God Bless the Cheeseburger

Our company cafeteria likes to throw surprise theme lunches once in a while, and today happened to be American day. As I walked into the canteen with a colleague, I stopped short at the sight of an American flag hanging just inside the door. In France, hanging a national flag is just short of fascism, and my lunch companion watched uncomfortably while I gave the flag a mock salute.

"It's not the 4th of July yet, is it?" he asked.

The rest of the canteen was decorated with cowboy hats, motorcycle models, and more flags. The cooks were cheerfully serving up barbecued ribs, chicken wings, and cheeseburgers, naturally. As I stood in the middle of the room and took it all in, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. I felt as if my identity had been exposed by making a novelty of my country's cuisine.

I decided it wouldn't be very sporting of me to go for my usual salad on American lunch day, so I carried my tray to one of the counters. The cook lit up when he saw me, and said,

"We made this lunch just for you!"

The other people in line - who I didn't know - turned to stare at me. Yes, I am the American, and yes, we eat like this. I smiled and tried to look absolutely delighted to be reunited with cheeseburgers. He dug through the pile of ribs to find me the biggest chunk, dropped a dollop of BBQ sauce on it, and handed it over proudly.

Being as I work in a male-dominated engineering environment, I am used to being stared at in the cafeteria. But today I felt everyone's eyes on me, identifying me with their food. I rushed to my team's table and sat down quickly, then surveyed my colleagues' plates. Two had vegetarian plates, and the third had uncharacteristically taken a salad. They were clearly not impressed with the cowboy menu.

I did a quick glance around to see if I could spot any Frenchies eating hamburgers with forks and knives. I was disappointed to see that the only hamburger eaters in the vicinity were two upper managers, both holding their burgers with two hands.

I ate my ribs delicately with a knife and fork. And admittedly, they were pretty good. But fortunately, no one asked if I liked it, or if I missed food like this, which obviously would have been a trap. So I'll just keep it to myself that I enjoyed American lunch day, and I plan on enjoying the hamburgers that I intend to make for the real 4th of July next weekend.

Tartlettes

David and I went to a lunch with his colleagues last weekend, and I was signed up to bring a dessert. I decided to play with my new flexible tartlette pan and make tartlettes aux fraises (strawberry) and citron (lemon). I took the recipes from a variety of places: the crust recipe came from my French cooking mentor Odile, the crème recipe from my Classic French Cooking book, a gift from my former boss Christophe and his wife, and the tart citron recipe I found on the NY Times website. At the risk of looking like a foodie blogger, I took photos of the process:

Spanish strawberries: twice the size and half the price of the French version

Little crusties

Oliver and I monitor the progress in the oven

Crème Patisserie - the first time I have cooked with a vanilla bean

Tartlette shell army

Crème Patisserie ready to go

Tarlette shells with crème - the crème shouldn't be this lumpy, but the taste was still good.

Tartlettes aux fraises - the fat strawberries did a good job of hiding the lumpy crème

Tartlettes citron - pretty coming straight out of the oven. Unfortunately, after a few hours, every single one was severly cracked. I tried another batch mid-week with different cooling methods and got the same results. I'm vexed!

This weekend I had some extra apples lying around and made tartlettes aux pommes (apple). I cheated this time and used a store crust, but did make the almond crème for the apples to nestle into. I really have no idea how to make a proper French tart aux pommes (probably involves something exotic like apple brandy), so I did it with an American twist: brown sugar, vanilla, and cinammon. No pictures of this one, but maybe I'll manage to take one before they're gone.

Training in the Countryside

I spent all day in a training session today. When I received the meeting invitation in my inbox yesterday afternoon (that's right, at the last minute), I noticed that the training location was in a place called "Saint Sulpice". That didn't sound like one of our regular meeting rooms.

After some asking around I learned that Saint Sulpice is the name of a village about 25 minutes from Méru. Nowhere close to our regular meeting rooms. I later learned that HR had tried to book a training room too late and couldn't find one available all day. Off to Saint Sulpice.

