I usually bought my proteins there. At first, I bought meat at the supermarkets, but a recent scare (it came to light that at cheaper groceries they were repackaging nearly-expired meats to look fresher and giving them new expiration dates) made me a bit paranoid. So, I conceded to pay a bit extra to ensure that I was getting safe, quality meat. I couldn’t be more satisfied. The meat not only tastes fantastic, but there’s always such a huge variety of cuts to choose from. I still don’t dare venture into offal territory, but I could if I wanted to—it’s all proudly laid out in the display case. My butchers happily offer to butterfly chicken filets and pound them into thin breasts, cut up beef into cubes for a stew, or explain the best method for cooking certain cuts of lamb. The purveyors are also extremely smiley and gregarious, a quality which many French shopkeepers seem to lack.

Finally, I stop at the bakery. It goes without saying that French bakeries are proof of the divine. How else could something smell and taste so good? American bread—even when baked fresh on the premises with lots of love and care—doesn’t even come close. Not only is it a simple pleasure to pick up a fresh tradition or pain cereals, but it’s also (by French standards) cheap! Amen to that. There are tons of tiny boulangeries scattered throughout the city, with no zoning laws to restrict the reach of their delicious output.

While those are my top three food-shopping spots, I have many more artisinal, specialty shops to choose from: the fishmonger, the wine shop, the charcuterie (French equivalent of deli), the dedicated poultry vendor (complete with the always-spinning rotisserie), the chocolatier, and the cheese shop. At the latter, you can spend as much time as you want asking the shopkeepers about their endless varieties of fromage and they will never bat an eyelash. (This is in ironic contrast to the surly service we—and everyone else, for that matter—always received at Say Cheese on San Francisco’s Cole Street. It seems the shopkeepers there have swapped typical cultural roles with the upbeat cheesemongers on our current shopping street.)

Although I pay a bit extra for the privilege of filling my fridge with the bounty of the small, independently-run shops, it’s only marginally more than what I’d pay at the supermarket—and the quality is far better, from the perspective of what goes on my plate and my overall shopping experience. I’m with the French government on this one.

Gevalt, Oy.

When the husband and I were strategizing to take up digs in the Marais, the thought of its twin cultural legacies were comforting, as they each have some semblance of my two former cities of residence: the old Jewish quarter (I’m a member of the tribe, from NYC no less) and the epicenter of the city’s gay population (I lived in San Francisco for nearly a decade). The combination would surely make us feel at home.

In reality, you may see the occasional cluster of Hassidim strolling around or rainbow sticker displayed in a storefront window, but our neighborhood is hardly 47th or Castro streets. It’s a fantastic area of Paris, to be sure, with its old, narrow streets; small, leafy parks; myriad boutiques, restos, and cafés; and all-around laid-back charm. But one thing our quartier is for sure is gentrified. The French might call it bobo, or bourgeois bohemian. And this process of gentrification, which began several years ago, may be benign to one of the neighborhood’s key social groups, but is squeezing out the other.

The rue des Rosiers is the heart of Jewish life in the Marais, boasting kosher bakeries, Israeli falafel joints, Judaica shops, and small synagogues scattered on side streets. When you walk the insanely narrow, cobble-stoned street (all three blocks of it), you can see these vestiges of Jewish culture—but they’re few compared to the number of modern fashion boutiques lining the rue. On my first walk down Rosiers, I felt simultaneously heartened and disheartened. The reality was as surprising as the first time I visited the corner of Haight-Ashbury—I wasn’t expecting to see a hippie commune, and to be honest I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a swath of expensive shops. The Haight has been performing a dance for years now, holding onto its bohemian past while making way for its gentrified present. A few years ago, Haight-area residents successfully petitioned against plans to open an Urban Outfitters on the infamous street. People feared that “mall-ification” of the rest of the street would follow, and wanted to prevent the havoc the store would wreak on the already insane weekend crowds and impossible street-parking situation. Back on the rue des Rosiers, people are gearing up to resist the very real threat of an H&M store opening on the grounds of a former hammam. The last thing the largely chain-free yet pedestrian-thronged Marais needs now—especially on Rosiers—is a big, brash H&M store.

