Parisians have one glaring flaw: they’re selfish. If you’re scrambling for a pencil and paper to write me a hostile letter, don’t bother. It’s a quote from Romain, who was born and raised in Paris. “Parisians are horrible,” he says. “They only care about themselves and no one else. They’re très, très impolis.” And that’s coming from the most Parisian person I know. A journalist friend, Julie Getzlaff, interviewed Parisians about what they disliked most about their city, and almost everyone said, “le comportement des gens”—the behavior of people. Even Parisians describe themselves as “désagréables” and “impolis.”
I quickly got over the idea that it was my fault and that it was I who wasn’t moving correctly. I’d spent twenty years working in very cramped restaurant kitchens maneuvering among lots of people, all of us rushing around dodging scalding-hot pans and holding sharp objects. But did I crash into people? Pas du tout.
There was something I wasn’t understanding here. Fed up with being on the losing end of too many urban jousting matches, I tried to come up with a few possible explanations for their behavior.
Paris has few straight lines, so you can’t expect Parisians to walk straight. They haven’t been trained properly.
True. Although I scraped by at the bottom of my class in high school geometry, I do remember the Euclidian definition of parallel lines, which means they never intersect. Too bad Euclid never had to walk in Paris. Or maybe he did, but got fed up and split before he came up with that theory.
Because they think, “We’re a Latin culture.”
False. Parisians use this line to justify all sorts of bad behavior, from cutting in front of me in line, to short-changing people, to public urination. I don’t know what being a “Latin culture” has to do with anything, but thank goodness I don’t live in the Latin Quarter: I’d be hungry, poor, and stepping over a lot of dubious puddles.
Parisians are too busy thinking about important, interesting things, and can’t be bothered to think about where they’re going.
True and false. Finance Minister Christine Lagarde suggested that French people should “stop thinking so much,” presumably in an effort to stimulate them into action. (Or maybe she had the same fellow paint her apartment that I did.) Fortunately, I don’t think many Parisians got that memo, since I didn’t notice any changes around town after she made her pronouncement.
If people are thinking too much around here, it clearly isn’t about where they’re going.
The first bit of the bousculeur puzzle fell into place for me when I was racing out of my apartment building one morning, emerging from the big wooden doors and out onto the busy sidewalk. In my haste, I crashed into a woman, who stepped back and apologized—to me! “Oh, désolée, monsieur.” “That’s odd,” I thought. No, not because a Parisian actually accepted blame for something that was obviously her fault. But because I’d run into her, yet she apologized to me. Maybe I needed to learn to go with a different flow.
I recalled the panic of my first driving lessons in Paris. Somewhere out there is a list of traumas; losing a partner, getting divorced, being fired, and moving are right up there in the Top 10. For some reason, driving in Paris isn’t on that list. I don’t know why.
Romain, my driving instructor, sat in the passenger seat wearing dark sunglasses, impassively, with a cigarette dangling from his mustached lips.
I, on the other side of the emergency brake, was a mess—a jangle of nerves, white-knuckling the steering wheel and sitting ramrod straight with my face glued up against the windshield. In Paris, if you’re stopped at a red light and don’t floor it a nanosecond after the light changes to green, an explosion of horns will erupt behind you. So the moment I stepped on the gas, I found myself immersed in my first-ever Parisian rond-point, the traffic circle that wraps around the very busy place de la Bastille. Sheer mayhem ensued. Cars came at me from all sides, honking and swerving toward me from every which way, floating in and out of my path with no semblance of order.
I held my place while we all played a game of stop-and-go. The rules seemed to be for each player to drive at the highest rate of speed possible, get within a millimeter of another car, then slam on the brakes and stop short at the absolutely last possible moment, then lean on the horn. By the time I emerged from the other side, I understood why everyone here smokes. I needed a cigarette too.
