It’s a well known fact that I have limited French-speaking capacity. And what I mean is, on any given day, I probably have about 2 hours max during which I can converse somewhat successfully. After that my brain starts oozing out of my ears and it’s all I can do to stare blankly into the faces of the people yapping around me.
So when I hopped in a cab this morning on my way to what promised to be at least a 2+ hour French-speaking cooking class, I knew that I needed to conserve my energy. So I avoided eye contact with the taxi driver and said the address as brusquely as possible. I tried to give off an unfriendly vibe. But opening your American-accented mouth in a Parisian taxi is akin to opening Pandora’s box – 95% of cab drivers will immediately want to know Where are you from? How long have you been here? How did you learn French? And why don’t Americans like Obama’s healthcare bill?
So there I was, stuck in the back of a taxi with a really nice man from Morocco, discussing international politics and the details of my family life in French. Most people would be slapping themselves a high-five, but all I kept thinking was SHUT UP! YOU’RE USING ALL OF MY FOREIGN LANGUAGE RESERVES!
What, were you expecting brackets? Cheerleaders? An explanation of why I picked Richmond to go to the final four last year? We’ll you’re not going to find anything like that here. This is France, and the only connection they have to the glorious madness that is the NCAA basketball tourney is the half-French Joakim Noah. And he left for the NBA (Zzzzzzzzzzz) years ago.
Nope, I’ll have to resign myself to watching live updates of the first round games and living vicariously through my old office pool until I get can home and hopefully catch the 2nd and 3rd rounds on TV, preferably with a stack of Matchbox mini-burgers in front of me. In the meantime, I’m gearing up for a whole different kind of March Madness– also known as Parisian weather in the springtime.
It starts off innocently enough: suspiciously long streaks of sunshine, a few days that hover in the 50s, a few daffodils poking up through the defrosting ground. But right when you’ve been lulled into thinking it’s OK to leave the umbrella at home BAM! The wind picks up and the sky lets loose with a barrage of hail. Yes, I said hail.
Five minutes later it’s blindingly sunny again, albeit 20 degrees colder. All of a sudden you can see your breath and want nothing more than to seek shelter and a nice bowl of onion soup. But before you can get to the nearest cafe, the wind starts howling again, this time bringing black clouds and a gush of rain.
By the time you make it home, soaking wet and thoroughly confused, the sun is back to mock you. So you hunker down inside, turn up the radiators, and vow not to step foot outside until May. Except that you wake up sweating to death because the temperature has swung completely in the opposite direction, and when you open the windows for relief a swarm of mosquitos blows in along with a cloud of pollen.
And when you ask your French teacher what the hell is going on, all she can muster is “C’est printemps à Paris. Et les moustiques n’existe pas ici.”
That’s springtime in Paris. And oh, mosquitoes don’t exist here.
* * *
Here are a few critical words you’ll need to survive here during the madness that is March:
Today I want to share the experience of walking through the Saint Germain neighborhood on a crisp spring-ish day, only to find an odd sign for a sandwich shop called “Cosi.” That’s funny, you think to yourself. Just like the chain back home.
Then you hear opera music wafting over the tousled heads of the students waiting in line, and catch an intoxicating whiff of something baking in a brick oven. So you decide to step in line and see what this Cosi impostor is all about.
And that’s when you see it: a golden rectangle of crispy, slightly salty flat focaccia bread, ready to be stuffed with the sandwich fixings of your choice. The bread! you shout to yourself. It’s the same bread! What is going on here?
You’re busy pondering the legal implications of such blatant copy-catism when your pesto-mozzarella-arugula masterpiece arrives, still warm, and suddenly you don’t care if the French Cosi is guilty of stealing an American idea. Because they’re doing it so much better.
So much better in fact that you’ll only be mildly surprised to learn why: Cosi is actually French. It all started here in Paris. It wasn’t until two Hamilton College grads on a semester abroad fell in love with the place and asked the owner if they could use the name. And the vague concept. And definitely the bread recipe.
I really wish I could share a bite with you. Or at the very least a nice photo. But I ate it all and forgot to take a picture so you’ll just have to come to Paris and taste the real Cosi for yourself.
The most American thing to come out of a French marché:
It’s an enormous egg-n-cheese, composed with hand made english muffins and eggs from the Sunday Blvd. de Raspail market. Kraft cheddar compliments of the American Embassy. And yes, I’m eating it for dinner. Cue the heartburn.
Boulevard Raspail Market
Boulevard de Raspail
Paris, France 75006
Metro: Between Rennes and Sèvres-Babylone
Bio/organic market on Sundays, 9-3pm
Regular market on Tuesdays and Fridays, 7-2:30pm (I think. I’ve never been, and there’s conflicting info about the closing time on the web!)
Being someone who likes to call herself a “writer” and also someone who lives in Paris, I thought I’d go ahead and make my cliché status official by signing up for a writing workshop at a coffee place right around the corner from Hemingway’s house.
And not just any coffee place– the carrot cake from heaven place. The price for the 7 week class includes tea and a slice of cake at each meeting. How could I not sign up?