I can’t afford to shop in the smart boutiques and don’t need an H&M within 10 minutes of my house, but I support the Jewish businesses by literally putting my money where my mouth is. I relish frequenting the two best eateries on Rosiers, where I can be sure to get my money’s worth for a delicious lunch and also practice my very-rusty Hebrew: the famous L’As du Falafel (best falafel outside the homeland? The long line of locals and tourists proves it) and the kitty-cornered fabulous deli with the blue-tiled exterior (I can’t remember the name and it’s driving me crazy—but they make great turkey and pastrami sandwiches and have all kinds of Sefardic and Ashkenazi goodies). Gentrification may be inevitable, but I know where my loyalties lie.

Some Like It Mild

N and I love spicy food. We are all about powerful yet flavorful spice – we don’t eat raw chilies (although I accidentally did this once in Indonesia and it was NOT pretty) and don’t like the sensation of a mouth so on fire you cannot taste anything but. However, we have been known to generously squirt sriracha into stir-fries, ladle dollops of harissa into cous cous, slather tacos with hot salsa, favor Thai green curries over their milder yellow and red cousins, and count vindaloo as a given whenever we order at Indian restaurants. We have a stockpile of chili sauces and Cajun spice blends in our kitchen so we can elevate (yes, I said ‘elevate’) homemade dishes to a fierier level.

Sadly, our new compatriots do not share our zest for, well, zest. French cuisine is marvelously tasty and rich – for crying out loud, there is actually a category of chef, the saucier, whose sole responsibility is to perfect sauces! – but there is no room in the French palate for piquancy. Even when ordering “spicy” dishes at ethnic restaurants, we eagerly anticipate the rush of fire on the tongue, only to be met with the same, disappointing, bland result again and again: a walk on the mild side. (Apologies to Lou Reed and to all of you for that.)

Surely the people’s palates have been shaped by their cuisine, one that is so ingrained and lauded that the French President has recently stated that it should be on the UNESCO World Heritage list. It’s a solid tradition that has resisted the exotic, spicy influences of its former colonies and current immigrant populations. Moreover, ethnic restaurants cater to predominantly French tastes, watering down the kick of their traditionally fiery mainstays. This was first made apparent to us many months ago, when we ate at a fabulous Thai restaurant in Belleville with some French friends. Although N and I felt our dishes were considerably mild yet highly flavorful, our friend was experiencing some difficulty with her tom kha gai. Coughing repeatedly and gulping down water like a desert nomad at an oasis, she eventually sputtered, “Trop piquante” (too spicy) and eventually regained enough composure to ask if any of us wanted to finish her soup. I took one spoonful, only to laugh a bit to myself: if this is three-alarm spice, the sirens must be on mute. On another occasion, in another Thai restaurant in the Marais, N asked for a dish to be prepared extra-spicy, only to find this “heightened” spice level barely registerable. And I swear the sriracha in this country is even watered down, because at home and in Chinese and Vietnamese restaurants I have to dump a disgusting amount of it on my food to give it some bite. Similarly, “hot” salsa at French supermarkets has the equivalent piquancy of tomato sauce. The French themselves literally water down spicy sauces. Case in point: our friends had us over for dinner and brought out “spicy sauce”—a bowl of what looked like broth but was really water with a miniscule amount of harissa mixed in. (Kind of gross, actually.) And in a bizarre twist at a café, I ordered what was labeled a panini mexicain piquante, hoping for some kick but expecting nothing, only to find that the chicken within had been “spiced” with curry. Confused, much?

There is one reliable source of spice, and that is North African cuisine. With the abundance of such eateries all over Paris, we know we count on the small bowl of harissa plonked on the table (much like a bottle of ketchup at a burger joint) to inject our tagine and cous cous with some kick. However, we seem to be in the minority of diners who actually infuse this hot chili paste into their dishes. Halfway into the main course at a Moroccan restaurant with French friends, I offered someone a taste of my beef tagine, onto which I’d liberally applied harissa. The spice level was to my liking although I forgot to warn my friend before she bit into the large spoonful of chick peas and carrots. Needless to say, she was not happy and spent the next few minutes chugging water and eating bread. Oops.

