The Sweet Life in Paris

by David Lebovitz

  (Which broke the first time I used it, too. But I’ve since learned, to preserve my fragile sanity, that when something breaks, it’s simply better just to toss it and buy a new one elsewhere.)

  Since no one’s under any obligation to help you, you need to prove you’re worthy of receiving their attention. It’s nearly impossible to fire anyone in France, so why should they help you? You need to make them want to help you. Believe me, it’s worth it. There’s something truly wonderful to be said for French service when it’s bestowed upon you.

  Believe it or not, most French people do want to be helpful. A lot of shopkeepers and merchants are rightly proud of what they are offering. It’s just that le marketing is a cultural no-no and many feel odd, or très commercial, if they try to push something (behavior I’ve also heard described as très américain). Handing out samples is considered vulgaire, and if you come from a capitalist country, you need to forget that vendors should be eager to make a sale. Here, if a vendor has high-quality products, it’s up to the client to be worthy of their wares. Losing a sale is nothing compared to loss of pride.

  To get good service, I’ve perfected my own special blend of politesse with a soupçon of obsequious groveling. First, I use all the proper salutations when entering a shop—“Bonjour, madame” or “monsieur.” Then, whatever I’m inspecting for purchase, whether a bar of chocolate or a bar of soap, I consider it with a bit of reserve and disdain—as though I’m wondering if that soap is really worthy of my skin. This puts the staff on high alert, right where you want them. Still, I never touch anything, whether it’s tomatoes, chocolate, flowers, shirts, bread, soap, newspapers, suits, peaches, or shoelaces, without first getting permission.

  The most baffling cross-cultural divide occurs at la fromagerie. Or to be more specific: why don’t they let you sample the cheese?

  There’s no cheese shop in America that doesn’t encourage you to take a taste before you buy. Whether confronted with the walnut-crusted cheese balls chopped into little tidbits at Hickory Farms in the mall, or a wispy shaving of Red Hawk cheese at Cowgirl Creamery in San Francisco, we’ve become accustomed—some feel it’s our right—to being offered a bite before deciding. And to take all the time we want, tasting as many as possible.

  Much to the disappointment of visitors, shopkeepers in Paris are rather meager on samples. (I used to think they were just being stingy until I was almost crushed to death at the Salon du Chocolat in Paris, and now I can’t say I blame them.) You’re expected to rely on the expertise of the fromager, who’s the master of his or her subject, to suggest a cheese that you’ll like. They’re experts and can deduce from your responses to their questions—like when you’ll be serving it or what you’ll be serving before it—what cheese is best for you. Then you’re supposed to rely on their judgment and buy what they suggest. While this may seem like a funny arrangement, in all my time living in Paris, I’ve never been steered wrong. The secret is to trust your fromager and you’ll be amply rewarded for your loyalty.

  Julia Child wrote in My Life in France, “If a tourist enters a food stall thinking he’s going to be cheated, the salesman will sense this and obligingly cheat him. But if a Frenchman senses that a visitor is delighted to be in his store, and takes a genuine interest in what is for sale, then he’ll just open up like a flower.”

  When I brought guests on market tours, standing among the blooming flowers and salespeople, they’d inevitably ask, “Why don’t they give out samples? Wouldn’t they sell more cheese if they did?” They never understood my response: “They don’t care if they sell more cheese. It doesn’t matter.” It’s something I wouldn’t have understood before I moved here either. Now, of course, it makes perfect sense.

  There is an exception to the rule, a lone fromager who stands out in front of his shop on the He Saint-Louis, offering nibbles. Even when the normally tranquil He Saint-Louis turns into a tourist stampede on Sunday afternoons, he’s out there with a bounteous plateau de fromages—mon Dieu!—giving them away! In an unscientific poll I conducted, nearly 100 percent of the tasters headed into the store to buy some cheese afterward. After I took a bite of an eyes-to-the-skies-good Comté he handed me, I went home with a slab, too.

