PARIS—All is well in Paris. We’ve had a storybook week of brilliant sun, blue skies, warm breezes, and shady strolls through tree-canopied gardens and along winding backstreet sidewalks. But, this morning is different:  it’s raining. We’re staying in and drinking large American-sized cups of steaming strong coffee and eating day-old baguettes slathered with salted butter and strawberry jam. It’s a lazy morning. The French raindrops are barely noticeable—nothing like the large, loud, pounding American raindrops. Today, we braved the wet walk down to the Internet café around the corner. I love a rainy day in Paris, where the quintessential gray streets are temporarily rinsed of dust and the buildings beneath the thick white sky look like black and white photographs, colorized with hazy hues of blues and turquoises.

“The rain in France falls gently like a dance.”

I’ve been empathizing with Eliza Doolittle this week. My attempts at French enunciation are attracting blank stares and furrowed brows, while Rich’s words pour off his tongue more like a purr than a sequence of individual, ill-pronounced words.

Pied a Terre
We’ve settled into our apartment in the 6eme on the Rue Dauphine. Although we’ve stayed nearby before, we’ve never stayed in the heart of this arrondissement. It’s an area filled with art galleries and boutiques, quaint artisan shops and the wonderful smells of freshly baked bread and freshly cut flowers blended with the occasional waft of exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke. Our apartment is in a 17th century building, where the winding wooden stairs have worn to a treacherous steepness. Inside our main room, two giant windows draped in stiff red silk, frame our view of Paris. Our kitchen is a small space, open to the living room, stuffed with a dishwasher, washer and dryer-that-doesn’t-dry combo, and a miniature refrigerator topped with a smooth stove. No oven.

Mercredi
Because this is our first stay in a Parisian apartment, we’ve had fun hunting for ingredients among the local specialty shops. Even a neighborhood supermarket run is a challenging game when you can’t read the labels and you need to furnish condiments, staples and toiletries to last a month. One night we bought a small lactose-intolerant bottle of a milk-like substance, disguised as cream. Not exactly the morning coffee of our dreams.

Despite my communication snafus and the absence-of-Internet woes, (our apartment owner told us a little French fib about our connectivity) we’re finding Paris more welcoming than ever. After only two visits to our local charcuterie, the proprietress is already smiling at us. This is fast forward for Parisians. Perhaps it was our purchase of Foie Gras du Canard at 174 Euro per kilogram (~ 20 dollars), amounting to little more than a thick wafer, that charmed her so. Perhaps she smiled, thinking, “Either the Americans have exquisite taste or they have no clue know what this costs.”

It’s only Euros
The clear, golden aspic that wraps around our sliver of royal foie gras, shimmers in its finery. I place a morsel onto my tongue. It vibrates like the patter of fingers drumming softly to music; then the buttery foie gras begins to warm and it melts in my mouth with sinful, beatific abandon. It’s a sensation worth every centieme. And no, of all of the crockery boats lining her shelves, we had no idea we had chosen the most expensive dish in her tiny one-room shop, barely half the size of my pantry back home.

To Market, To Market
I haven’t exactly been thrown to the wolves on this one. My friend and fellow-mais-verite-Parisian Edith, has shown me around the specialty markets and the supermarkets, patiently explaining which shops sell what and how to request a taste of cheese or a half portion of cherries. This is my favorite French pastime—gathering the meal.

We’ve had a couple of meals at Edith and Lorin’s apartment. They have a big open “American kitchen” and it’s a great space to cook in. Our latest meal– “inter-continental pizza” – combines a Chicago-style crust with European toppings. Festooned with mozzarella, feta, goat cheese, sundried tomatoes, sautéed onions and afterwards, draped with prosciutto and basil—we delighted in our toasted, gooey slice of the moveable feast.

Dimanche
Sunday mornings at the Richard Lenoir market are a sensuous escape into French culture. The smells are exotic, the vendors are boisterous, and the colorful stalls of food and flowers are priced to entice. We bought the strongest cheese we could find and the most beautiful peonies, which are opening up from their tight cloisters into the most beautifully ruffled pink petticoats.

Edith bought cherries, apricots, tiny little jeweled berries (whose name I forget), and strawberries for our champagne brunch just out of town at her sister’s place. Our drive out, past the 16th arrondissement, was complicated by Obama’s visit. The interstates were closed. Police were everywhere and we were forced back into the neighborhood streets. Still, it felt good to see how welcome our President is in Paris.

Bisous! Bisous!
Brunch was a simple and sweet afternoon spent with a warm and welcoming family. Ann and Etienne and their two boys welcomed us with a traditional spread of sliced meats, baguettes and salad. Like all French meals, ours progressed over many hours, starting with bowls of fruit and flutes of champagne and lots of bi-lingual conversation.

A small bowlful of tiny shrimp in their shells, from Richard Lenior, added an exotic twist to our first course. The meat has a smoky taste, like crawfish, and the shells are so thin you can easily crunch them after you remove the head and tail. The buffet was our main course and this was followed by an offering of various cheeses with small glasses of red wine (from Etienne’s family châteaux), a fresh coconut flan, and finally, small demitasse cups of strong coffee.

The French have truly mastered the art of a leisurely Sunday brunch with family. The children play quietly after they eat. And when their oldest boy, Elliott, was off to a birthday party, he politely and sweetly kissed us all on both cheeks before he left.

If our French experience ended here, we’d be completely satisfied. But, as luck would have it, we’re off to more adventure this week, in our temporary home– our borrowed culture, our petite printemps French experiment.

Posted on June 8th, 2009 under Issue no. 6, Paris • RSS 2.0 feed • Leave a response, or trackback