The Sweet Life in Paris

by David Lebovitz

  In response, scare tactics were employed by bottler Cristaline in ads showing a toilet bowl with a big red X across it accompanied by the words Je ne bois pas l’eau que j’utilise (“I don’t drink water that I use”), a campaign intended as a response to our green-spirited Mayor Bertrand Delanoë’s attempts to wean us off plastic.

  To encourage consumption of l’eau du robinet, thirty thousand fashionable glass carafes were given away at a highly orchestrated publicity event at the Hôtel de Ville, the city hall. Styled by some hot-shot French designer and emblazoned with the logo in blocky blue letters, EAU DE PARIS, the carafes garnered a lot of publicity because of their sleek design and the massive giveaway. I’ve yet to see one anywhere—except on eBay.fr.

  Paris has always had a pretty close relationship with water, which runs through it and around it. Paris, or Lutetia, as it was originally called, actually began as an island surrounded by the Seine, which explains why the symbol of Paris is a boat. As the city grew larger, Paris spiraled outward and the water continued to shape the city: the name of the trendy Marais refers to its history as a mucky swamp, and there’s still a puddle of water in the basement of the Opéra Gamier, although nothing nowadays resembling the deep lake depicted in the popular musical.

  With water all around and beneath us, you’d think it would be easy to get a glass of the stuff. But it can take a daunting amount of effort to get a sip. Unlike their American counterparts, who live under some decree that one must drink eight 8-ounce glasses per day, you’ll never see a Parisian gulping down a tumbler full or chugging a bottle of water. Water for drinking is parsimoniously rationed in tiny shotlike glasses in restaurants and cafés, meant to be consumed in carefully controlled, measured doses. If you’re invited to a private home for dinner, water usually won’t be offered until the very end of the meal, if at all.

  I attended a dinner party where the hostess kept the bottle of water sequestered under the table, guarded by her feet during the entire meal. Midway through dinner, completely dessicated, I could hold out no longer and summoned up the last bit of moisture in my mouth to form the words to ask for a sip. With some reluctance, she reached down to extract the bottle and poured a tiny trickle into my glass. Right after my ration was doled out, she screwed the top back on and stowed away the bottle.

  There’s a French aesthetic about drinking glasses, whether for wine or water: they’re small and they’re never filled more than halfway. It’s not that everyone is being so parsimonious with wine, it’s just that smaller glasses look nicer on the table. Big glasses are considered pas jolis (not beautiful), a term the French use to justify any cultural quirk that can’t easily be explained. And I agree. After all, what’s the point of being in Paris if you’re going to be pas joli? And you don’t want to ruin things for the rest of us by drinking water, do you?

  It can be tricky to order water in France, since there’s a panopoly of options. Simply saying, “I’d like water,” in a café or restaurant is like going into Starbucks and saying, “I’d like coffee,” or going to a multiplex cinema and telling the cashier, “I’d like a ticket to see a movie.” An online search revealed there are 214 brands of bottled water available in France, versus 179 in America, which has five times the population of France.

  Before ordering, you need to decide whether you want a bottle, or eau du robinet from the tap. If bottled is your choice, do you want still or sparkling? San Pellegrino or Perrier? Châteldon or Salvetat? Badoit or Evian? If Badoit, do you want verte or hyper-bubbly rouge? There’s also Volvic, Vichy, and Vittel. But wait, you’re not done yet! Demie or grande?

  Unless you specify, you’re likely to get the biggest and priciest of the lot, since no waiter anywhere enjoys playing twenty questions in his non-native language and that’s your punishment. If you’re terribly thirsty, spring for a bottle. Ordering eau du robinet means you may need to ask the waiter two—perhaps three—times before you get it, if you get it at all. They seem to have no trouble remembering those money-making bottles, but free carafes are somehow easily forgotten.

  Yet there’s relief for the parched palates walking the streets: a law on the books dictates that all cafés in France have to give anyone who comes in a glass of tap water upon request. Unless they have a sign posted somewhere saying they don’t do that. I haven’t built up the courage to ask anywhere to see if it’s true, but I wish they’d pass a similar law when it comes to another urgent need around here.

  The flip side of finding a drink of water is finding a place to get rid of it. This is nearly impossible if you’re out and about, so it’s easy to understand why the French avoid drinking it in the first place.

  While la loi does give you le droit to ask for water in a café, there’s no law that gives you the right to demand to get rid of it thereafter. Cafés are notoriously less than accommodating about allowing you to use their often shabby accommodations sans purchase, unless you’re pregnant or can distend your stomach and rub it lovingly to make a convincing demonstration that you might be. Considering how many macarons and pains au chocolat I tuck in, I may soon be able to pull it off. For the rest of you, if you want to use the bathroom, paradoxically, you must drink something first, thus perpetuating a vicious cycle that works for the café owners, but not so well their patrons.

  I used to buy my weekly carnet of Métro tickets at a grubby local tabac on the rue Faubourg Saint-Antoine. One day I headed to the back of the place to relieve myself of the excitement from making such a transaction. I didn’t think it’d be a problem since I was a steady, paying customer.