So this morning I punched "Saint Sulpice" into the TomTom and was met with at least 20 different choices. Shoot. Which one is it? I decided to stop by the office to print off written directions and try to guess my way there. As luck would have it, as I was pulling out of the parking lot I spotted a plant manager whom I knew was on his way to the same training. I waved for him to jump in, and he graciously accepted.

"Thanks for the ride" he said with a relieved smile.

"Well, to be honest," I answered, "I need you to tell me how to get there."

He guffawed. "What?! You need directions? You didn't just pick me up for my sex appeal?"

Heh. French men.

Twenty minutes later, we were cruising down narrow country roads, my co-pilot pointing left and right. There was absolutely no way I would have found the place without his help.

Saint Sulpice is a very quiet country village comprised of moss-covered brick houses and horse pastures. My colleague directed me to park along the side of a muddy lane between two ancient brick buildings and jumped out of the car. There was not another soul in sight, and I was starting to worry that he led me to a deserted location to try his sex appeal joke a little more seriously. Then we passed through an iron gate and spotted the trainer waving hello.

The training session was held in a gite, or a kind of farm house that has been converted to guest houses. They had cleared out the tiled living room of one of the houses and set up a large table for our group to sit, along with a projector screen and a paperboard easel. Outside of our little house stood a low-slung brick building with wooden doors that couldn't be higher than four feet. I was curious to poke around and find out it was used for, but I was soon ushered into the training room and set to work.

The training itself was nothing worth mentioning, but I couldn't get over the oddity of carrying a standard day-long training session to a remote location in the country. Was this some kind of retreat? If so, why wasn't I relaxed? Like many European farmhouses I've visited, the radiators were new enough but didn't give off heat enough. Of course - dumb me - I wasn't wearing socks, either. I ended up sitting with my coat over my shoulders, but it didn't help my cold feet.

At lunch we were sent to the other half of our living room, where a dining table was set up. Then the house chef and his helpers passed back and forth between our little house and the main house, carrying our meals. And it was truly a French meal.

We started with little salads, topped with a small filet of unknown whitefish and tomato sauce. Then came the main course, another kind of fish unknown to me on a tomato tart and a bed of rice, with a cream sauce. Following this was the cheese course, with another little salad and two kinds of cheese, one goat and one cow (I think).

While we ate I pondered the menu and thought about how often I have no idea what I'm eating. Especially when it comes to fish. The thing is, in France you eat what you're given because often, you don't have a choice. If I'd refused to eat my lunch because I don't like fish, I would have gone hungry. This is also how I came to be a veal and lamb eater. Consequently, there is no such thing as a vegetarian in France.

After the cheese came an impossibly fancy chocolate dessert and coffee. Incidentally, I wasn't asked if I wanted coffee, it was just delivered to me. I leaned back and tried to ask for a bit of milk, but my request went unheard and I didn't want to make an embarrassing racket with my bad accent. So I gave up and dumped a packet of sugar into the cup and drank it. And someday I'll say "...and that's how I came to be a black coffee drinker."

Our session ended late, past 6 p.m., and it was pitch black in Saint Sulpice. Not a street lamp for miles. My colleague piled back into my car and helped get us back to Méru, where I dropped him off.

What a strange work day. This one is definitely going under the "France is Weird" file.

Lunchtime

Most people look forward to lunch as a relaxing break. This is especially true in France. No one eats at their desk. Everyone takes time to walk to the cafeteria and eat a complete meal of starter, main dish, and dessert. This is often followed by coffee.

For me, lunch is not much more relaxing than work. It is still in French and requires effort in order to follow the conversation. This conversation is rarely about work, and is usually relatively interesting.

My lunch experience on Friday was quite typical. We sat down and the start of the conversation was directed towards me. They were interested in know what my plans were for the weekend. Most people are under the impression that Chi and I travel a lot because we are new to Europe. This is true compared to the typical Frenchman, who only travels during certain times throughout the year.

My lunch companions’ latest suggestion was Deauville. It is on the coast west of France and only a few hours drive. There was an annual American film festival there last weekend and this must have been what brought it to mind.