  Perhaps this is the wave of the future in Paris. After all, le marketing is a relatively new concept around here, but it’s starting to take off. “Yes! I speak Wall Street English!” say the young, smiling French people, pumping their fists in the air in the ads for a “business” language school, which are plastered across Paris. They may be reaching for the skies, but they’re not touching it. They know better than that. After all, they’re in Paris.

  CAKE AUX LARDONS ET FROMAGE BLEU

  BACON AND BLUE CHEESE CAKE

  ONE 9-INCH (23-CM) LOAF CAKE

  In my opinion, the French don’t do “cuisine branchée,” or trendy food, very well. For some reason, most of the experimental cuisine I’ve had in Paris comes off as precious or contrived. And don’t get me started on the subject of square plates with a line of sauce in one corner and a dusting of ground cumin on the other.

  One trend I do like, though, is le cake (pronounced “kek”). A departure from their sweet American counterparts, these savory quick breads are welcome served as an hors d’oeuvre before dinner, thinly sliced, with glasses of cool Muscadet or a snappy Sauvignon Blanc. Midafternoon, I hack off a slice or two for le snack. At that hour, unless you live in Paris, a glass of wine is optional. But for me, after a long day, it’s sometimes obligatoire.

  Two hints: To make the blue cheese easier to crumble, leave it unwrapped on a plate in the refrigerator to dry a bit a day ahead. The second tip is to reserve the bacon fat and use that to grease the pan, which will add aromatic smokiness to the cake.

  Butter or bacon fat for preparing the pan

  1½ cups (210 g) flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder (preferably aluminum-free)

  1 teaspoon chile powder

  ½ teaspoon coarse salt

  4 large eggs, at room temperature

  ¼ cup (60 ml) olive oil (if possible, use one that’s very fruity)

  ½ cup (120 g) plain whole-milk yogurt

  1½ teaspoons Dijon mustard

  ½ small bunch chives, finely chopped (about ¼ cup) or scallions

  5 ounces (140 g) blue cheese or Roquefort, well crumbled

  2 ounces (60 g) grated Parmesan

  8 strips of bacon (about 5 ounces/150 g), cooked until crisp, then crumbled into pea-sized pieces

  Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Grease a 9-inch (23-cm) loaf pan with butter and line the bottom with a piece of parchment paper.

  In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, chile powder, and salt.

  In a separate bowl, whisk together the eggs, olive oil, yogurt, mustard, and chives until smooth.

  Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and use a rubber spatula to stir in the wet mixture, stirring just until the wet ingredients are almost incorporated. (A bit of flour should still be visible.) Don’t overmix.

  Fold in the blue cheese, Parmesan, and bacon bits until everything’s just moistened. Scrape the batter into the prepared loaf pan.

  Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until the top is golden brown and the cake springs back when you gently touch the center.

  Let the cake cool for 5 minutes, then tilt it out onto a wire rack. Peel off the parchment and let cool before slicing.

  STORAGE: The cake can be wrapped in plastic and kept at room temperature for up to three days. It can also be frozen, well wrapped, for up to two months.

  VARIATION: For a cake au chèvre et aux olives (Chèvre and Olive Cake) substitute 6 ounces (170 g) crumbled goat cheese, such as a Bucheron or Montrachet (or one that’s neither too aged nor too soft) for the blue cheese and omit the bacon and Dijon mustard. Add ¼ cup (40g) finely chopped pitted green or black olives in step 6 as well.

  JEANNE

  Even though I live in a small apartment, I’m not especially goo
d at keeping it tidy. I’m fairly neat and organized, which is essential when living and working in the same space. But I’d rather spend my time baking brownies than scrubbing sinks, if you can believe it.

  Jeanne is my housecleaner, and she comes every other week (except during her eleven-week summer vacation). The first time we met, she strode in the front door for her interview, and immediately said to me, “Je ne suis pas une voleuse, monsieur”—“I am not a thief.” And I was sure she was telling the truth, since she was better dressed than I.

