The Sweet Life in Paris

by David Lebovitz

  The last time I saw him, he was at the bakery downstairs. I have to admit I wasn’t quite sure where to look, even though he was fully clothed. But then again, I’d seen all of him that I wanted to see before. And I’m happy to never have to see him again.

  In spite of their supposed laissez-faire attitudes, San Franciscans are not quite the wild-and-crazy bunch you might think they are. Sure, people run marathons naked and the street fairs have public flogging booths, because there’s an attitude of “Yes, I have the right to be nude.” But overriding that attitude is another one that might be expressed as, “Yes, but I have the right not to see others nude.”

  I forgot about the uniquely San Francisco attitudes on a trip back when I went to a yoga class in the freewheeling Castro neighborhood. The Castro is a lively part of the city that was once teeming with bars where all the confirmed bachelors in the city congregated. I remember a particularly raucous night when a group of drag queens became so entranced by my eyelashes that they threatened to kidnap me and give me a makeover in the hope I’d join their posse. It’s a decision I sometimes regret I didn’t take them up on and often wonder how much more glamorous my life would have been if I had.

  On the way to my yoga studio, I saw that Lube 4 Less was still there, but it was now joined by a Sunglass Hut, Starbucks, Walgreens, and plenty of real estate offices. As I climbed the stairs to the yoga studio, I was passed by lithe women in unitards, clutching chai lattes and scrolling like mad on their Black Berrys as they ran up the stairs.

  I made my way to the communal changing area, a vast space far bigger than my entire apartment back in Paris. I tossed my mat against the wall, slipped off my trousers, and slid on a pair of blue gym shorts. It wasn’t a big deal and took me perhaps all of three seconds. So I was surprised when a woman shrieked, “Ex-cause me!” from behind, breaking the moment of bliss I’d traveled halfway around the world to reexperience. “You know, there’s a changing area behind that curtain!”

  Gulp. I looked around, and yes, there was a curtained-off section in the corner. But heck, I had lived in this city for almost twenty years and seen far bolder displays of flesh on the streets, on streetcars, and at street fairs, than I’d shown in a momentary flash. And given all the toned, sculpted bodies around me, I doubted anyone was paying attention to the scrawny guy minding his own business. Heck, if anyone was, I would’ve been thrilled.

  On my next visit back to the former let-it-all-hang-out capital of the world, I’ll be more modest and will change only in curtained-off, specially designated areas, where it’s okay to be nude, or partially nude. Like in the hosiery shops, at home, in Paris.

  GATEAU BRETON AU SARRASIN ET FLEUR DE SEL

  BRETON BUCKWHEAT CAKE WITH FLEUR DE SEL

  MAKES 14 TO 16 SERVINGS

  Brittany is famous not only for its salt, but also for its extra-rich golden butter, which they aren’t shy about adding to cake and cookie batters, often in alarming quantities. Throughout the region, you’ll find buttery local specialties in bakeries that are simple and need no adornment. I always find myself eating more than one would think prudent.

  You’ll find many versions of gâteau breton sold in the bakeries in villages throughout Brittany. I add buckwheat flour to mine, which Breton bakeries sell in kilo bags, since it’s such an important ingredient in the local cuisine. The buckwheat makes for a slightly heavier gâteau, which is mitigated by its hearty goodness. If you wish, you can substitute one cup (140 g) of all-purpose flour for the buckwheat.

  If you don’t have fleur de sel, use a light-tasting sea salt, one that’s not finely ground. In a pinch, kosher salt will work too.

  For the cake

  ⅞ cup (140 g) buckwheat flour

  1 cup (140 g) all-purpose flour

  ½ teaspoon plus 1/3 teaspoon fleur de sel

  ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  ½ pound (240 g) unsalted butter, at room temperature

  1 cup (200 g) sugar

  4 large egg yolks

  1 large egg

  ¾ teaspoon vanilla extract

  2 tablespoons dark rum

  For the glaze

  1 large egg yolk

  1 teaspoon milk

  Butter a 10-inch (25-cm) tart pan with a removable bottom (or a 9-inch/23-cm Springform cake pan). Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C).