More interestingly, apparently, is the local cheeses of Deauville because this is the direction to which the conversation took. The cheeses of Deauville became compared with the cheeses of Caen, a city towards the east of Deauville. In typical fashion, I took the opportunity to daydream. The steady French conversation provided a mellow background for my thoughts.

After ten minutes or so I faded back into the conversation. They had arced their way across France to the cheeses of Alsace. I was in disbelief. I stopped them mid-sentence and asked, “Are you guys still talking about...cheese?”

They looked at me. I looked at the younger guy across from me who was wearing a grin. Yes, yes they were still talking about cheese. They must have realized how ridiculous I found all this. They finished by stating: “Yes…Deauville. You must visit Deauville.”

Mmm....Violets....

I was in the local grocery store the other day, looking for plain old cherry yogurt, when I spotted mint tea yogurt. And that's when I decided to write down all of the bizarre yogurt flavors in Shopi. For your enjoyment and amazement:

Mint Tea
Peach & Passion Fruit
Almond
Violet
Chestnut
Cafe Cappuccino
Rubarb & Strawberry
Litchi

Now I know you're curious to know what violet yogurt tastes like, and I can assure that I am too. But not enough to buy one. Blech.

Peeps at Work

Thanks to a birthday box from a friend and our annual Easter package from my mom, I found myself with three packages of Peeps this year. Peeps always make me smile, make me think of Easter and springtime. I set aside the pink box for Vincent and Jeanne's kids, and decided to take the other two to work.

One thing I love about living in France is the little culture exchanges we encounter. When I placed the box of Peeps on my desk, my desk neighbor and co-worker immediately picked it up curiously. He asked "C'est quoi, ca?" (what is this?) and gingerly poked a Peep in the nose through the plastic. It was so cute.

A few hours after lunch, around that lazy mid-afternoon snack time, I opened the packages and started playing Easter Bunny (or Easter Bell, as the French would have it). I did this last year as well, when my group was smaller and I only had one package. But this year my group has expanded, and we sit with bunch of designers now, so I had more people with whom to share the love. And the sugar.

As I started pulling the gooey little chicks apart and handing them out, I found myself explaining Peeps:
This is a typical American candy we have at Easter. Although now they make them for all holidays, but Easter was the first. The traditional shape is a chick - you see, this is a little chicken - and the traditional color is yellow. They also make bunnies - no the bunnies aren't gray - they're blue or pink or yellow like the chicks.

I realized that I reminded myself of my colleague Hervé, giving me French cuisine lessons in the canteen, or Iñigo, piling my plate with "typically Spanish" food: I was teaching them about American food. I fretted a little bit that I was giving them the wrong idea of traditional American food. But what else could I tell them about? Hot dogs? Kraft macaroni and cheese? A Peep is as good a place to start as any.

So each colleague took a Peep, squeezed it cautiously between their fingers, and tentatively took a bite. They made faces and giggled and stuck out their tongues to show who had eaten the blue ones. And always the same wide-eyed proclamation: "It's all sugar!"

Lunch in Valencia

I spent the first part of this week in Valencia, the first of a series of three visits over as many weeks.

I suppose I don't need to go on again about the beautiful weather or the friendliness of the locals, but the fun bit about this last trip was the team lunch.

I was training a whole project team on the software, and the program manager treated us to lunch at a local restaurant. We went to this place they refer to only as "the buffet", which I'd heard people rave about before.

I know nothing about Spanish food expect maybe paella, so I tugged on the sleeve of the lead engineer (Inigo Montoya) and asked for help. He was happy to introduce me to his country's cuisine and dragged me around the many displays of food, pointing things out.

Inigo: Here are some salads. You can take what you like.

me: ok, I'll try this.

Inigo: no no, you want this. This is typically Spanish.

me: What is it?

Inigo: Some kind of fish. I'm not sure. Just eat it, it's Spanish.

This went on for a while until he'd filled my plate with "typically Spanish" food of questionable nature.

My famously picky brother would have had a panic attack if Inigo was in charge of his lunch. On the other hand, my mother would have had a field day.