  She arrived wearing a silk scarf tied impeccably around her neck and strode through my door in elegant leather pumps. The flowery lilt of French perfume wafted toward me as she entered, and her hair was so neatly coiffed and sprayed into place that a mistral, the violent wind that sweeps through Provence, wouldn’t have been able to budge it. Being from San Francisco, I did the brief Adam’s-apple check and yes, indeed, Jeanne was the real thing.

  But lest you think Jeanne was dainty and sweet, think again. The first time she came to clean, she kicked off those fancy pumps, put on some slippers, and padded off in search of the eau de javel, that universally loved liquid developed here in 1789 that’s still dear to the French to this day. In fact, they’re still beaming with so much pride they’ve named a Métro stop after it, “Javel.” Imagine if there was a subway stop in your city called “bleach.” It’s one of the few Métro stops in Paris I’ve never been to—but I presume it’s the cleanest.

  Because my apartment is basically just two small rooms, you’d think it would be simple to clean. When we first met, Jeanne said it would take her two hours to do it, which sounded like a long time. But since it takes me about two weeks to work up the energy to unearth and untangle all those cords and hoses on my aspirateur (and I always manage to find something more interesting to do in Paris than vacuuming), I went along with it. During her first visit I left and went to the movies.

  When the film was over and two hours had passed, I figured she’d have finished up and it was safe to return. But when I turned the key in the lock, the door swung open and there she was, still padding around, engulfed in bleach fumes. Although she’d been there way past her estimated time of departure, she was cleaning around the buttons on my fax machine like a madwoman … but hadn’t yet made it to the kitchen or the bathroom.

  I hung around and tried to stay out of her way, and when she finished, I suggested that the next time she came, it might be better if she started in the “critical areas,” namely the bathroom and kitchen—instead of detailing le fax. Jeanne slipped back into her pumps, neatly folded her rubber gloves, and finally left a good four hours after she had arrived.

  Since our first encounter, we’ve been together for years and Jeanne’s become a fixture in my life. So much so that I’ve slipped from using the more formal vous to the friendlier tu with her. Although she still uses vous, I guess she feels pretty comfortable with me, since each time she arrives, she scrutinizes my face very deeply and tells me she’s worried about my health. She says I should be eating more red meat, a diagnosis that she brings home by vigorously punching her fist in the air. I want to tell her, thanks—now could she just clean the toilet? But I’m worried about that well-manicured right-hand jab, so I don’t say a word.

  I’ve finally got her down to cleaning my tiny place in just under three hours, a feat that’s taken me years to accomplish. I can’t tell her outright to leave, so I come home and feign surprise each time that she’s still there, praying that she might get the hint. That’s after I’ve sat through War and Peace, stopped somewhere afterward for a glass of wine, then wandered aimlessly in the freezing rain until I thought, “Of course, she must be finished by now” hoping to be allowed back into my home again. But no matter what time I return, there she is, bleach in hand, scrubbing the rubber bumpers under the base of my Kitchen Aid mixer.

  I’m not complaining. True to her word, nothing’s gone missing and I’m happy with the great cleaning job she does—in spite of the small fortune I’m spending on eau de javel. My next task is to convince her that I participate in this newfangled thing called “recycling.” Still, I can’t imagine life without Jeanne, and I’d miss our bi-weekly sessions of her doling out health advice and me wishing she’d concentrate her energy on the kitchen floor instead of the plastic holes behind my alarm clock.

  Oddly, one day I came home and she’d already left, which was a first. There was a note that she was missing a sock and if I found it to please let her know. I looked under the shelves, where there was not a speck of dust. I moved a few boxes around and saw the walls and corners had been scrubbed and polished. I lifted up the sofa, and the carpet looked as fresh as that day I installed it. But no sock.

  Feeling the need to stop in the bathroom, something struck me as odd: I looked around and noticed that it hadn’t been cleaned—at all.

  I couldn’t imagine what she’d been doing and how someone could spend half a day cleaning a two-room apartment but forget the bathroom. Yet I was happy to forgive her. Because when you’re all alone in a foreign country, it’s nice to have someone looking after you. And I think it’s a good idea to keep her on my side. Especially with that right hook.