Behind the wheel anything goes in Paris. Unlike in America, people don’t really seem to mind if you do stupid or unpredictable things while driving, things that would be punishable by road rage in America. You can do whatever you want while driving here, as long as you’re not drinking coffee, which is unheard of, or talking on your cell phone, which is a heavily ticketable offense. “Très, très dangereux,” Romain warns me. But he doesn’t seem to think there’s a problem with taking his eyes off the road for thirty seconds to fumble through his jacket pocket in the back seat for his lighter while the car goes sailing across three lanes of traffic—and I silently say a prayer, thanking God for French health insurance.
So I’m learning a new way of thinking around here. It’s not about doing what’s right to keep the flow of traffic moving, it’s about doing what’s right for you. I’ve attempted to explain “Don’t block the box” laws (which make it a violation to block an intersection after the light changes) to Parisians, who look at me like I’m insane. “How else are you going to get in front of others if you don’t cut them off?” I can hear them thinking.
You also can’t think in linear terms (which applies to more than just walking around). Paris isn’t structured as a grid, like most other major cities, so it takes a bit more savvy to get around in linear fashion. Back in the 1850s, Baron Haussmann tried to change the way Parisians moved by reorganizing the city into grand boulevards, which cut though Paris in straight paths. But if you talk to Parisians a hundred and fifty years later, they’re still really miffed about it. They just refuse to be herded into straight lines.
Defeated, I gave up. There’s no way I’m going to change two million people. They’d won and I had no recourse but to simply become one of them, since I didn’t want to be responsible for adding “sidewalk rage” to the French lexicon.
Now I never, ever back up for anyone. Ever. You’ll never get any kind of respect around here if you’re going to pull that kind of behavior. I do have to watch it when I head back to the States, though. I’ve been in a few situations where it wasn’t clearly understood that people were expected to move for me. And I’ve had to do a bit of apologizing and backpedaling as a result. For safety’s sake—notably mine—it’s something I’m glad that I haven’t completely forgotten. I don’t know if my insurance covers a broken nose if I’m abroad. And I’m not exactly anxious to find out.
SALADE DE TOMATES AU PAIN AU LEVAIN
TOMATO AND SOURDOUGH BREAD SALAD
MAKES 8 SERVINGS
One major reason I live in Paris is that I can visit Poilâne any time I want. Of all the boulangeries in Paris, Poilâne is certainly the most famous, and if I’m willing to brave the city sidewalks of the Left Bank, my reward is a rustic wedge of their world-famous pain au levain cut from the large loaves of sourdough lined up in the bakery, with a cursive P inscribed in the crust.
Since I’m a regular, they often invite me to pop in downstairs to see the wood-fired ovens in action. Before I head down, a saleswoman always hollers something down to the bakers. For years I didn’t know what they were saying. But after racing down the stone steps one time a little too quickly and finding a half-dressed young man wearing only ragged cotton shorts scrambling to get his T-shirt over his head, I realized she was hollering: “Habillez-vous!” (“Put some clothes on!”)
If you’re ever invited downstairs, do try to descend as quickly as possible. The giant loaves of bread baking in the oven are great to see, but they aren’t the only attraction down there.
4 cups (about 750 g) roughly torn 1-inch (3-cm) pieces of levain (sourdough) bread
1 teaspoon Dijon mu
stard
1¼ teaspoons coarse salt, plus more to taste
Freshly ground black pepper
2 to 3 garlic cloves, peeled and finely minced
6 tablespoons (90 ml) red wine vinegar, plus more to taste
⅔ cup (160 ml) extra virgin olive oil, plus more to taste
8 medium tomatoes (1½ pounds/750 g)
1 large cucumber, peeled, halved lengthwise, and seeded
¾ cup (150 g) pitted black olives (I prefer kalamata)
1 red onion, peeled and diced
1 packed cup (80 g) mixed coarsely chopped fresh basil, mint,
and flat-leaf parsley
½ pound (250 g) feta cheese
Preheat the oven to 400°F (200°C). Spread the bread pieces on a baking sheet and toast until deep golden brown, about 15 minutes, stirring once or twice as they’re toasting. Set aside to cool.