After starters, we moved onto the main courses, which included two paella pans at least four feet in diameter, and a tray of squids as big as my fist. Inigo decided to spare me the squids, but I tried a cute little octopus with head, legs, tentacles intact. I wished I had brought my camera.

Dessert wasn't quite as adventerous, but I did have a piece of pineapple with caramelized sugar on it. There might have been some kind of cheese on there as well...I'm not sure.

That afternoon I wrote an e-mail to my dad: Ate an octopus for lunch. Tell mom.

Galette de Roi - King Cake

Yesterday was Epiphany, which I've learned is the day that the three kings visted Bethlehem and the baby Jesus. In Spain this is the day that kiddies get presents: they leave wish lists in their shoes by the door and the wisemen leave gifts.

In France they have galette de roi, or King Cake. This is a round pastry filled with almond paste and shared with family and/or friends. Wikipedia tells me that this is also a tradition in New Orleans and the southern US states, but the King Cake is more like a brioche with icing on top. There's a little trinket inside, and whoever gets the trinket in their piece is crowned king or queen. Each cake comes with a crown for the coronation.

What's odd about this cake is that everyone eats it with their fingers. In this, the country of silverware rules, they're eating dessert with their fingers?

Anyway, Wally decided to introduce me to my very first galette de roi yesterday. He bought a little one for the three of us, but David decided to go running instead and I went to Wally's place on my own. Well, since there were only two of us, Wally and I had to share the whole thing because shoot, someone had to be crowned king.

Wally heated it up, which made it extra tasty, and we delicately nibbled through the whole thing until I bit the little porcelain figure of a dragonfly. I am queen!

Kangourou

Just when I thought I’d finally seen everything France had to offer in terms of meat, we had a special Christmas lunch in the canteen today.

I read the menu on the counter and saw “kangourou” and thought: there’s no way. Please please please don't be what I think that is.

I pointed to the trays of meat and asked my colleague: “What is this?”

He said “You know…the animal of Australia?”

“You’re joking."

“No. It’s not common, but we have it in France sometimes.”

Why would anyone eat a kangaroo? They’re so cute. I bet it’s not on the menu at Outback Steakhouse.

I toyed with the idea of trying it strictly for scientific (and blog) purposes, but I was too hungry for experimentation. I stuck with the chicken in mushroom sauce.

It’s funny that this is our company’s idea of a “special” lunch. Although it seems I wasn’t the only one who was weirded out, because the line for kangaroo was empty.

Mini Cornettos

Here's another reason why French women (let's face it - French people in general) are so thin: mini Cornettos.

Isn't it cute? And just enough for a bite-sized dessert. Genius.

Raisins of Anger

This week has been really hectic for me at work because my team is hosting a workshop and software validation session here in Méru. Our colleagues from Germany and the US flew in, we locked ourselves into a few conference rooms, and hammered out the first round of testing on the new release of the software.

Anyway, that stuff is boring, but the best part about workshops is always the group dinner.

On Wednesday we met in a small village about 20 minutes from Méru at a restaurant called Ratapoil, which means “naked rat”. It’s a really unusual place, with mannequins in the garden, comics painted on the front gate, and glass flowers hanging from the ceiling. And my favorite part, the animatronic artist.

Apparently the artist Honoré Daumier used to live in that building in the late 1800’s, and to commemorate him the restaurant owners had an animatronic replica made. So in the corner of the restaurant sits this life-like plastic man who occasionally leans forward and draws pictures. And he’s good! He drew me a picture of Don Quixote during my last visit. It’s a little creepy, but fascinating.

The menu was equally interesting, with such delicacies as lamb’s head, veal’s head, and rognon blanc, or sheep testicles. Oh no, I’m not kidding. Testicles.

My colleague Hervé, a French guy, of course, ordered the rognon blanc, and when his meal arrived he challenged me to try it. And I did. It tasted like kidney, which isn’t a good taste. The guy sitting next to me said, "Well there’s a good way to scare off a date". But at least I tried it, and it made for a good story to tell Dave that night.

