The Sweet Life in Paris

by David Lebovitz

  Not only did I learn that the French don’t shy away from nudity or that the hospital food in France is just as bad as ours, but I learned about le bâton de compassion—what I came to know and love as my “sympathy rod.” When I left the clinic, I had to hobble around with a cane. Although my doctor didn’t offer much of a shoulder to cry on (I was tempted to give him a little stock market crash of his own with it), walking around Paris with that stick changed everything. People became incredibly courteous, and like Moses parting the Red Sea, I could part the crowds on the most jam-packed Métro or markets without Parisians ramming right into me the way they usually do. Quel paradis!

  I hated to hang it up a few weeks later, when I went back to navigating the streets and sidewalks of Paris on my own. The upside is that I’m now in the French health care system, and if something happens to me, I don’t have to worry about anything. Except maybe having to do another clean sweep of body hair. But thankfully, I’ve gotten a second opinion on that.

  PAIN D’EPICES AU CHOCOLAT

  CHOCOLATE SPICE BREAD

  ONE 9-INCH (23-CM) ROUND CAKE

  Pain d’épices is a honey-rich spice bread often made in big slabs, sometimes sold by weight. Mine is a nontraditional version, and since it’s my own invention, I get to call the shots. I can’t resist bucking tradition and adding a dose of dark chocolate. Don’t expect a light, airy cake; pain d’épices is meant to be dense and packed with flavor. This is made a bit differently from other versions and has a more compact crumb, with an intense, full-on chocolate flavor.

  I serve wedges all by themselves, which are good with dark coffee, or with slices of fresh or poached pears.

  7 tablespoons (100 g) unsalted butter, cut into pieces, plus more for the pan

  7 ounces (200 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, coarsely chopped

  1 ¼ cups (160 g) flour

  3 tablespoons (25 g) unsweetened cocoa powder

  1 teaspoon baking powder (preferably aluminum-free)

  ¾ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon ground ginger

  ½ teaspoon ground cloves

  ¼ teaspoon coarse salt

  ½ teaspoon whole anise seeds

  2 large eggs, at room temperature

  2 large egg yolks

  ¼ cup (80 g) honey

  ⅔ cup (130 g) sugar

  1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Butter a 9-inch (23-cm) round cake pan, line the bottom with a piece of parchment paper, and butter that as well. Dust the insides of the pan with a bit of flour or cocoa powder, and tap out any excess.

  In double boiler or a large, heatproof bowl set over a pan of simmering water, melt the chocolate and butter together, stirring until smooth. Let cool to room temperature.

  In another bowl, sift the flour, cocoa, baking powder, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and salt. Add the anise seeds.

  In the bowl of a standing electric mixer or with a handheld mixer, whip the eggs, yolks, honey, and sugar until thick and mousselike, about 5 minutes on high speed.

  Fold half of the whipped eggs into the chocolate and butter. Then fold in the remaining egg mixture.

  Add the dry ingredients one-third at a time, using a spoon to sprinkle them over the batter and folding until the dry ingredients are just combined.

  Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until the cake feels barely set in the center, but still moist.

  Remove from the oven and let cool for 15 minutes. Tap the cake out of the pan and cool completely on a rack. Wrap the cake in plastic and let stand at room temperature for 24 hours to let the flavors meld.

  STORAGE: Well-wrapped, this cake will keep for about one week at room temperature, or one month in the freezer.

  MY FRENCH PARADOX

  Americans became obsessed with the French paradox when a report aired on 60 Minutes in 1991, which explored the question of why the French eat lots and lots of rich, fatty foods but have very low rates of cardiovascular disease. The impact was so profound that red wine sales in the U.S. soared by nearly 50 percent for weeks afterward.

  They may indeed have lower rates of heart disease than we do, but that doesn’t keep them from being obsessed with their cardiovascular health. While Americans are famous for trying an endless string of wacky diets, French people are equally apt to beg off cheese or dessert because, they’ll tell you, they’re terrified of le cholestérol. Most are stunned when I tell them I’m not taking anticholesterol medication. Indeed, it’s surprising to the French to come across anyone who isn’t on any medication of some sort. That’s another reason the French home bathroom is off-limits: it’s usually crammed-full with every kind of pill and remedy you can imagine.