In a large bowl, whisk together the mustard, salt, pepper to taste, garlic, vinegar, and olive oil.
Remove the stems from the tomatoes, slice in half, and squeeze out the juice. Cut them into 1-inch (3-cm) pieces. Cut the cucumber into 1/2-inch (2-cm) pieces.
Add the tomatoes and cucumber to the bowl with the dressing. Mix in the olives, onion, and herbs and toss well. Taste, and add more salt, oil, and vinegar to your liking. (I like this salad somewhat vinegary, but feel free to use additional olive oil if you wish.)
Crumble the feta over the top in large chunks and toss briefly. Let stand 1 to 2 hours before serving.
SERVING: Some people like bread salads served right away, and some prefer to let them sit for a while. Whatever you choose, I think they’re best served the day they’re made.
MACARONS AU CHOCOLAT
CHOCOLATE MACAROONS
MAKES 15 COOKIES
If you’re old enough, you might remember the television commercial where two people collide. One’s eating a chocolate bar and the other’s snacking on peanut butter. After they’ve recovered, they realize they’ve mingled two tastes, which in turn created one great candy bar.
Since few Parisians like peanut butter, I can’t imagine peanut butter-filled cookies being much of a success over here. But they sure love cookies filled with dark chocolate.
Anyone in search of chocolate eventually makes the pilgrimage to Ladurée, the world-famous tea salon just off the place de la Madeleine. Pressed against the window, you’ll find everyone from tourists to normally blasé Parisians looking to see what flavors they’re featuring that month. Someday, I’d love to see chocolate and chunky peanut butter—but I’m not holding my breath. Still, I’m always content to walk out with a little box of chocolat amer, the darkest of their famous chocolate macarons.
Not many people know that this chic salon de thé was the first public drinking spot in Paris where women could mingle with their friends without male companions and not be considered “loose” or “for sale.” Nowadays the only things sold loose at Ladurée are the macarons, which are lined up individually by flavor, and find their way into gilded boxes as fast as the salespeople can package them.
For the cookies
1 cup (100 g) powdered sugar
½ cup almond flour (about 2 ounces/55 g sliced blanched almonds, pulverized; see Note)
3 tablespoons (25 g) unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
2 large egg whites, at room temperature
5 tablespoons (65 g) granulated sugar
For the chocolate filling
½ cup (125 ml) heavy cream 2 teaspoons light corn syrup
4 ounces (120 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, finely chopped
1 tablespoon (15 g) salted or unsalted butter, cut into small pieces.
Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Line two baking sheets with parchment paper and have ready a pastry bag with a plain tip (about ½ inch/2 cm).
To make the cookies, grind together the powdered sugar, almond powder or sliced almonds, and cocoa in a blender or food processor until there are no lumps and all the dry ingredients are fine and powdery.
In the bowl of a standing electric mixer or by hand, beat the egg whites until they begin to rise and hold their shape. Gradually beat in the granulated sugar until very stiff and firm, about 2 minutes.
Carefully fold the dry ingredients into the beaten egg whites in 2 or 3 batches with a flexible rubber spatula. When the mixture is just smooth and there are no streaks of egg white, stop folding and scrape the batter into the pastry bag.
Pipe the batter onto the baking sheets in 1-inch (3-cm) circles (about 1 tablespoon of batter each), evenly spaced 1 inch (3 cm) apart. Rap the baking sheet a few times firmly on the countertop to flatten the cookies a bit, then bake them for 15 to 18 minutes, until they feel slightly firm. Let cool completely.
6. To make the chocolate filling, heat the cream and corn syrup in a small saucepan. When the cream just begins to boil at the edges, remove from heat and add the chocolate. Let sit 1 minute, then stir until smooth. Stir in the butter. Let cool to room temperature before using.
To assemble the macaroons, spread a bit of chocolate filling on the inside (the flat side) of one cookie, then sandwich it together with another one. I tend to overfill mine, but you might not be so generous, so you may not use all the filling.