  In a small bowl, whisk together the buckwheat and all-purpose flours with ½ teaspoon salt and the cinnamon.

  In the bowl of a standing electric mixer or by hand, beat the butter until light and fluffy. Add the sugar and continue to beat until smooth.

  In a separate bowl, beat the 4 egg yolks and whole egg with the vanilla and rum with a fork, then gradually dribble the egg mixture into the batter while beating. If using an electric mixer, beat on high speed so the batter gets really airy.

  Mix in the dry ingredients just until incorporated. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top as flat as possible with an offset metal or plastic spatula.

  Make a glaze by stirring the single yolk and milk together with a fork, then brush it generously all over the top. (You may not use it all, but use most of it.) Take a fork and rake it across the top in three parallel lines, evenly spaced; then repeat starting from a slightly different angle to make a criss-cross pattern.

  Crumble the remaining 1/3 teaspoon salt over the gâteau with your fingers and bake for 45 minutes. Let cool completely before unmolding.

  SERVING: I like a small wedge just by itself as a snack. You can also serve the cake with pears or apples poached in cider, or a compote of sautéed cherries.

  STORAGE: Well wrapped in plastic, gâteau breton will keep for up to four days at room temperature. It can also be frozen, wrapped in plastic with a layer of foil around it, for up to two months.

  ENFIN

  The image people have of my life in Paris is that each fabulous day begins with a trip to the bakery for my morning croissant, which I eat while catching up with the current events by reading Le Monde at my corner café. (The beret is optional.) Then I spend the rest of my day discussing Sartre over in the Latin Quarter or strolling the halls of the Louvre with a sketchpad, ending with my sunset ascent of the Eiffel Tower before heading to one of the Michelin three-star restaurants for an extravagant dinner. Later, after toasting the day with glasses of Cognac in the lounge at the George V, I stroll along the Seine until I’m finally home, when I tuck myself into bed to rest up for the next day.

  One of my character flaws is that I’m not very nice in the morning, so as a courtesy to others, I refuse to leave my place until fortified with coffee and toast, which I eat while scrolling through the New York Times online and reading e-mail. And believe it or not, I’ve never been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. After the few hours I spent stuck in the claustrophobic elevator in my apartment building when the woman on the other end of the emergency phone told me to call back later—because everyone was at lunch—you can understand why I avoid elevators as much as possible around here.

  As for starred restaurants, I can’t justify a bowl of soup for a hundred bucks—unless a visitor is footing the bill. And you can imagine how many of my friends are going to visit me now, knowing how I feel about visitors.

  One of the first words I learned in French class was râleur, which means “someone who complains.” Maybe it’s la grisaille, the dull, gray skies that hang over Paris, causing la morosité ambiente, the all-encompassing gloom that blankets the city at times. Complaining is such an important part of life here that my first French teacher felt it’s a word we needed to learn right off the bat.

  But living here, I now understand the pouting and the infamous French reluctance to change. From my daily baguette being baked just the way I like it, to the tomato vendor at my market who sings the James Bond theme song to me (even though I tell him that Mr. Bond is actually British), I like things to stay the same. And let’s face it; most visitors come to Paris to bask in the glories of its past, not to marvel at the modern innovatio
ns of the present.

  So it’s annoying when you head to the market, clearing a path with your basket, and the tomato guy doesn’t serenade you, and treats you just like any other customer. (And worse, you discover a couple of rotten tomatoes at the bottom of the bag.) Or worst of all, your corner bakery, where you go everyday, has changed bakers.