  After my health scare, which had prompted the trip to the American Hospital, my general practitioner referred me to a French cardiologist to get my heart checked out. Whenever I’ve stepped into a doctor’s office in France, it’s invariably pitch black and I find myself having to squint to see anything. And this cardiologist’s room was no exception. The French seem to like being in the dark, which probably explains the explosion of fancy eyeglass boutiques that are in a race with the banks to take over any and all storefronts as soon as they become vacant in Paris.

  Undressed and ready for my cardiogram, I felt my way over to the examination table, worried how I would be able to find my clothes afterward. (Now I know why everyone wears that nautical clothing with all those reflective patches.) The gruff doctor hooked me up to a machine that beeped and blipped while reading my vitals. When we were done, he looked at the printout, grudgingly nodded, and told me everything seemed to be just fine. So I hopped off the table, groped around until I located my clothes, and got dressed. We found our way back to his desk, where I sat down across from him, and he began to question me about my health and lifestyle. “Vous êtes sportif?” he asked.

  “Oui, bien surf” I told him. “I do yoga three or four times a week.” “Yoga?” he said, recoiling. “That’s not exercise. That’s a philosophy!” While he himself didn’t look like he’d had any firsthand experience with exercise, I suppose he might have been partially right. When I’m standing on my head, with every muscle in my arms and back quivering to support the weight of the rest of me, I do question why I ate that generous, melting block of foie gras with the perfectly sublime glass of Sauternes on Saturday night, or why I couldn’t say no to a scoop of glace à la vanille with that gâteau au chocolat noir after lunch.

  Then he asked about my meals. Gulp. Aside from the occasional indulgence, I eat pretty well. I like a good steak if I go out, but tend to cook mostly leaner meats, like pork and poultry, at home. I avoid squid, at all costs, but try to eat a good amount of fresh fruits and vegetables. After dinner, I usually take a bite of cheese before dessert. (I somehow omit any mention of the pistoles of chocolate I snitch from my stash all day.)

  At this point, the doctor began a diatribe about Americans and why we’re all fat: “There’s something in your genetic composition that makes all Americans fat. They’re not quite sure what it is, but it’s in your nature. You Americans are just prone to being fat.”

  Even though the light was dim, I could make out, paradoxically, that his expansive French waistline was at least three times larger than my American one. Still, I just nodded in agreement, thanking him for the lecture on diet and exercise. I wanted to return the favor and give him a few pointers in exchange, but I’ve learned it’s just easier to nod rhythmically in agreement and let French people, doctors or not, finish their commentary.

  There are lots of things that don’t seem to make sense around here: the waiter who tells you that there’s no mineral water when a slew of bottles is lined up in plain sight behind the bar, the teller at your bank who tells you they have no change that day, or why it’s perfectly okay on the Métro to stick your finger in your nose but it’s not okay to stick a sandwich in your mouth.

  I’m learning not to let these paradoxes bother me, since I don’t really need to see
anyone for diet or exercise tips. Especially from someone more than twice my size. Plus I’m concerned about my eyesight. But at least I know there are plenty of fabulous eyeglasses in Paris, should I ever need them. I’m just worried that if I go to my bank to withdraw some money to buy a pair, they’ll tell me they’re out of cash that day. And everyone knows stress isn’t good for your heart.

  TAPENADE AUX FIGUES

  FIG-OLIVE TAPENADE

  MAKES 6 TO 8 SERVINGS

  It can be stressful entertaining Parisians. Manners dictate guests arrive at least twenty minutes late, as a courtesy to the host who’s doing last-minute preparations, but I have some friends who think nothing of arriving an hour or more after the appointed time. It makes having people over nerve-racking, since it’s hard to come up with a workable timetable.