I wish I could say that I hadn’t made that mistake twice, but oh man did I ever instill fear into the stomachs of our amis. We invited a French couple over for a home-made Asian feast of sautéed noodles with beef and a veggie stir-fry. If we were cooking for ourselves, we would’ve been far more generous with the amount of chili sauce in both dishes. However, we were cooking for much milder palates and so we purposefully kept the spice-level tame. Truly. I’m talking not even a teaspoon. Unfortunately, this supposed lack of bite only came back to (proverbially) bite us in the ass. What for us registered as a whisper, a hint, an apparition of spice rendered the food, at first, excessively fiery for one of our guests, and, after a couple bites, inedible. Needless to say, we felt absolutely horrible. This is the last thing, save food poisoning, one wants to inflict upon a dinner guest. After getting plied with endless apologies and glassfuls of water, our guest was fine, but she’s probably scared to have us cook for her again.

Thankfully, we were redeemed when we had other friends over for dinner. In a conversation about New Orleans, my Australian friend (who is half-Sri Lankan and therefore has been eating chili-infused goodness practically since birth) mentioned she’s always wanted to try Cajun cuisine. This prompted a Cajun dinner chez nous, as N’s signature dish is the Cajun classic Crawfish Monica and I can whip up a zesty yet delicate blackening rub. Her French boyfriend was also invited, and so I arduously questioned her about his palate, not wanting to repeat my recent Asian menu gaffe. He allegedly had a proclivity for spice, but that’s all relative, isn’t it? We proceeded with caution, not at all shying away from the spice but not going full-tilt with it, either. In the end, the results were fantastic. Of course, they raved about the ‘Cronica’ (how could one not?) and relished the blackened chicken. Was the meal too spicy? Not a bit. He was perfectly satisfied, while she could have kicked it up a slight notch (like us other foreigners of the not-so-sensitive palates). We have finally found at least one native Frenchman who can hang with spice-slingin’ sharp-shooters in a nation of the gun-shy. The chances of this are one in a million.

When Drinking Water Becomes a Kafka-esque Experience

Those crazy French, they act as if they’ve never carried around a bottle of water before. Well, actually, they usually don’t. I rarely see people toting plastic bottles of purchased water. These are bought at mealtimes and consumed à la table. Furthermore, the concept of beverages to go doesn’t really exist here. As I mentioned before, people never take Starbucks out – they sit with their disposable, paper cups of coffee inside the Starbucks for hours. Nate once commented on a friend’s lack of cup-holders in his car, to which the friend replied, “Why would you want that feature in your car?” See what I mean?

Maybe this is why people continue to marvel over my brightly-colored Nalgene reusable plastic water bottle. I mentioned last week that it really baffles my students. I continue to get comments, as frequently as every other day. What do they think I’m carrying in the bottle? Perfume? Plasma? Petrol?! I mean, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist…I thought white people were supposed to like water bottles. At least on my former side of the pond, anyway.

The best of such incidents was this evening on the Metro. I sat down, Nalgene in hand, across from a little boy (approximately age 3) and his father. And in spite of the aural interference provided by my iPod, I heard the boy blurt out (in French), “Daddy, what is that?’ all the while, eyes wide as saucers and staring squarely in the direction of the magical Nalgene. The father was flustered – he clearly had no idea what it was, either. He mumbled the equivalent of “uh…” and so I took my cue. Unscrew bottle top, raise to lips, sip, and swallow – with a half-smirk, half-wink. See?

When Eating Becomes a Kafka-esque Experience

Food reigns supreme in French culture. The quality of ingredients is stunning, the variety of specialty food shops is mind-blowing, and there are tons of fabulous restaurants at one’s disposal. Along with this celebration of all things culinary comes an unspoken litany of rituals, with corresponding rules, governing eating. Some of these rules are easy to detect, while others have taken a few months to discover. And while I love the amazing food France has to offer, these rules often clash with my own tastes.