  As I reached for the doorknob, the proprietor hollered across the room, his voice booming to all the patrons (who stopped what they were doing to turn and watch), yelling that that room was off-limits unless I had a drink. He clarified the verbal assault by making a drinking motion, rocking his extended thumb and little finger toward and away from his mouth, in case I didn’t get the point.

  I got it. But he almost got my middle finger back, and I never got my Métro tickets there again.

  He wasn’t acting alone, though. Parisians have little sympathy for those who have to go to the bathroom because they don’t ever have to go themselves. They have no idea what it’s like. I’ve spent eight to nine uninterrupted hours with my partner, Romain, and not once did he excuse himself to go. I guess they know better, and lay off the water.

  When men do get the urge, they simply pull up to a little corner of la belle France and take a break. If you’ve searched your guidebook to find the historical significance of those corners of semicircular iron bars guarding historic buildings, now you know: they’re to discourage men from relieving themselves on history.

  The problem’s gotten so bad that the authorities in Paris came up with le mur anti-pipi, a sloping wall designed to “water the waterer” by redirecting the stream, soaking the offender’s trousers. The prototype is now being tested on the most pipi-soaked street: the cour des Petites-Ecuries. (Don’t ask me how they figured that one out. I don’t want to know.)

  Perhaps you remember the old solution, the city-sanctioned open-air pissotières, where men were allowed to do their business en plein air. In the early ‘90s, though, Paris started replacing those stinky yet terribly convenient (for us men) outdoor pissotières with Sanisettes, the automated self-cleaning toilets that are installed at various spots around the city. If you’re feeling nostalgic, there’s one pissotière left, the last malodorous holdout, way out on the boulevard Arago.

  Some give kudos to the Sanisettes for giving women equal opportunity to use the streets. Except every woman I know refuses to go in one. They’re also overclustered in the touristed neighborhoods instead of where the rest of us need them most. No matter where you are, it seems the more urgent the need, the more likely you’ll find that the little illuminated button says the cabin is unfortunately Hors Service.

  So why is it the French never feel the need to go? I searched for the answer from Romain’s mother, who raised four children in
an apartment that has four bedrooms, but only one toilette. That means six people—plus the au pair—shared one bathroom for twenty years.

  “C’est pas possible!” I exclaimed. She shrugged off my incredulity and said there were never any problems. I guess they coach’em right from the start, because if I had to share one bathroom with my two parents, three siblings, and a live-in sitter, I’d probably be better trained than I currently am, too.

  Although we find it funny, and at times excruciating, that French bathrooms are few and far between, they think it’s très bizarre that we drag guests on grand tours of our homes, which include the bedrooms and bathroom as part of the itinerary. And when you think about it, isn’t it a little odd that we invite strangers for a look at where we conduct our most intimate business?

  The French keep those rooms discreetly off-limits and there’s no “Come! See the rest of the house!” when you visit someone. Which is great, since you’re never subjected to people bragging about their wok burners or $6,800 state-of-the-art wine refrigerators stocked with California Chardonnay. Or maybe I’m just jealous, since I have nothing to brag about in my kitchen but a half-empty jar of molasses and a few bags of dried onion soup mix.

  It sure is nice not having to make your bed or scrub the toilet when company’s coming, though. Unfortunately, I have a few American friends who have the nerve to use the bathroom when they come over. And admittedly when I visit friends, even though I know the WC is off-limits, if I haven’t stopped first at a nearby building (inside or out), I sometimes do need to ask permission to go. Which is, I think, the least embarrassing of my options.

  MOLE AU CHOCOLAT

  CHOCOLATE MOLE

  MAKES 1 QUART (1 L)

  Aside from a seemingly endless quest for water, one of our other cultural differences is Americans’ love of Mexican food. Authentic Mexican products aren’t available here. So like many Americans, I lug dried chiles, hot sauce, and corn tortillas back from trips to the States. Then I prepare elaborate Mexican meals that I hope will impress my Parisian friends.

  And how can you not love mole? Here’s my version, which everyone seems to like whenever I make it. Parisians seem to love anything that has chocolate in it just as much as Americans do.

  For any of those “If-it-doesn’t-take-ten-hours-to-make-it’s-not-mole” folks out there, give me a break since some of the items aren’t available in Paris. I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got. Because of that, this recipe has about sixty-seven fewer ingredients than the normal recipe and takes a fraction of the time to put together. But it tastes just like the real thing. So if you’re the mole police, please put away your handcuffs.

  10 dried ancho or poblano chiles

  ¾ cup(120g) raisins

  3 ounces (85 g) unsweetened chocolate, chopped

  1 ¼ cups (310 ml) water or chicken stock

  1 tablespoon canola or neutral-flavored oil

  1 large onion, peeled and chopped

  3 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced

  3 tablespoons (35 g) sesame seeds (reserve a few to sprinkle over the finished dish)

  ¾ cup (60 g) sliced almonds, toasted

  3 tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped (see Note), or 1½ cups (375 ml) canned tomatoes and their juice

  ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon ground cloves

  ½ teaspoon dried Oregano

  ½ teaspoon ground cumin

  ½ teaspoon ground coriander seeds

  ½ teaspoon ground anise seeds

  1½ teaspoons coarse salt Freshly ground black pepper

  ½ to 1 teaspoon chile powder, optional

  Remove the stems from the chiles. Slice them in half lengthwise and scrape out most of the seeds. Put the chiles in a nonreactive pot, cover with water, set a small plate on top to keep the chiles submerged, and simmer for 10 minutes or until tender. Remove from heat and let stand until cool.