Later in the evening we were discussing famous writers and the name Emile Zola came up. I asked, “Who’s Emile Zola?”

There was a fair amount of discussion in French, then Dominique announced “Les Miserables.”

Then he realized, “No no, that’s Victor Hugo”.

More French chattering, and I thought we were done talking about it and started mentally wandering into another conversation. A few minutes later they must have reached a conclusion and I heard “Raisins de….” Hervé leaned forward and said to me “Raisins of Anger”.

I said “What are you talking about?”

He said “It’s a very famous book. ‘Raisins of Anger’. Don't you know it? No wait…Grapes of Anger.”

I said, “Grapes of Wrath”?

YES! They all said triumphantly. What’s a "wrath" anyway?

No, I said, that’s John Steinback.

They gave up. But apparently Emile Zola is a very famous French writer.

Dinner Rules

After our dinner with the Le Bihan family on Saturday night, I spent some more time reading my book about French culture, French or Foe? There's nothing quite like reading about all the faux pas you've made after the fact.

Today at lunch I had a discussion with my colleagues about the rules I learned. "So many rules", I whined. "But it's all common sense!" Hervé argued.

Here are some examples:

• Don't bring flowers - it puts the hostess at an inconvenience to look for a vase. Hervé disagrees with this one. He thinks my book is a little over my head.

• Flower rules: no chrysanthemums (for funerals), carnations, or red roses (for romance). Flowers must be an odd number, and yellow roses are a suggestion to the hostess that her husband is cheating.

• Don't bring wine - it suggests the host can't be trusted to choose the wine for the evening and makes him feel obliged to serve yours. Hervé also disagrees with this one.

• Keep your hands on the table. For the rest of the world it's polite to keep your hands on your lap when you're not eating, but for the French hidden hands mean that they're up to trouble. I understand that this is old fashioned rule for showing that you don't have a gun.

• Don't cut your salad, fold. This is left over from when all knives were made of silver and the metal reacted with the salad dressing, leaving a bad taste.

• When offered cheese, don't cut off the tip. The cheese must retain its shape.

• Cheeses must be offered in odd numbers.

• When eating bread, don't bite off. You must tear off a small piece and put the whole bit in your mouth.

• Only two kinds of food can be picked up with your fingers: bread and asparagus. Everything else - fruit, fries- must be eaten with utensils.

• When toasting, maintain eye contact and do not cross the arms of another toast.

I'm pretty sure I was guilty of breaking at least a few of these rules last Saturday night. I groaned and said "I'm never eating with the French again."

Alfredo said "Well it's too late for that."

Hervé said "Keep your hands on the table!"

A Nice Walk, a Haircut, and a Bit of English Cheese

This is why I love living in the city:
Yesterday morning I left the apartment at about 10:30 and dropped off a pair of shoes for new heels, dropped off my dry cleaning, and was standing in line at the post office by 10:40. Not bad. Bought postcard stamps, sent a priority envelope to the bank, picked up a baguette, and back to the apartment by 11.

Then I walked to the Saturday market, where I was again grilled about my origin (this time from another butcher), the fish guy gave me a free lemon and the vegetable woman chatted with me in Franglais about my French lessons.

After unloading the food I went out again and got a haircut, which was my first in France. I purposely had my hair cut at the last possible minute before leaving the states in order to put it off in France for as long as I could. But it was getting long and unruly and I really couldn't stand it anymore.

While I waited my turn, I frantically text messaged two friends and asked "Do I tip for a haircut in France?". The answers came back: "Only if the service and the haircut are really good" and "no way!". Ok then. Then another message beeped in:
"Welcome to the land of no tipping!"

There were two people working when I walked in, a smooth middle-aged guy with a pony tail and a tall, svelt black girl with blonde hair. I thought "This is going to be cool. I'm going to have a real French haircut". The shampoo girl washed my hair, then led me a chair next to where the black girl was working. Then she walked away and a small Asian woman replaced her. She said (I think) "How would you like your hair cut?"