For one, the French have strictly designated what’s appropriate for each meal. Petit déjeuner (breakfast) generally consists of fresh bread or pastry, along with a variety of confitures (jams) and sweet spreads. I can’t eat a buttery croissant drenched in strawberry jam for the first meal of the day all that often (once in a blue moon at most)...it’s just too much sugar. Sure, some French eat a bit lighter, opting for yogurt and cereal (like I do), but it’s far more normal to make an early morning stop by the boulangerie for a pain chocolat (chocolate croissant) than it is to cut up a cantaloupe. For déjeuner (lunch), it’s entirely appropriate to have a large, three-course meal. I can’t eat that much in the middle of the day and am usually content with a sandwich or salad, plain and simple. This has drawn the curiosity of food establishment proprietors and French co-workers alike: “C’est tout? Pas de dessert? Pourquoi?” (That’s all? No dessert? WHY?!?!)

Dinner is closer to what we can expect in the States—you can go as big or as small as you’d like. Pfew, at least I fit in for one meal out of three. However, if you do opt for a full, sit-down, multi-course dinner, beware: you cannot proceed entirely as you prefer. In France, it is customary to have entrée, dish, dessert, and then—ONLY then—coffee. I’m an American, dammit, and in America we like to have coffee with dessert. This is a habit I’m reluctant to break and I’ve therefore gotten into minor arguments with servers, who refuse to bring me coffee with my dessert. In my view, I’m a paying customer—I should therefore get my coffee whenever I want it. But no, in France these rituals are so entrenched and so strong, that even a paying customer can be told she’s wrong and will receive the coffee when it’s appropriate. (Remember from my previous posts—it’s customer non-service, people. The customer is never king.) As an amusing counterpoint, a student once mentioned that on her one visit to the States, she found it so strange that everyone was drinking coffee WITH their lunches. Of course, from her perspective, one must only drink coffee at the very end of a meal…or during a 20-minute work break.

Similarly, the French observe rules governing acceptable snack foods. A co-worker once chastised Nate for his choice of accoutrement for a lunchtime sandwich. In France, there is the highly-practiced ritual of apero (short for aperitif), a pre-dinner cocktail hour similar to happy hour but not with reduced drink prices. During this period, people flock to cafes, bars, and restaurants to grab drinks and snack on the customary nibbles of peanuts, pretzels, chips, olives, and other little bites. People also serve such items during the apero period of a dinner party. So imagine N’s co-worker’s consternation when he noticed N munching on a bag of chips with his sandwich: “C’est pas possible! Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” (That’s ridiculous. What are you doing?!) After delivering an unwarrantedly heated “argument” about when it’s appropriate to eat chips, the co-worker stormed off, leaving a bemused N thinking, OK, midday is not when you want to eat chips, but why can’t I? Like me, N does not want to eat a big, honkin’ slice of chocolate cake with his lunch.

The French are also particular in their approach to eating. It is NOT acceptable to eat dinner food with one’s hands. It’s all knife and fork action, no matter what the dish. Just the other night, I observed a woman at a neighboring table spend the entire time we were in the restaurant (which was a while, mind you) meticulously eating her burger and fries with knife and fork. I didn’t know it was possible to be so regimented about eating a burger. First, she dissected the top half of the bun. Then the pickle. Then the fries. Finally she was left with the actual burger, which she picked at bird-like until it was finally done. (Lady, if the burger was meant to be deconstructed, it would be presented that way.) And this is not considered abnormal or weird. People meticulously eat pizza and some sandwiches with knife and fork, too. Does that make Americans slobs? Perhaps. But sometimes finger food is just finger food.