Anyway, Wednesday was class #2. It’s a really interesting group of women, young and old, from all over the place, from all different backgrounds. Everyone seems nice and sane so far. The teacher is a lovely Welsh woman who happens to also be pregnant, and during a break in conversation she asked how I was feeling.
But before I could really answer, the rather forward Irish lady at the end of the table leaned over and said, “Dear god, are you pregnant too? I was wondering why your boobs were so huge!”
And as I sat there speechless for a beat, another woman chimed in. “Yeah, they are really big.”
Ahem.
I’m not usually accustomed to near strangers commenting on the size of my chest. But to my classmates’ credit, my bazooms are huge. Like, they were pretty big to begin with, and now thanks to the miracle of life we’ve leapt past Pam Anderson territory and landed at the circus big. I should be in a tent out back with the bearded lady charging admission for a peek.
And sadly, I knew this day would come. Ever since the wide-eyed stares in the middle school locker room. Ever since I was asked to be the mascot of the Bombs. Ever since my doctor advised me to invest in more heavy-duty brassieres to avoid becoming a hunchback. Ever since then, I knew that if I ever got pregnant, I’d have to hire a midget to walk in front of me with his arms up, holding my boulders in place.
Because you know what’s harder to find than a midget willing to serve as a human bra? A bra that actually fits my lady bits.
It was hard enough in the States when these things were smaller. But here I am in Paris, a city filled with a million beautiful lingerie shops, not one of which seems to carry anything bigger than a C cup. Even before the pregnancy boob fairy roughed me up I found it difficult. I once pleaded with a sales lady to help me find my size, only to be met with a look of horror and a brusque “N’existe pas!“
And after I nearly blinded a woman on the other side of the waiting room when my coat button popped off from the sheer stress of holding my chest in, I decided I needed to act fast. So I went home and found Linda the Bra Lady online, and ordered up some of the biggest boobie slings I’ve ever seen.
Did you know that cups come in size FF? As in, W. T. F? F!
Or how about G? As in, Good god how are you standing upright?
Well, I’m here to tell you they do. And like many aspects of being pregnant, it ain’t pretty. I’m also still holding out hope for a good, strong Parisian midget, so if you know one, please do let me know.
* * *
soutien-gorge
Pronunciation: sootee-ehn gorje
Definition: Brassiere. Bra. Boulder holder. As in,
“The cup size of my soutien-gorge is bigger than my head. And I have a big head.”
Feeling footloose and fancy free after getting my elastic waistband pregnant lady jeans in the mail, Husband and I decided to head to the 10th arrondissement for a little adventure. And by adventure, I mean tacos and burritos.
That’s right: I wanted spicy salsa. Real guacamole. And a homemade tortilla stuffed with meat and cheese to slather it on. I wanted to test the upper limits of my new elastic waistband with a Mexican feast, and then walk it off by a scenic canal.
Now, Paris certainly has the canal thing down pat. The cute canal St. Martin in fact has paths to stroll, funky shops to browse and plenty of cool Parisians to ogle. But the Mexican food? Not so much, unless you like goat cheese in your quesadilla. But inspired by a recent David Lebovitz post, we set out for El Nopal, a tiny hole in the wall promising real, good Mexican fare.
And sweet geezus in velvet pantalones did they deliver! Perched at the 2 person counter, Husband and I pretty much ordered everything off the menu: carne asada burritos, chorizo quesadillas, pork and chicken tacos. The salsa was spicy, the guacamole lush with ripe avocado, the tortillas home-cooked fresh. I know because I watched the 2 incredibly friendly owners whip it all up right there, just 3 feet away on the other side of the counter.
It was everything a pregnant American in Paris with stretchy pants to fill could dream of. And more.
Afterwards, I resisted the urge to hug my new El Nopal friends Claudia and Alejandro and headed out into the gray afternoon with Husband. We walked along the canal, taking in all the other walkers and bikers and Sunday strollers, until a block of hot pink and neon yellow storefronts came into view. It was none other than Antoine & Lili, a Parisian outpost for housewares and clothing that can only be described as Anthropologie on speed and happy pills. That’s where I found my next granny cart:
And Husband found some new office attire:
When we’d had enough of silly accessories and pink decor, we popped back out into the blustery streets and wandered a bit. We found lots of weird shops (selling everything from organic potato juice to multicolored tights), but my favorites were the cafes and wine bars, perfect for lazy Sunday lounging.
Unless you’re feeling particularly jovial, in which case you should head directly to Le Cinquante. A mint green gem of a bar at 50 Rue de Lancry (cinquante is 50 in French), the place packs em in le Dimanche soir for an organized sing-along. There’s a guitarist, printed lyrics for every patron, and presumably a fair amount of drinking to get everyone warbling. We didn’t feel confident in our knowledge of the old French standards so we didn’t stay, but it looked like just the kind of place to wrap up a perfect Sunday in Paris. Maybe next time when I’m not so full.