  To deal with latecomers, Parisians have l’heure de l’apéro, which is the hour between when people are requested to come and when they actually do. So hosts offer nibbles to go along with apéritifs, which are more popular than cocktails. Thankfully, most dips and spreads can be made well in advance, so harried hosts can enjoy drinks with their friends.

  One of the first things I wanted to stock my Parisian kitchen with was one of those gorgeous Provençal marble mortar and pestles. The kind that are well worn from years of use—and huge! It’s seems I’m not the only one who wants one: I searched everywhere in Paris, and if you’re lucky enough to find one, it’s likely to cost hundreds of euros. Dejected, I sulked for months until I found an inexpensive mortar and pestle in the thirteenth arrondissement, the Chinatown of Paris, for less than fifteen euros. Nothing to complain about there, except lugging it home on the Métro during rush hour.

  I use dark kalamata olives or olives from Nyon, which I get from my pal Jacques, whom you can find manning his stall, Le Soleil Provençal, at the Richard Lenoir market. He stocks the best, and biggest, selection of olives from Provence I’ve ever tasted outside of the region itself.

  My favorite recipe is Carrie Brown’s Fig and Olive Tapenade, which she serves up at the Jimtown Store in Healdsburg, California. Her recipe uses dried figs, which means less pitting and cuts the saltiness of the tapenade. I like tapenade with pita bread points that have been brushed with spiced oil, then toasted until crisp (page 126). Ice-cold rosé or vin d’orange are lovely accompaniments, too.

  ½ cup (85 g) stemmed and quartered dried Black Mission figs

  1 cup (250 ml) water

  1 cup (170 g) black olives, rinsed and pitted

  1 garlic clove, peeled

  2 teaspoons capers, rinsed and drained 2 anchovy fillets (see Note)

  2 teaspoons whole-grain mustard

  1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary or thyme

  1½ tablespoons lemon juice

  ¼ cup (60 ml) extra virgin olive oil

  Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

  In a small saucepan, simmer the figs in the water with the lid askew for 10 to 20 minutes, until very tender. Drain.

  If using a mortar and pestle, mash the olives with the garlic, capers, anchovies, mustard, and rosemary. (Sometimes I chop the olives first, which means less pounding later.) Pound in the figs. Once they are broken up, stir in the lemon juice and olive oil. Season with salt and pepper.

  If using a food processor, pulse the olives, figs, garlic, capers, anchovies, mustard, rosemary, and lemon juice to create a thick paste. Pulse in the olive oil until you’ve achieved a chunky-smooth paste. Don’t overdo it; good tapenade should be slightly rough. Season with salt and pepper, if necessary.

  SERVING: Serve with pita toasts (recipe follows) or crackers, or smear it on grilled chicken breast or tuna steaks for a main course.

  STORAGE: Fig-Olive Tapenade can be made up to two weeks in advance and stored in the refrigerator. It’s actually better served at least a day after it’s made.

  NOTE: If you don’t think you like anchovies, next time you’re in France, try the French anchovies from Collioure, a town on the Mediterranean justifiably famous for its anchovies. At home, it’s worth tracking down a good source of anchovies (see Resources, page 271); oil- or salt-packed are both fine to use. If using salted anchovies, soak them in warm water for about ten minutes, then rinse them well, rubbing out any bones with your thumbs. If you’re still not convinced, simply omit them.

  PAIN LIBANAIS GRILLE

  Pita Toasts

  MAKES 2 SERVINGS PER PITA ROUND

  All of the Arab markets in Paris sell puffy rounds of pita bread, which is sometimes called pain libanais, or Lebanese bread. It’s slightly thinner than its American counterpart, more delicate, and it crisps up beautifully in the oven if cut into triangles, served crackerlike with lots of different spreads. Whatever the thickness of the pita bread that’s available where you live, the important thing is to bake the triangles until they’re golden brown and crispy; no one anywhere likes a soggy chip.