As you can see, meals are not meant to be eaten in a hurry here. The French love to sit over a three-hour meal, savoring each bite. This is not something I have a problem with at all. But it’s funny to see how this practice has seeped into their patronage of American eateries. From what I hear, the French will spend up to an hour eating at a McDonald’s. And man, they love McD’s, supposedly for the exoticism of it all. They also love Starbucks! Initially, this surprised me, as France obviously nurtures a strong coffee culture in which coffee is NEVER taken to go; rather, one can sit with one café crème for hours in any given café or can get a quick shot of espresso at the café bar. So why were all the Starbucks packed every time I walked by one? Because people still do not take their coffee to go, but instead, they sit with their frappuccinos as long as they would at a traditional French café. The difference is, they don’t have to wait for ages until they can flag down a server for the bill (so apparently the French can be as impatient with this as us Americans!).

Another item that is not usually taken to go is a bottle of water. Sometimes you see people toting small bottles of Evian or the like, but certainly not the larger Nalgene bottle that I brought here from the States—it’s a reusable, sturdy, colored-plastic bottle that I can refill endlessly to keep myself hydrated at all times and not waste plastic. Well. Many of my students have been curious about this strange bottle I carry around with me. One student was so mystified by this foreign object that it became a much-longer-than-necessary topic of conversation. But…what was it? What was inside? Was the water turquoise (she couldn’t get past the color of the bottle)? Why did I carry it around with me? But didn’t I want a glass to pour the water into? She actually insisted on this point. She couldn’t fathom how I could drink out of such a large container. See, the French also favor small things, with small water glasses being a principle “small thing.” I don’t need a 64-ouncer, of course, but drinking in quantities equivalent to a shot isn’t sufficient either.

See, just when I think I can slightly blend in, I order a small lunch, request coffee with my dessert, or take a big swig of water from my trusty Nalgene and BAM, I have pretty much just painted an American flag on my forehead. Sorry, there are some of my own rules I am not willing to let go of.

The King of Desserts

I thought it was some kind of conspiracy. Come January, they were everywhere you looked: the unassumingly plain-looking, round, flat, flaky-pastry cakes in various sizes piled high in every bakery window. And then there were the ads for cider plastered in every Metro station and bus stop, proudly claiming to be the best pairing for the galette du roi. The cake of kings? What the hell is that? It wasn’t until a couple weeks into January that I put two and two together. It’s no conspiracy, but an age-old New Year tradition built on (what else?) chivalry, dessert, and booze.

Right around the time it dawned on me that the galette and cidre are this country’s seasonal answer to milk and cookies, we had some of N’s French colleagues over one afternoon and they very sweetly brought a galette du roi. They also further illuminated me on the annual ritual.

The scoop on the cake: this confection is akin to an almond croissant, albeit in a different format. The crust is comprised of very flaky pastry, baked to a golden brown and sometimes embossed with a leaf pattern but usually very plain on top. The yummy innards are made of a surprisingly not-nauseatingly-sweet (meaning, fabulously good) almond paste. Although very simple and rustic compared to the chic-chic pastries you can normally get in most Parisian boulangeries, the galette is divine in its simplicity and even better when slightly heated. Oh, and the best part? There’s a little prize toy hidden inside. This strangely tends to be a tiny, plastic farm animal. Still not clear on the reasoning for that...Anyhow, see the diminituve plastic cow pictured. (Upon discovering it, the winner of our first-ever French Crackerjack prize exclaimed, "Ooh, it's a veal!" Heh.)

The toy-winning proceedings: determine who the oldest and the youngest people in the room are. The youngest hides under the table, while the oldest cuts and dishes out slices of the galette—but not before the youngest, unable to see what the slices look like, barks out to whom the slice should be given. This keeps the game honest—the person deciding who gets which slice cannot see and therefore cannot guess where the toy is hidden. Anyhow, everyone starts a-noshin’ until someone bites into something solid, hopefully doesn’t chip a tooth in the process, and declares him or herself the king!

It comes with props only the dominant male hierarchy could love: the king then dons the definitively non-dainty golden cardboard crown (move over, crappy non-metallic Burger King topper) and can choose his queen. Yes, this is a dated ritual and has not been updated for political correctness. Remember, this isn’t the U.S. The entire language is genderized. (Don’t even get me started on the arbitrariness and weirdness of calling a table ‘she’ and a telephone number ‘he’ - not to mention the designations make. absolutely. no. sense.)

