from la vallée de la loire: porky leaves paris

Yesterday exhausted me. By morning I was still digesting the day's events and gastronomic highpoints.

But it was time to move on. The day, Tuesday, had to begin properly with a café creme and croissant. After that, it was a mad dash for the taxi, booked to take us to the station, where we were to pick up the little mini-auto.

We are off – heading for the Loire valley, chateau country – an apt destination for people who are not especially into the magnificent opulence of the chateaux.

[I drive, Ed navigates. Soon, Ed tosses the map aside as I refuse to listen to any of his instructions. Just because you navigated a boat from Maine to Cuba does not mean you know beans about French roads! It is proving to be that kind of a driving partnership. A hundred kilometers out of Paris I think of the days ahead and reconsider. Ed picks up the map and we forge ahead.]

I roll out of the car when we reached Chambord, the granddaddy of them all, the place that is so elaborate that it kind of makes you splutter. In December, this most popular tourist destination is completely empty. I do not have to wait a second to take photos with nary a soul ruining a pristine people-less composition.







The sky is so blue, so blue that it clears my senses and prepares me for the next pleasure. We head toward Amboise, home to another chateau. But that isn’t the purpose of the late afternoon stop over. This is:






Note several things. To the Q of would madame like chantilly cream on the tarte tatin or our home made vanilla ice cream? – I answer: both.

My travel companion sighs and loses himself in a book, blocking further witness to my food follies.



When were you last in France?
Oh, when I was maybe twelve…
Did you find it fascinating?
I pretty much avoided engagement. I kept my nose in a book the whole trip.
And this has changed now?


Meanwhile, my grin widens and my cheeks puff out. .





At dusk, we drive along the Loire, pausing now and again to watch birds dip their feet in the winter water.









It is evening. We arrive at a country inn with the ubiquitous name of Le Cheval Blanc. I have this very special French book that lists the country’s restaurant inns. They have very cheap, basic rooms appended to small eating establishments. These are not Michelin starred places by a long shot. But the chefs aspire to put them on the culinary map. They work their tails off to maybe someday make it in this crazy world of kitchen perfectionism.

Ed tells me: I cannot eat anymore tonight. The lunch of cheese and bread and tarte and chocolat chaud is still with me.

I glare at him and slam an imaginary door between us. I reassure madame at the inn that at least one will be downstairs for dinner.

The other one knows not to mess with me over food. We both make an appearance that evening.

In the meantime, we have a computer crisis. The chef-owner had written me back in the States that he thinks he has WiFi and that it may extend into other spaces of the inn. We have yet to detect any WiFi anywhere in this tiny town of not too many. My back up plan, dial-up, is also not working. It is dinner time. You, who feel the French are heartless and mercilessly wrapped in their world, I have said this before and I will say it again: I have come across the most caring, generous men and women here, on this side of the ocean, in this country of frites librés.

Monsieur le chef abandons his kitchen duties to putz and toy with my computer issue. Even Ed is transfixed by this. In the end, monsieur le chef takes us to his backrooms where la famille (granddaughters) is watching le telé. In the tiny office where he puts in orders for fresh langoustines and fraises de bois, he pushes aside his papers and allows us to set up shop with our machines.

Just let me know when you want to use my office. It is yours for the duration of your stay, he tells me.

At dinner, I reach a level of hero-worship heretofore unknown to any living soul. For this man of generous heart also has talent. Oh such talent! A quick run through the meal before I collapse. My dreams are already of the next day’s sights and pleasures. There are so many, so many to pick from. And they’ll begin at the table. Of course. It has to be so.



To amuse the palate, monsieur le chef proposes: broiled moules, baked chevre, hot tomato cappuccino, broccoli flan




My langoustines are the most tender I have ever had. Swimming here in a beurre blanc sauce, with slivers of veggies in a vinaigrette




Lobster, grilled with gruyere cheese, in a creamy crustacean sauce




Assorted cheeses to choose from: two. okay three, just for balance.




To clean out that palate: exotic fruit sorbet with rum




Custard with fraises de bois in a fraises coulis, dramatically domes by caramelized strands of sugar




Wake up, open the window, look outside onto the courtyard…




…and head down for breakfast.

from Paris: a work day

Monday. It’s gray outside. The temp hovers near freezing, just a touch above, but it feels colder. I take the RER to the university. Of course, I get it wrong. I am plenty early, but I manage to pace and wait for my hosts at the wrong platform. The cold is wrapping itself around my new French tights. Soon it will pierce their thin close-fitting shield. After that it’s a short trip to the bone.

Okay, I am saved total embarrassment. The dots connect, I move to the right spot, we meet up. Madame professeur is totally charming. She would make me feel welcome if I showed up in sneakers and a cowboy hat. Even though she herself is dressed ten times more splendidly than I am. And I am in my best teaching duds.