If you live in Paris and like eating out, follow the restaurant scene or, god forbid, call yourself a foodie (please don’t), then you’ve probably heard of Iñaki Aizpitarte’s super popular Le Chateaubriand over in the boho 11th. You’ve probably also tried to get a reservation. And failed.
That’s because this place is so hot right now (please say that like Mugatu). Everybody is fawning over the market fresh, 5 course plus several amuse bouche menu, offered up in a hip bistro setting for a relatively affordable price. It even clocked in at #11 on the World’s 50 Best Restaurants.
So of course I was dying to go. And when I called last week for a reservation, they giggled and said no way. But they let me in on a secret: The last reservation is at 8:30. So if you show up after 9:30 on Saturdays, you can sit at the bar and wait for a table to open up.
And by “sit at the bar and wait for a table” they apparently meant stand in the rain for an hour and a half, wondering how all these people in line are going to fit into the restaurant. We were hoping that the doors would open and everybody would flood in. But that never happened, and at some point one of the wait staff came out and slapped his forehead in amazement. He returned a few minutes later and took a photo.
That didn’t seem promising, but he said if we stayed, we’d eat by 11pm. Several people bailed at that news, so we at least moved up under the awning. We decided to stick it out.
And promptly at 10:50 we were ushered in from the cold and offered a spot at the bar. The place was still hopping, but the staff seemed to be taking it in stride. The French guys in front of us got some champagne and started cracking jokes about people trying to cut in line. All was good.
By 11:15 we were finally sitting, ready to let the gastronomy commence. Our waiter was super friendly and pretty hilarious, which helped make the epic wait time slightly more palatable. Then we got our amuse bouche: some kind of bouillabaisse with tiny fried crab legs, a radish and parmesan salad, a tiny cooked duck heart. (Yes, duck heart. I couldn’t think about what it was as I swallowed, but it tasted like steak.)
The main courses were just as interesting, and if they didn’t blow our minds, we could at least amuse ourselves with the tables on either side: to the left, a foursome of the most uptight preppy young Americans you have ever laid eyes on, complete with navy sport coats and pearls. They complained loudly when the busy waiter wouldn’t call them a cab right away. I wanted to punch them.
On the other side was an increasingly rowdy group of French people. The ringleader seemed to be a middle aged guy who at one point pretended to pee into his carafe of wine, joking that the bathroom line was too long. Hilarious!
But somewhere around the roasted lamb dish, things took a turn for the worse. Funny French guy made a disgusted face and sent his plate back. A bit later he said in disdainful, very loud French that the place was full of Americans. At dessert time, there seemed to be some issue with the cheese plate, and all hell broke loose. Earmuffs, children:
Ce restaurant c’est merde! Absolument boulot de merde! He shouted.
Et le service? Le service! Connards!
Le chef? Il est un con!
It was kind of awesome and horrifying at the same time. The waiter refused to come back to their table. So the manager came over to appease them with discounts and desserts, to no avail. Then the guy had the nerve to order a round of digestifs, take one sip, and send them back. It was absolutely obnoxious.
So of course I leaned over to let him know that I was one of the stupid Americans in the place, and that I spoke enough French to catch his drift.
Quel est le probleme, monsieur? I asked innocently.
He blinked for a minute. “Oh I knew you were American! This place is full of them. The dinner was terrible, terrible! And we waited for hours. You know, when I eat something at a place like this that everyone is talking about, I want an orgasm in my mouth. And I didn’t have an orgasm in my mouth.”
Fair enough. So I asked him where he would recommend eating in Paris.
“Oh, I have no idea. I live in Seattle.”
Of course. Perfect proof that you don’t have to actually be Parisian to totally act like a stereotypical Parisian a**hole.
* * *
Today we’re going to learn some curse words, thanks to our jerkface of a table mate. I’m not totally 100% on the translations, but here’s my vague understanding of their various vulgar meanings. Enjoy!
1. merde
Pronunciation: maird
Definition: You know this one! It’s shit.
2. boulot de merde
Pronunciation: boo-loh de maird
Definition: shitty/crappy job
3. connard
Pronunciation: cohn-ard
Definition: stupid bastard, idiot, mother F*er. Not to be confused with canard, which is a duck.
4. con
Pronunciation: just make a nasally awh sound after the hard c
Definition: stupid jerk, bloody idiot, a**hole
5. BONUS! I found this one while double checking my definitions and it seemed appropriate:
Il a peté les plombs!
Definition: He blew a gasket! Flipped out! Or literally, He farted lead!
Husband: Yeah! (pause) So do you feel like your butt is getting bigger too?
Me: WHAT?!? I actually liked my butt until you said that?! What the….!(&&#!*$
Husband: (looking at me honestly) No, I mean, do you feel like the rest of your body is ballooning out? You know, like…(puffs his cheeks out and makes a growing motion with his arms)?
Me: Do you have a death wish or something? I think we should end this line of questioning.
Someone reached my blog by googling the phrase “dog sled poop.” I find that immensely entertaining. I wonder if they were really disappointed when they got here? Like, dude! Where’s all the dog sled poop!? One measly post about husky poo is all I get?
Unlikely Diplomat 