SERVING: Let the macaroons stand at least one day, in an airtight container at room temperature, before serving to meld the flavors.
STORAGE: Keep in an airtight container for up to five days or freeze. If you freeze them, defrost them in the unopened container to avoid condensation, which will make the macaroons soggy.
NOTE: Some almond flours can be a bit chunky, so I recommend pulverizing them to ensure they’re as fine as possible.
NE TOUCHEZ PAS!
Everything in Paris is here for a specific purpose. Even if I haven’t figured out exactly what mine is yet.
Each and every church, boulevard, lamppost, monument, department store, bridge, pastry shop, park bench, café table, sewer cover, hospital, and garbage can—everything in the city is carefully placed where it is, as a result of much thought and reflection. A team of thirty people moves about under the cover of darkness each night, constantly adjusting, focusing, and softening the lights to give Paris and its monuments that extraspecial glow. The lime-green brooms the street sweepers use are chosen for style over efficiency. And you won’t find any frumpy, beignet-eating cops in Paris: they’re all given well-tailored uniforms to wear. Sometimes I’m a little embarrassed when I see them; I never imagined that I’d come across a policeman with a much better sense of style than I have.
And, of course, the food is stunning in Paris as well. Store windows are lined with bursting puffs of yeasty brioche, neat cubes of sugary pâtes de fruits, and rows and rows of unctuous chocolates filled with everything from creamy ganache to whipped mousse au caramel. The outdoor markets tempt with tight clusters of dewy grapes, lush, ruby-red strawberries, and mounds of plump Burlat cherries with their perky stems. All are just begging to be scooped up and brought home. And what about those bins of sun-dappled apricots, fresh from Provence, their sunny orange skin promising sweet, succulent juices? Or the tiny mirabelles, those sweet little plums that you can’t wait to get home and stew into the most marvelous jam you’ve ever tasted? They all look so tempting too, don’t they?
Well, ne touchez pas! Don’t touch them!
Things in Paris are arranged just so, and great pains are taken to make sure they stay there to remain in the most pristine condition possible. And that means keep your grubby hands off them.
In a city where window-dressing is an art, you’ll find a note of apology in any vitrine left uncompleted: “Excusez-nous, vitrine en cours de réalisation (“Excuse us, window under production”—which is also a clever way of skirting the law requiring that prices be displayed in windows.)
During my first trip to Paris, I remember seeing a nice-looking shirt in a window, and I stepped inside to try it on. After a few minutes of parading around in front of the mirror, I told the sales
person I liked it, but wanted to think about it. “Pourquoi, monsieur? It looks so good on you!” She was right, it did look good on me. After I went through the trouble of trying it on and she went through the bother of carefully taking it off the shelf and unfolding it, she just couldn’t fathom why I didn’t buy it. I slunk out of there, embarrassed beyond belief.
I learned that once you’ve touched anything, you’re pretty much committed to buying it. So be careful what you put your hands on. Whether it’s an ordinary orange or an orange Kelly bag, once you’ve made that first move, the next step is to take the relationship to the next level. So a warning to those who have trouble with commitment: if you don’t want to get involved, keep your hands to yourself. Because like most relationships, once things reach a certain point, waffling is no longer an option, and you’re going to get stuck for life.
There’s a lot of justifiable griping about the lack of a Customer Is King attitude, or any sort of “customer service” at all, in Paris. If I have to go into a store for a service issue, I spend hours practicing my speech in my head before leaving the house, occasionally making notes and looking up any specific vocabulary that might be thrown at me, so I’m ready for anything.
I almost didn’t win over a salesclerk who wouldn’t let me exchange a broken ice cream scoop, since I had the temerity to open the package and use it. I begged and tried to convince her that if I hadn’t opened the package to use it, I’d never have known that it was broken, which she didn’t understand.
So I tried a different tactic. After I got up off my hands and knees, I told her that I was a glacier, and either she felt sorry for me, or was impressed by someone who made ice cream professionally. Only then did she hand me a new one off the shelf.
The Sweet Life in Paris Page 13