We meet en masse, the whole lot of them – professors, administration, you name it, they are there. It’s all good. I don’t discuss business on Ocean, but believe me, it’s way better than good.

But it gets even more wonderful. There’s our working lunch, for instance. I follow them to the local brasserie. It’s packed. Students, faculty, smokers, nonsmokers – oh, I want to take a photo! But I am on business, Ocean and business do not like to mix much.

I proceed to order what they order: a salad, poached salmon in an herb sauce, apple tart tatin with chantilly cream, white wine. Ooops! Le grand faux pas! I order my espresso with dessert. Wrong! It is an after the meal thing. I don’t think I ever knew that.

The talk wanders to private lives. Women are so skilled at this. By the time we’re done with the (two hour) meal, they know and I know all that could possibly change the course of human history. At least our own human history.

Another set of meetings. More progress. We have ourselves the skeletal form of a deal. The professors here have done their work. This will be a joy to run.

I take the train back to the hotel and change clothing for dinner. I had taken a minute (or two) to stop and shop. At least that which will visible above the table will be presentable.


from Paris: comparative analysis, part 2

Walking briskly to the dinner, don’t want to be late. Oh… wait! I see fruit pates in a store window. I may get hungry later. Enter pastry store. Buy 4, okay 6, okay 8 pates. I take note of pastries. I take photo. I have great lust for these guys, I do.



on my way to the Lutetia



passing a square with empty tables; too cold to sit out tonight

Arrive at restaurant. Uff! It is big time special, over at the nicest hotel on the left bank. I know it well, I’ve used the bathrooms here before.

I am early. The waiter asks if I would you like an aperitif while I wait. Okay, it will loosen me up. I amuse myself by taking photos in mirrors and sipping an aperitif Lutetia: champagne with spiked cherries and cassis.




hi, me!

One by one, my deal makers arrive. They note my aperitif and order the same. We are all spitting cherry pits together. This is going well.

We order the identical main course because everyone at the table except me knows that we are in prime Coquille St Jacque season.



over a bed of leeks in spices


The conversation is mostly in French. I tell them I understood 90% of it. I exaggerate. It's closer to maybe 70%. And I keep missing the crucial line. Like, when they were talking about adopting a Chinese girl, I did not get who was doing the adopting: the whole lot of them? The maid? Some movie star?

But I did understand our talk of forthcoming vacations. Here's what I got. And this is honestly presented. Ocean tells it like it is:

Typical American law profs (TALP) – how do they spend their Christmas/New Year’s break?
- grading exams, keeping up with holiday demands and/or hating the holidays

Typical French law profs (TFLP) – how do they spend their Christmas/New Year’s break?
- hanging out with local friends and favorite family members in the Basque region, eating tons of good food and occasionally saying something profound, like isn't this great wine?

TALP during the break between semesters:
- huh? What break is that?

TFLP during the break between semesters:
- three professors, three answers:
o skiing in the Alps
o skiing in the Alps
o skiing in the Alps

TALP during spring/Easter break:
- it’s so short! Who can do anything! Maybe clean the house?

TFLP during spring/Easter break:
- time to open up the country home for friends and family. So come visit, we eat well! You are so on, pal!

TALP during big summer vacation:
- mow lawn. Oh, come on, we just took all that time off on New Year’s! Okay, maybe a day at Devil’s Lake is in order. You got problems with that?

TFLP during big summer vacation, two answers from two professors (I missed the third, I swear she said Guadeloupe, but I could be wrong):
- spend two months at favorite Michelin two star inn at the Perigord and one month hanging out in Sicily
- spend three months at Loire valley summer house.


I am walking back to the hotel, less briskly. I am thinking – I have people in the city of Paris that I would visit now. Strange. Paris, up until today, has always been just my own, left to memories that I created for it. It’s different now. Connecting with people changes things.

from Paris: briefly

What makes me think that the oysters were fresh last night?

The little wormy thing on the outside was moving like mad.



fresh and honest

What makes me say Paris is beautiful? Oh, come on. It is.



december view



walk across the Seine


Why is this post so short?
Today is my work day. I have day-long meetings at Paris University.

from Paris: if you know me then you’ll know that in Europe, on a Sunday, you can always find me in the nearest park.