  Put the raisins and chocolate in a blender. Heat the water, then pour it in the blender mixture and let stand for a few minutes to soften the chocolate.

  In a nonstick skillet, heat the oil, then sauté the onion until limp and translucent, about 8 minutes. Add the garlic and cook a few more minutes, stirring frequently.

  Drain the chiles and add them to the blender along with the onion and garlic, sesame seeds, almonds, tomatoes, all the spices, salt, and a few turns of pepper. Puree until smooth. Taste, and add more salt and chile powder if you wish to spice it up.

  STORAGE: Mole can be covered and refrigerated for up to five days. The mole can also be frozen for up to three months in a freezer bag. I recommend dividing a batch in half and freezing some since this recipe makes quite a bit.

  NOTE: To easily peel and seed fresh tomatoes, cut an X in the bottom and drop in simmering water for about 15 seconds. Drain in a colander and run cool water over them to stop the cooking. Slip the skins off, slice in half crosswise, then squeeze gently to extract the seeds.

  MOLE AU POULET

  CHICKEN MOLE

  MAKES 4 TO 6 SERVINGS

  Corn still on the cob—not those mushy, canned kernels that find their way into everything from Caesar salad to pizza around here—is unfortunately rather scarce in Paris. To me, it isn’t summer without it, and if I do serve chicken mole to French friends, I accompany it with a sautéed mound of freshly shucked kernels, a less messy way to serve corn, which is a sure way to win converts. They’re amazed at how much better it tastes than those from the Jolly Géant Vert, another American who’s taken up residence in France.

  The word sauté in French comes from the verb sauter, or “to jump,” which refers to the action of tossing things around in a pan. In addition to a pat of butter and chopped cilantro, some bright flecks of piment d’Espelette, the famed Basque chile powder, give the corn a bit of a lift.

  1 chicken, cut into 8 pieces, or 4 legs and 4 thighs

  1 tablespoon coarse salt

  2 bay leaves

  ½ batch (about 2 cups, 500 ml) Chocolate Mole (page 58)

  A few toasted sesame seeds

  Put the chicken in a large pot and cover with water. Add salt and bay leaves. Cover and bring to a boil; then reduce the heat and simmer for 20 minutes. Turn off the heat and let rest 20 minutes.

  Transfer the chicken to a platter. Reserve the cooking liquid. When cool enough to handle, remove and discard the skin.

  While the chicken cools, preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C).

  Arrange the chicken pieces in a baking dish just big enough to hold them all; they should rest against each other with little or no space between them.

  Add some of the cooking liquid to the mole. I find ½ cup (125 ml) of liquid is just right, but depending on your mole, it may take more or less. The sauce is best when it’s the consistency of runny chocolate pudding. (If making rice to serve alongside, use the cooking liquid in place of water; it’s delicious.)

  Spoon the mole over the chicken and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until the chicken is heated through.

  Sprinkle the top with sesame seeds and serve.

  PALETTE DE PORC CARAMELISEE

  CARNITAS

  MAKES 8 SERVINGS

  The first time I ate at a “Tex-Mex” restaurant in Paris, I scanned the menu, excited to see a burrito on it. Remembering the “tummy torpedoes” we all gorged on in San Francisco, I asked the waitress if the burritos were large. “Oh yes, they’re huge!” she replied, her eyes widening to emphasize their girth, as if she’d never seen anything so gigantic in her life.

  “Great!” I thought.

  When she brought my rolled-up burrito to the table, in the center of an oversized plate was a little pellet of food, roughly the size of a wine cork. I could have eaten six of them. Since Mexican food isn’t especially well represented in Paris, I like to show friends how good it can be, and carnitas are the perfect introduction, since it doesn’t matter whether you’re from here or there: who doesn’t love caramelized pork?

  4 to 5 pounds (2 to 2 ½
kg) boneless pork shoulder,

  cut into 5-inch (13-cm) chunks, trimmed of excess fat

  1 tablespoon coarse sea salt

  2 tablespoons vegetable oil Water

  1 cinnamon stick

  1 teaspoon chile powder (preferably ancho)

  2 bay leaves

  ¼ teaspoon ground cumin

  3 garlic cloves, peeled and thinly sliced

  Rub the pieces of pork all over with salt.

  Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C) degrees.

  Heat the oil in a large roasting pan set on the stovetop. Add the pieces of pork in a single layer and cook until very well browned, letting them get nice and dark before flipping them over. If your pan is too small to cook the pork in a single layer, cook it in two batches.

  Once all the pork is browned, remove it from the pot and blot any excess fat with a paper towel. Pour in about a cup of water, scraping the bottom of the pan with a flat-edged utensil to release all the tasty brown bits.