Oh, and regarding the cider, yes, it’s traditional to drink it with the galette, yes, it’s sparkling apple cider, and yes it’s alcoholic, but just barely.

Needless to say, it was love at first bite and we were thrilled when on another January weekend, dinner guests brought over a galette. We also initiated my dad to this sugary ritual when he visited in January. And as soon as the month ended, there was nary a galette du roi in sight.

You’d think in February, we’d be witness to a chocolate heart explosion, but the French—despite being the eternal champions of l’amour—don’t exploit Valentine’s Day for all its chocolatey promise. Chocolate is a year-round cause for celebration in France, bien sur!

And They Say French Food Is the Best...

Some stories have happy endings. This one, au contraire, has a happy beginning. It all started a couple weeks ago when one of Nate’s coworkers from the States contacted him with an interesting proposition. An industry contact from L.A. with whom he does a great deal of business was going to be in Paris and wanted to take someone from the company out on the town to express his gratitude for the thriving business relationship. Would Nate and his lovely wife be interested in meeting the guy for a swanky dinner? Uh, let’s see…gotta untwist our arms before we can answer. Over a series of email exchanges, N ascertained that the guy seemed very friendly. He charged us with selecting a restaurant and instructed us to “go big.” So we chose the legendary Brasserie Bofinger, a Parisian dining institution since 1854 known for its decadent seafood.

We met for dinner Tuesday night and had a blast. The guy was sharp, funny, dynamic, and just gushingly positive. Sure, he was also generous as all get-out, but we genuinely liked him and enjoyed the dinner conversation. We also had an exquisite meal of oysters, lobster, and a sensational couple bottles of Burgundy. Oh la la, indeed. I had a slight hangover on Wednesday, which made me a hair crankier than usual when faced with an annoying workshop attendee who wouldn’t stop checking email throughout the full-day session (jeebus, unplug or just leave, dude!) - but otherwise I felt fine. I had a simple salad for lunch and pasta for dinner (shared with N). For a little tasty treat, I sampled a couple chocolates from the box I received from a student the day before upon her final class with me (soooo nice, right?).

Everything was great until I awoke Thursday morning with an uneasy feeling in my gut. I thought it maybe was just morning fog-induced strangeness, but within an hour I found I was horribly mistaken. What ensued was a full day of just awful, awful food poisoning. The kind when you can't even hold down the half cup of water you just timidly sipped. And just when I would think the whole shebang was winding down to a close, oh no, it would rear its ugly head again – even in the middle of the night. Now, I’m not trying to inspire pity; I’m mostly better now and don’t want to wallow. It’s just that all this setup puts the next morning’s events into sharper relief.

Friday morning rolls around, and I’m not feeling like a million bucks (or rather, not even like 50 bucks). I cancel another day of classes, but I resolve to make it to my carte de sejour (residency card) appointment at the Paris Prefecture (police station). You see, after all the hardships I faced getting my temporary CDS back in August and September, I wasn’t going to muck up my appointment for my permanent card out of fear of never getting a new appointment or getting deported (well, you just never know in this country). I had carefully gathered all the required documents for this round of the CDS process. I felt as confident as one could when dealing with French bureaucracy (meaning, racked with doubt, but determined to make some…any…modicum of progress). I barely remember getting myself out the door. I felt horribly weak, woozy, and still pretty nauseous, but I was equipped with a huge bottle of water, a plastic bag (for emergency…never had to use it, thankfully!), and a fabulous husband who fortunately had to come with me anyway, as I have the enviable position of being married to a French citizen.