There isn't a text that I need to add here. At the Jardin du Luxembourg the bright sun coaxes me out, the light wind reminds me that it is December. Still, tell that to the children, and those used to a pause on a park chair, or to the flowers that refuse to give up for the year. Tell them, go ahead, tell them that the season calls for different behavior. If you give us the light and the bright sky, we will come out and stand or sit facing the rays. And the children will run around us. This is the way one should regard Paris. Children playing around all of us. For a day one can believe that this still is a Paris for everyone. For a day. In the public space of a park. Wistful sigh...



le jardin




little girl with sucker




man reading paper next to blooming flowers




winter blooms




smiling at the boat and the ducks




the boat and the ducks




dad, showing the world (in photography) to the daughters in pink




facing the light



from Paris: it was the brest that did him in; for me it was the French coq

Saturday evening started in a tame mode. We went out for an aperitif. Twice the dense fumes of smokers drove my companion, “Ed,” out. At the third place we stayed.

My ruby drink set fire to the table. My French scarf warmed my body. A French man sat across from us at the café. He mumbled something. I mumbled back. Ho hum. Time to move on.


aperitif


At the quintessential Parisian bistro at a late late hour, I got fired up. The man at the table next to ours ordered a cheese tray. He took a portion. And another. And another. And still another. Doesn’t he know the unspoken rules of cheese conduct? I am in a tizzy. Oh, but then I notice that he is Italian. There is something in his manner. I know, it is unfair. Still, I am forgiving.

Ed stays calm at this point. He eats at a snails pace. Actually he eats snails (I say it was the fault of those snails).



les escargots


Me, I am ready for some French coq au vin. I haven’t had it for decades! Piping hot, with four soft, boiled, round potatoes at the side.



coq au vin

But then comes the brest. Paris brest. Puffed up in the oven, smothered with caramel cream, the size of a dinner plate!



paris brest


I eat it, Ed finishes it. Cognac aux pruneaux is surreptitiously poured into my coffee by the waiter. The rest is a blurr.

That’s it, Ed tells me the next day. I cannot take this pace every day.

Today, he stays in the hotel, resting. Me, I’m ready to go. One coq and a brest? What’s the big deal? I set off for the local Café.



reading the Café's own cookbook

from Paris: people doing their thing

My line is this: what I love most about being in Europe is watching people going about their daily lives. It sounds ho hum, trite, bahn-al, but it happens to be the truth.

Taking pictures of them – now that’s another matter. Yesterday’s walk produced almost no good shots. Actually, in truth, it produced no shots at all.

But today taking out the camera was a joy. Most people did not mind (with one notable store-clerk exception…okay okay, just tell me nicely, I’ll put it away). The sun was out and even though the temps were nippy, it was well above freezing.

Walking, watching, daring to shoot, with an apologetic smile, a nod of thanks, to you, who let me take these:




woman in beret, crossing street




family walk




boules on Place des Invalides




in the sun: child in a scarf and pigeon




winter roses and men talking




From Paris: Brittany snails and goat droppings

Of course, I remain drawn to the foods here. They compete for my attention. And today I came across some foods that made yesterday’s loot seem like cold potatoes (though sweet potatoes they were).

My traveling companion (let’s call him ed – nice and easy to type) ventured out with me for the hike on the left bank. His slow pace (ankle problems) was compatible with my desire to stop, look, listen, photograph. I did wear him out. But not before the look of defeat became evident on his face.

He had come more to get away from work and to prove me wrong about Paris than to revel in the life of this great city. But I know better. I have traveled here with reluctant Americans before: people who are willing to give France a chance but hold back their favors with respect to Paris. People who love the quiet of the countryside, who hate noise and the anomic nature of big city life in the States.

Converts – I’ve made converts of all of them. To stay in a Parisian neighborhood that has several local cafés to choose from, where there is no traffic, to walk through the parks, the backways, the great squares, to turn your back to the Eiffel Tower and face the children’s playgrounds – it’ll do it every time. And when they are bewildered at the serenity of it all, the civilized manner of the waiters, the bon journé greeting at every shop, when their senses are thoroughly confused by it all, I take them, smugly, to be sure, inside the food shops.

Ed lapsed into acceptance at my favorite cheese store. I could not pull him out. They don’t like idle visitors here – it’s small and cramped, they want customers. But he wouldn’t budge. He smelled the butter content and the washed rind, he looked and finally said – this is the guy who never spends if he doesn’t have to – I’m going to have to take some of this stuff home.

But I already knew I had him inching toward Paris-adulation last night. As he dipped the freshly baked bread into the butter, garlic and herbs swimming around the Brittany snail, he said to me: please, tell the waiter to tell the chef how good this is. I did. Because it was.




crotin de chevre: literally -- goat dropping




a mountain of tommes




favorites: blues and yellows




the snails that broke the camel's back


Indulge me. A day cannot pass without this admissions: the pastries here knock me out every time.




the only pleasant aspect of "divorce" is the pastry named after it




a refreshing moment at the hotel: tarte de Normandie

from Paris: comparative analysis

Local flavor, chocolate indulgence or high art: which would you prefer? Time constraints make it impossible to indulge all your senses all the time. If you go to the museum, you’ll have to skip the neighborhood walk. If you idle away a few hours at a café, chances are you’ll rack up the calories (who can say no to the gateau or the tart there?) and your derrière will eventually grow too big for the tiny chair at the café table.