  When I first moved into my apartment, the biggest plus—aside from sporting the world’s most meticulous paint job—was the fantastic baguettes from the bakery just across the street. Each slender loaf was a dream, baked to a rough, crackly brown finish with little bits of flour clinging to the sharp ridges, which swooped down the loaf at curvy intervals. The counter clerk would rifle through the basket to make sure to pick out an especially good one for me, because she knew how much I appreciated it. Then she’d wrap a small square of paper around the center, give it a few sharp twists to seal the ends, and hand it over with a genuine, “Merci, monsieur, et bonne journée!”

  The moment I grabbed my loaf, I could feel the heat radiating through my hand and could barely wait until I was outside before I tore off and devoured the prized crusty end, le quignon. By the time I reached the top floor of my building, I had polished off half the baguette, and there was a telltale trail of little flaky crumbs behind me to prove it.

  One late summer morning, a few years later, the bakery reopened after les vacances. Excited they were finally back after their annual month-long holiday, I nearly burst through the door as soon as it swung open, but was startled to see a new woman behind the counter. After I ordered, she brusquely slammed on the counter a baguette she absentmindedly plucked from the basket, one that was remarkably smooth and pale, with nary a blemish. When I hefted it, I felt like I was lifting a sledgehammer. I didn’t need to take a bite to know that something was wrong.

  Outside, I ripped off the end and popped it in my mouth; the floury taste and gummy texture were a few steps in quality below what was on offer at my local Franprix.

  Despite my setbacks, I was proud I had survived le bizutage, the hazing one must endure when you move into a new neighborhood in Paris, spending a solid year befriending the local merchants so you get good service. Sometimes you’re successful, like I was at my local boulangerie; other times, not so much, like the nasty lady at the chocolate shop a few blocks away, who I was never able to crack.

  I knew I had made it here when the woman at the charcuterie finally responded to my friendly overtures and actually carried on a conversation with me, one that lasted for a couple of minutes, instead of her usual grunt in my direction. And our chat consisted of more than how many saucisses I wanted, and if I wanted regular wieners or the ones aux herbes.

  That was after five years of visiting her charcuterie twice a week, which means I shopped there over five hundred times before I was met with something other than a disdainful grimace. No longer does she see how thick she can get away with cutting my four slices of jambon de paysanne, and sometimes she even lets me get away with giving her a €10 bill on my €8.50 purchase, without making me rifle through all my pockets for exact change. (The French like taking money, but they don’t like giving it back.) Funny how one measures success around here—by no longer needing to have exact change, and by the thickness of ham.

  Parisians have a reputation for being difficult, and sometimes kindness seems to be a priceless commodity, doled out parsimoniously to the lucky few. Yet I’ve managed to survive any wrath I’ve invoked with my special brand of American optimism (and brownies). I’m also grateful that I’m probably treated better than someone who moved to America would be, not speaking a word of the native language, trying to get by in a foreign land.

  What helped was that I understood the food and tried my best to adapt to the culture, rather than trying to make the culture adapt to me. I arrived knowing a fair amount about the pastries, cheeses, chocolates, and breads, which impressed the French, and I also soaked up as much as I could. More important, though, I learned to take the time to get to know people, especially the vendors and merchants, who would patiently explain their wares to me. Plenty of people who move here arrive wide-eyed and excited, only to leave after a year because they miss their favorite brand of shampoo, or air conditioning, or customer service, or 110-cm shoelaces (which I finally found at Target, in Houston). I’ll admit there are plenty of things that I miss, too, but I’ve also made new friends, had quite a few unusual experiences, and feel much more a part of the global community than I would had I stayed in the States.

  Once I learned the rules and got past the inevitable emotional bumps and bruises that an outsider anywhere must endure, I became a regular fixture in my neighborhood: l’Américain and chef pâtissier. (I’m pretty certain the first distinction wouldn’t have worked out quite so well if I hadn’t had the benefit of the second.)

  I do my best to act like a Parisian: I smile only when I actually have something to be happy about, and I cut in line whenever I can. I’ve stopped eating vegetables almost entirely, and wine is my sole source of hydration. I never yield to anyone else, physically or otherwise, and I’ve gotten so good at giving myself a shot that I’m beginning to think my mother was right—I should have been a doctor.