When we reached the assigned room in the Prefecture, my head was swimming and I could barely speak. I charged Nate with doing most of the talking, lest my parlez-vous-ing took an unfortunate turn toward something else that begins with “p.” We were called to our appointment and sat down face to face with the woman I’ve since come to affectionately call La Vache Bête (the stupid cow). She was middle aged, with pancake makeup, a helmety coif dyed a copper hue that is an affront to hair dyeing the world over, and an ensemble of imitation Chanel pink tweed jacket, imitation Hermes scarf, and imitation leather skirt. Now, I usually am not this petty and judgmental about a person’s appearance, nor do I ever resort to juvenile name-calling, but the residual effects of spending hours hunched over a toilet had put me on edge, and her atrocious attitude didn’t do much to help her cause. She really was the rudest person I’ve ever encountered in Paris…almost to the point of caricature.

The disaffected sneer of the lifer public employee was already twisting itself into place when we sat down. I started laying out my documents, feebly trying to explain why I was there. This caused a tirade of nastiness equivalent to hissing and spitting (from my hazy perspective). Apparently I wasn’t producing the documents from my folder fast enough, my situation as wife of EU citizen was too unusual (even though it merits its own category of visa), and I was missing ONE document. And every sixth word, “vendredi” (Friday), was nearly barked out at us. It seemed the real issue was that a non-cookie cutter transaction had been dumped onto her plate on a Friday of all days. How dare we?

Nate stepped in and took charge of the situation, which you’d think would’ve helped things along, given his fluent command of the language and near-perfect bill of health. He explained that the document I was missing appeared to be listed in a “you only need one of the following documents” sub-lists of requirements for the CDS. He asked what the arcane description of this required document type meant. He tried to charm her by being overly kind and gracious. But his supplications only seemed to make her even more irritable. She huffed and puffed, rolled her eyes, and in a voice drenched in disdain, she started giving him the third degree. What was his nationality—wasn’t he French, as his passport claimed? Why was he in France anyway? Why didn’t he understand the requirements? Did he even work? (Which we translated as, You, young man, are so completely stupid could it be possible that some idiot would deign to employ you?) And when Nate stopped to translate some of her replies into English…How do you think your wife’ll learn French if you keep speaking to her in English? At this point, I wanted to grab her by her pilling faux-Chanel lapels and scream, “Listen lady, you’re lucky you’re not covered in a pool of my vomit right now, so back the frak off!”

After further dicussion, we determined that I had to make another CDS appointment for February and come back with the appropriate document that was missing – plus three new passport sized photos (I’ve already supplied at least 10 for the entire process, including my temporary visa and temporary CDS, mind you). She dispatched me to the hall to make another copy of a document I had brought (which cost me a euro instead of 20 centimes because the copiers there don’t dispense change), and apparently that’s when Cruella De Ville left the building. She became sociably chatty and almost human with Nate, marveling at the differences between San Francisco and L.A. and my isn’t California nice. But it all crumbled back into disgust as soon as I returned. Well, so much for that famous French hospitality. We finished up and I could barely look at La Vache Bête any longer for fear of really throwing up on her.

There ends the most recent chapter of the CDS saga. As far as the process tends to go, I’m actually faring pretty well – I’ve heard horror stories of people having to go back for one missing document after another and not even being informed each time that they’re still missing certain papers. Hopefully in February things will get straightened out for real. Then I’ll be on the pseudo-fast track to getting a 10-year visa, which is standard issue to all spouses of citizens, and means I won’t have to keep renewing my CDS for the duration of our stay in France, per protocol.

And at this point, I’m pretty much entirely better. I spent Friday recovering at home in a weakened state, barely mustering the appetite for apple juice and plain spaghetti. We missed the Justice show, which we’d been looking forward to for weeks (gawddammit). I wasn’t good for much over the weekend, but I managed to make it outside for some strolling, errands, and a brunch date today. I’m still at a loss as to what caused my bout of intoxication alimentaire. In retrospect, I find it very difficult to stomach (excuse the awful pun) that the renowned haute kitchens of Bofinger did this to me, but I doubt it was anything else, especially the Gerard Mulot chocolates. Or perhaps it wasn’t anything I ate at all. Perhaps my body was having an anticipatory visceral reaction to the upcoming weeklong strike, which starts in two days. It almost begs a very special “would you rather” – endure another day of food poisoning, or a weeklong transportation strike?