So you have to choose.

Same goes for pastry selection: local flavor, chocolate indulgence or high art? Which one?

On my first day here, I have to say that I went all out. I went in and out of pastry shops, dizzy, seduced by the smell, the visual displays. Each time here, the offerings overwhelm me.

I checked out the local little place on the rue du Bac:




local flavor


I went in at least three chocolate shops, absolutely torn as to where my Euro should land. The Maison du Chocolat impresses. So does Cacao et Chocolat.



chocolate indulgence


Those are the giants. Then there are the little gems, without the name but with equal amounts of fresh intense flavors.

And of course, I paid a visit to my hero, Hermé’s where the lines were long, as people were anxious to bring one of these home for le diner.



high art


I promised myself ten hours on the stationary bike back home. I vowed I’d ride Mr. B every single day of the winter months. I swore I would do push ups and pull downs and whatever else is required. And then I went for all three.

from Paris: comfort and joy

My pre-departure checklist is long. It is always tediously long. By the time I cross off the last line, I am late for the taxi. I go down and o9Miraculously, the cabbie looks in the rearview mirror and notices me. Can we make it to the Union before the bus leaves for O’Hare?

I’m on time. But just barely. The bus pulls out. My traveling companion is not with me. He’s chasing his passport somewhere on the back roads of Oregon. People really do forget to take their passports. I thought that only happened in movies.

The bus driver is taking a circuitous route. There has been a major accident on the freeway. I am not surprised. It is snowing lightly. The roads are smooth and slick from the freezing wetnesses.

At O’Hare, we face near white-out conditions. A foot of snow is expected. It’s hard to believe that some flights are coming in. Not everything is canceled.

We sit in the lounge waiting. Everyone is quiet, mentally making contingency plans. The Air France plane has yet to land.

But suddenly, there it is, inching forward toward the gate as the ground crew pushes away masses of snow.



surprisingly, it landed in the storm



at the gate; a sigh of relief -- we'll leave tonight


When flights are precarious, passengers begin to sense the need for cooperation. We board quietly, apologizing for blocking aisles, fitting into our seats without complaint, making no demands on those around us.

A baby cries. How old? Just three weeks. First trip to Paris? I ask with a smile. My companion, with passport safely tucked in his duffle bag wonders if it is always like that: one mother sees another with a child and the heart melts with tenderness. I say yes, but I admit that I am relieved when the mother moves toward the rear of the cabin.

Two hours of deicing. The minute the snow is hosed off, with a milky yellow substances that flow like bile across our windows, new snow covers the plane.

But deicing means we’ll take off. And we do. We lift off, immediately entering the white nothingness, floating in swirls of clouds and snow. Airbus planes are notoriously quiet. This only adds to the feeling of being smothered by the snow storm.

We land in Paris. A crowded train takes us from the airport through the northern districts of the city – those same neighborhoods that were so much in the press the past few weeks. And what happens now? Do the discussions continue? Will they ever turn into something other than endless debate and denouncement?

My companion is traveling with a sprained ankle. He hobbles behind me bravely, but at the hotel he collapses.

Me, I set out. I don’t wait another minute. It’s past noon – people are already sipping their vin rouge and eating their salades and plats du jour. I head toward the handful of cafés around the corner. I pick one that still might allow me to order what I want (on the promise that I wont linger too long):



comfort and joy. with chocolate


If I had to now turn around and retrace my steps, returning immediately after my café moment, I would still tell you it was worth it. There is no greater comfort than the joy of having a café crème avec un croissant, made with the sweet Normandy butter that gives it its incomparable flavor.

But I don’t have to return. I am staying here with the bare chestnut trees. And it is warm enough. In the forties, just as predicted.

Paris, as she was when I left her, two seasons ago, a lifetime ago.



winter song

hold that flight, I want to get on!

Okay. Enough. Really, I have had enough. It’s freezing here. In Paris, it’s in the forties. People are sitting in cafés and enjoying their espressos outdoors (with the help of heat lamps). I’m outta here. Next post: from Paris.

[I’m en route today, will be in France tomorrow, for many delicious days. Fine. One day of very hard work there -- I can handle that, especially since much of it will be conducted in the French way: over fine food and wine. The other days -- well, there's France out there. In the forties. With outdoor cafés. And winter landscapes. And good French people, going about their business, doing their thing, cooking their foods, growing their grapes...]