  But I make sure to always stop for a handshake and a chat with the vendors at my market, who have become my friends—Jacques, who sells the best olives and tapenades from Provence, and José, at the Graineterie du Marché, whose bins are stocked with all sorts of lentils, grains, salts, pruneaux d’Agen, and le popcorn, which I think he carries just for me.

  My Sunday mornings wouldn’t be complete without picking up a poulet crapaudine, a spatchcocked salt-and-herb crusted chicken, roasted to a caramel-brown crisp by Catherine, the wacky chicken lady who loves to yelp over the other shoppers clustered around her fired-up rotisserie: “Daveed—howareyouIamfine!” in one nonstop greeting. And since the pork lady decided I’m okay, my life’s become not just sweeter, but richer too. There are lots more pâtés, boudins blancs, and saucisses aux herbes in my life, plus an occasional goûter of jambon de Bayonne when she’s feeling generous.

  And, of course, there are the fish boys. Because of them, I now enjoy more fish than ever.

  I’ve been fortunate enough to experience things that very few outsiders ever get to see in Paris: early mornings hefting slippery eels, overseeing chocolates at one of the finest boutiques in Paris, and an educational trip to harvest salt off the Atlantic coastline, which included a delicious detour (of which there are many in France) where I learned the secret of salted butter caramels from a native Breton chef.

  I’ll know for sure that I’ve made it here when I buy outfits specifically for taking out the garbage. And when it seems to make perfect sense to me that the switch that turns on the light inside the bathroom is located outside of it. When during the stifling heat of summer, I know enough to keep my windows firmly closed at all times, to avoid the possibility of coming into contact with any fresh air—which would make me very, very sick. And when the gap-toothed vendor at the marché d’Aligre stops feigning surprise when I point out that the bag of cherries on his scale (courtesy of his thumb) is off by more than just a few grams—a benefit of my pastry chef training.

  I know I’ve finally arrived when my doctor no longer wonders why I’ve brought a flashlight to my appointment. When the change from my €1 purchase is 37 centimes, the cashier doesn’t hand me back 37 individual centimes as punishment for not having the exact amount. And if someone says to me, “That new shirt looks terrible on you,” I take it as a compliment—because in that special French way, they’re actually doing me a favor.

  On visits back to the States, I always anticipate the trip, thinking, “Ah, I can’t wait to be around people who understand me.” But that isn’t always the case anymore, and nowadays I’m not quite sure where I fit in: here or there. And I’m okay with that.

  Every day in Paris isn’t always so sweet. Although I’ve tried my best to fit in, no matter where you plant yourself, there’s certa
in to be ups and downs. I embarked on a new life in Paris without knowing what the future would hand me. Because of that, my life’s turned into quite an adventure, and I often surprise myself when I find I’m easily mingling with the locals, taking on surly salesclerks, and best of all, wandering the streets in search of something delicious to eat.

  It’s the bakeries with their buttery croissants served oven-fresh each morning, the bountiful outdoor markets where I forage for my daily fare, the exquisite chocolate shops that still, after all these years, never stop astounding me every time I visit one, and, of course, the quirky people that really make Paris such a special place.

  And I now can count myself as one of them.

  BROWNIES A LA CONFITURE DE LAIT

  DULCE DE LECHE BROWNIES

  MAKES 12 SERVINGS

  These opened a lot of doors for me in Paris. As soon as I started handing out these chocolaty squares with a swirl of confiture de lait, any problems I had seemed to vanish as quickly as the brownies.

  I can’t guarantee they’ll do the same for you, but if you’re coming to Paris, in addition to a guidebook, a sturdy (but chic) pair of walking shoes, and a good sense of humor, you could pack a few of these in your bag: they just might make things a little sweeter around here for you, too.

  8 tablespoons (120 g) salted or unsalted butter, cut into pieces, plus more for greasing the pan

  6 ounces (170 g) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, finely chopped