So my first French haircut was in fact conducted by a Philippino woman. Who actually reminded me a lot of my friend Terry's mom. After I realized the resemblence it was oddly comforting.

The haircut wasn't great, but all that I could expect for not being able to communicate.

Back home, I made our lunch, which I took a picture of to share the global range of our meal. We were still finishing off the English cheese that Adam brought over, plus a block of American cheddar my parents brought and a bit of provolone we got from the Italian booth at the market. When I was in Valencia I bought a bit of meat, and we had some additional meat from the grocery store. Voila.
Anyway, after that the weather was decent and we decided to go into Paris. We visited the Viaduc des Arts, which is a group of boutiques in the vaulted spaces beneath an old railway. The shops were all closed, but the area above (where the tracks used to be) was converted into a long garden with nice views of the streets below.

We left the gardens and walked to the Bastille, then a busy narrow street of bars and restaurants. We had dinner in a small Mexican restaurant, an early anniversary dinner because we didn't want to deal with the hassle of finding an open restaurant on a Sunday night.

Today Dave and I took a walk into Levallois-Perret and found that the entire town had been converted into a giant garage sale. Which answers the question "How do people in apartments have garage sales?"

Several roads were blocked off and each family was assigned a table to display their stuff. As we walked through the crowds, Dave said "Wow, they have the same junk we do in the states". We kept an eye out for a city bike for me, but the only one we found was 140 euros.

Dave soon got tired of the crowds and went home, but I walked for a bit longer, stopping to look at interesting antiques and shoes. I saw wine for sale, (how French), and buffalo skulls (how odd), and a box of old wedding rings (how creepy).

A New Baguette

After a particularly bad time at work, my day improved tenfold when I picked up Dave. He let me complain all the way home, and agreed to take a walk with me to pick up some stuff for dinner.

On the way back we stopped at a new bakery to grab a baguette before they were sold out for the night. We paid 20 cents more than our regular bakery, but as soon as I had it in hand I knew it was much better. We had only walked a block before tearing off the end and snacking on it for the rest of the walk. Which, by the way, is so French.

Dave didn't like the baguettes at our local bakery because they were too doughy. I didn't like the baguettes from the grocery store because they are always stale by the time I get home. This one had a nice firm crust and a perfectly baked center that we both loved. It really made me happy to find a new favorite baguette.

P.S. If you didn't know (if you're not French, that is), the word baguette is not unique to the bread. Baguette is actually the shape, long and thin. Therefore, chopsticks are also called baguettes. Funny, huh?

Choucroute and Fontainebleau

Saturday morning as we were walking back from parking the new car in the garage we stopped at a local market. We poked around for a little while and came upon a butcher's stand selling choucroute. Since Dave is a new fan of the German dish, we decided to buy some for lunch.

What we didn't know about ordering choucroute is that one orders the sauerkraut by weight, then selects the meat to go with it. We thought we'd just order "1 kilo" and get kraut, potatoes, and meat all in one container without any more communication. So after the butcher had dished up 1 kilo of kraut and stood there expectantly, we knew we were in trouble.

We pleaded "viande", as in "please add meat!" and the butcher said "oui!" as in "yes, tell me what you want!"

So we staggered for a few minutes until the guy in line behind us figured out what was going on and cheerfully explained every cut of meat available for choucroute in English. We were so relieved and amazed by his excellent English language skills, I just wanted to hug him.

Anyway, we wound up with enough food to feed four, so we brought it home and surprised Kathryn with a German lunch.

After that, for Kathryn's last day in town we decided to take a small road trip out to Chateau Fontainebleau. Unfortunately, the car and choucroute business took all morning and we didn't get going until 3:00. By the time we reached the castle it was close to closing time, so we walked around the grounds and took photos.

On the way back we passed a park of huge boulders that looked interesting, so we stopped to have a small hike. It was a really fun place that is apparently quite popular with the "bouldering" crowd.

We also stopped in the village of Barbizon for a quick look. It has a reputation of being an artists' hang out, but we didn't see anyone particularly artsy, just a few galleries.