  You can use regular or whole wheat pita bread, and feel free to add some herbs to the oil. Finely chopped Oregano or thyme (fresh or dried), a generous pinch of chile powder, or some za’atar—a mix of herbs, sesame, and salt, which Arabic spice markets sell ready-mixed—are all excellent additions.

  Whole wheat or plain pita rounds

  Olive oil

  Coarse salt

  Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).

  Generously brush the pitas with olive oil on both sides, but not so much that it’s dripping off. You’ll need about 1 tablespoon of oil per pita.

  Cut the pita rounds into six or eight equal triangles, depending on how large the pita is and how big you want the triangles. Arrange them in a single layer on a baking sheet, sprinkle with salt, and bake for 8 to 10 minutes, turning the sheet midway during baking, until the triangles are golden brown and crisp. If they’re very thick, you may want to flip them over to ensure crispness. Cool before serving. Pita chips can be made a day or two in advance and stored in an airtight container at room temperature.

  LES BOUSCULEURS

  Since everyone always asks, I should let you all know that I know how long I’m going to live in Paris. I trashed the other half of my round-trip ticket years ago, and as long as I have the fortitude to suffer through the annual humiliation known as my “visa hearing,” I’m staying put for as long as I can.

  But if you really want to know, there is something that often makes me think of leaving. It’s something that prevents me from doing all the wonderful things that I want to do in Paris, and some days I pine away alone in my apartment, afraid to go out because of it. If I do need to go out, I quickly do what I need to get done, then rush straight home.

  What is it that makes me often wish I hadn’t tossed the unused half of my round-trip ticket? It’s les bousculeurs.

  Paris is a city of bousculeurs, a word few people recognize and a French term I assumed I’d made up (which I have a tendency to do) until I located the verb in my dictionnaire français. There it was; right there between boursoufler—the verb “to bloat”—and bouse— “cow manure.” And it’s about as enjoyable to experience as both of them.

  Bousculer: Pousser brusquement en tous sens.

  To push abruptly in all directions.

  At first I thought it was just something specific to the French. I’d moved to a foreign country and, naturally, the streets and sidewalks had a different rhythm and flow from what I was used to. Paris is far more compact than most American cities and space is at a premium, so naturally there’s bound to be a bit of bumping into each other. Or so I thought. Then I visited Lyon, the second-largest city in France. Going from one place to another was a breeze, and not one person rammed right into me as if I weren’t there.

  So when people say to me, “It must be so fun to live in Paris! What do you do all day?” I don’t think “Avoid people” is quite the answer they’re expecting. But it’s true. You know those knuckleheads who step off the escalator before you, then just stand there looking around, oblivious to anyone else who might need to pass? Imagine
living in a city with two million people like that, thinking only of themselves, and you get the drift of what I’m up against here.

  A short walk to the boulangerie turns into an annoying game of people-pinball, where I’m dodging folks right and left as they come at me. Who’s going to move first? If I dodge to the right to avoid them, they’ll veer in the same direction I do. If I veer to the left, suddenly that’s where they want to be, too. I sometimes play around with their minds, feigning I’m going in one direction, then at the last second, cutting across to another. But they always outfox me, and I invariably find myself swerving out of their way at the last minute. It’s exhausting, as well as humiliating. I actually had a couple laugh at my misfortune just after they cut me off on a crosswalk, landing me in the gutter.

  Sometimes if someone’s coming at me, I’ll take refuge behind one of those immovable traffic barriers, which Parisians have nicknamed bittes (pricks). Other times I’ll back myself up against a stone wall and stand there, just to see what they’ll do. Believe it or not, Parisians will still take it upon themselves to walk right up to me and expect me to move. It’s like a show of power. I’m sure if I fainted on the sidewalk, they’d stop in front of where I fell, wait, then expect me to get out of their way when I came to.

  If there is a positive side to this, it’s that it helps to answer another question I’m frequently asked. “How do you eat all those chocolates and pastries and stay so thin?” That’s easily explained: I walk twice as far as necessary, putting in twice the mileage as I should, steering myself around everyone else.