  BOUCHEES CHOCOLAT AU YAOURT

  CHOCOLATE YOGURT SNACK CAKES

  MAKES 12 INDIVIDUAL CAKES

  I often wonder what Jeanne does during all that time she spends in my apartment. Sometimes I think that as soon as I leave she slips off her slippers and socks and curls up on the sofa, watching television and snacking on chocolates. I suppose if I installed a hidden camera, I could find out for sure, as well as finally finding her long-lost sock.

  The recipe for these moist little chocolate cakes comes from my friend Meg Cutts, the mother of two young boys, who I’m sure knows a thing or two about cleaning house—and lost socks.

  The French call things that don’t neatly fit into any other dessert category bouchées (mouthfuls), and these little cakes certainly fit that description.

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

  ½ cup (125 ml) vegetable oil

  ½ cup (125 ml) plain whole-milk yogurt

  1 cup (200 g) sugar

  3 large eggs, at room temperature

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  ½ teaspoon almond extract

  1½ cups (200 g) flour

  1½ teaspoons baking powder (preferably aluminum-free)

  ½ teaspoon coarse salt

  Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Line a 12-cup muffin tin with paper cupcake liners or lightly butter the pan.

  In a heatproof bowl set over simmering water, melt the chocolate with ¼ cup (60 ml) of the oil. Once melted and smooth, remove from heat.

  In another bowl, mix the remaining ¼ cup (65 ml) oil with the yogurt, sugar, eggs, and vanilla and almond extracts.

  In a large bowl, whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt.

  Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and add the yogurt mixture. Stir lightly a couple of times, then add the melted chocolate, and stir just until smooth.

  Divide the batter among the muffin cups and bake for 25 minutes, or until they feel barely set in the middle.

  Remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack before serving.

  SERVING: Even though the French never take their coffee until after dessert, I make an exception and like to serve it with these cakes, to adults, of course. Kids will probably appreciate a glass of milk instead.

  STORAGE: The cakes can be stored in an airtight container, at room temperature, for up to four days.

  TOO MANY WAYS TO SAY THE SAME THING

  Somewhere in the city of Paris there exists a shop dedicated to anything you might ever want, no matter how strange or obscure. I’ve visited shops in Paris that manage to subsist by offering one and only one thing, such as light-bulbs, vanilla, taxidermied animals, handmade umbrellas, fresh-pressed nut oils, antique medical equipment (which is kinda scary), horsemeat (which is very scary), ant
ique doorknobs, organ meats, vintage musical instruments, new and used rat traps (the used ones still have the rats in them), vintage little black dresses (at more than modern-day prices), beer, fishing lures, and American paramilitary gear. I’ve been to a place that stocks nothing but five bottles of perfume, a latex clothing boutique where a fetish-minded friend insisted I try on an outfit (taking it off was another epilation lesson, and a rather painful one, I might add), and the tiniest shop in Paris: the sports nutrition store on the rue Quincampaux, which always seems to be empty.

  But the most unusual shopping experience I’ve had in Paris was just a couple of blocks from the working-class place de la République. With a doctor’s note in my hand, I knew I was at the right place when I stood facing an expansive vitrine that was a mad jumble of plastic limbs pointing in a myriad of directions, each sporting the latest and greatest in orthopedic hosiery.

  Stepping inside, I handed over my doctor’s ordonnance and accompanied the no-nonsense woman of un certain âge to the back of the shop to the changing room, in preparation for my fitting of over-the-knee socks that I was told would make the hours I spend on my feet a pleasure, rather than the problem they had become.

  Before she closed the curtain, the saleswoman instructed me to take off every stitch of clothing, including mon slip. Then she handed me two flimsy paper towels before snapping the curtain shut. French people are pretty lax about public displays of body parts and don’t shy away from nudity, which I’m now used to. Chalking it up to the French penchant for naturisme, I stripped off everything, including mon slip, and covered my bases on both sides, with the flimsy paper towels, which barely did the trick: French paper towels aren’t exactly Brawny-size.