And then on the rest of the drive home we got stuck in Paris traffic. Locals coming home from their ski vacations I guess. We must have been in the car for 2 hours and sitting in the back I got really car sick.

Bouchées à la Reine

On Saturday morning Kathryn and I decided to visit the infamous discount store, Tati. We claimed to be looking for good deals, but honestly, we were hoping to see a brawl. I bought some toothpaste and soap, we walked around for a while, and we finally left having our personal space comprised enough for one day.

Dave wanted nothing to do with Tati, naturally, so we met up with him at the apartment and left together for Montmartre. It rained a little, but we still had a good view and nice walk through Sacre Coeur and the town. We tried to visit a Dali exhibition but it was already closed for the night.

So we came back to the apartment to meet Wally and Marion for dinner. Unfortunatly, they got stuck in traffic and arrived too late for cooking. So we opted to pop next door for late night Italian take out. While we waited we watched the lunar eclipse start.

Sunday morning I brought Kathryn to the market with me. While I waited in lines she ran around taking pictures ("I just saw a dead duck!"). At a butcher's booth I stood in the wrong line for at least 15 minutes waiting to buy chicken. I stood there spellbound, watching the butchers ruthlessly chop up rabbits, chicken, and turkey legs. The rabbits were the worst. By the time I was done I was ready to be vegetarian.

The fruit and vegetable stand was more pleasant (further proof I should be vegetarian) and the worker got a kick out of practicing his English with me. And he gave me a little kiwi as a present.

Kiwi always makes me think of my mom.

Anyway, after that we picked up Dave and went out to Musee D'Orsay for first Sunday free day. It was a beautiful building, great art, lots of famous works by Renoir, Monet, Toulouse-Latrec, and VanGogh. I love that the musuem used to be a train station.

We came back to the apartment for the second attempt at dinner with Wally and Marion. No traffic delays this time, and they brought a friend, also named Marion. Marion2 is a rock photographer and all kinds of interesting stories to tell.


Marion1 made a wonderful French dinner of bouchées à la reine, and even better, taught me how to make it. It is really complicated and time-consuming, so I'm intimidated. I think I'll probably use my parents as my first guinea pigs when they come to visit next month. I'll have to make sure the Italian place is open late that night for backup.

We've Moved!

I don't know how many times I've said that "we've moved" over the past 3 months, but hopefully this will be the last for a while.

Going back a few days, we signed the lease for the apartment on Wednesday, February 7. The apartment owners turned out to be a really nice couple not too much older than we are. Amalia is Spanish and Eduardo is Italian, and this was Amalia's apartment before she moved in with Eduardo. She explained the brightly colored walls with: "Paris is so gray in the winter. So I painted it like Spain!"

Anyway, they're both engineers, too, what are the chances. We spent a lot of time chatting while Magali (the relocation company rep) and the rental agent worked out the contract and did an invetory of the apartment. Dave and I picked out all of the furniture we wanted to stay and they agreed to remove the rest that night.

Thursday morning, the movers beat us to the apartment as were stuck in typical Paris traffic (we should have known better). Their English was limited to only a few words, but we managed to communicate enough to put everything in the appropriate rooms. We had to send away a few items that we didn't have room for, which was a little sad because Dave has had some of those things since he was a kid.

We were thoroughly amazed that Amalia and Eduardo were able to move everything out of the aparment the day before. They must have been working all night. And who knows where they put all of it.

The movers were done by noon and we were left with piles of boxes and the impending fear that we wouldn't have the space for everything. We spent all day Thursday and Friday unpacking and organizing, and finally took a break on Friday night to meet Irantzu and her boyfriend Ludovic for dinner.

Irantzu and Ludovic live in Pontoise, which is only a few minutes from the town where we were living in the hotel. They have a cute little home with all kinds of charming (or irritating, depending on your height) slants in the ceiling and steps up and down into various rooms. We had a small feast of raclette, which we both really enjoyed.

If you don't know what raclette is, I already wikipedia-ed it: raclette is a kind of cheese, or typically a meal made up of melted raclette cheese with boiled potatoes and a variety of meats. Back in The Day, herdsmen would sit around the campfire at night, place their round of cheese next the fire, and scrape off bits as it melted (the word racler means "to scrape"). In more modern times, a heating device sits in the middle of the table, and everyone has a little square ceramic dish they put a slice of cheese on and place on the heat. About 30 seconds later the cheese is bubbling and you can slide it right onto your waiting potato with its little hat of meat. It's quite rich but very tasty.

Today we woke up early (Oliver won't let us sleep in anymore) and walked down to the market area. The covered market wasn't as active as we expected, only a few stalls, but we managed enough elementary level French to get a few days' worth of vegetables. We visited the fromagerie to see our favorite English-speaking cheese guy (he says "have a good trip" when we leave..I wonder how long it will take for him to realize that we live here) and the Picard for some interesting frozen foods. We're still intimidated by the bucther shop, so we went to a local grocery store for meat. We also picked up a quiche lorraine for lunch.

We've learned that stocking a kitchen is difficult when you have to haul everything by hand.

The weather has been mild, so Dave went for his first good run since we got here. He ran down to the Bois de Bologne and back and was disappointed in the lack of hills. While he was stretching in the park, a French college student took his picture and asked him to write in a little notebook for her art project. He came home with a poloroid photo of himself crouched on the ground writing in the book.

I'm guessing she chose him for her project because he stuck out like a sore thumb in his bright blue running shirt and white running hat. Not to mention he's taller than almost everyone else on the street.

Anyway, we're still on hold for internet access. Magali promised to call and make the arrangements for us, but we don't know what the status is. Luckily, there are a few unsecured wireless networks in the area we've been using at a snail's pace.

You Know, Those Baby Cows Aren't Even Allowed to Move

I don’t know how much longer lunch will continue to fascinate me, but until then I’m going to keep writing about it.

Today’s selections were fish, pork, and veal. Once again, the fish was of questionable nature (no one could translate it), and after yesterday’s lunch I was taking a break from pork. I weighed the moral guilt against my hunger and the hunger won. Besides, I’ve started relying on sides as backup and the veal came with a large portion of mashed potatoes.

During the meal I got a lesson in French politics. In French, of course (see “par et inpar”). I learned that in order to run for presidency, a candidate must have 500 mayors’ signatures. Twenty percent of the population votes fascist, and another 20% believes that the only people who should be allowed to live in France are the French. I hope I don’t know any of those people.

Andouillete

Today I was given the kind of task I used to give interns: tedious and not particularly challenging. It didn't bother me at all, I was happy to have something to do. And I carefully timed it to take just about all day.

For lunch Eric and I ducked into the canteen just before it closed at two (I was about to faint from hunger). The only thing left were sausage-looking things, so I went with my new rule of "if it looks familiar, eat it".

As we sat down, Eric had a look at my plate and said "Do you have this in America?" An ominous sign. As I cut into it, I felt the same sensation that Dave had when eating the kidneys a few days ago: I don't want to know what this is until I'm done eating it. But unlike Dave, I can't supress my curiousity long enough to wait. I asked Eric "qu'est-ce que c'est? (what is it?)" and he motioned toward his stomach while he searched for the words. I quickly decided to change the subject.

Back in the office, Eric and Dominique huddled over a dictionary and muttered between themselves. More motions toward their stomachs. I announced "I DON'T WANT TO KNOW", which was a lie. I couldn't wait to tell Dave that I'd beaten his kidney indident. To tell the truth, it didn't taste bad. But I knew that I'd never order it again.

Eric swung the dictionary around to face me and pointed to the word: chitterlings. I said "This is a British dictionary. I still have no idea what you're talking about". I took out a piece of scrap paper and drew stomach. They nodded enthusiastically and Domique happily added "And the intestines!"

I groaned, and Alfredo said "Why did you tell her if she said she didn't want to know?"

It was the first time I've had a good laugh since I started working here.

Lunchies

Today lunch was 3.86 euros. I'm done complaining.

What I love about the canteen is that there are glass carafes sprinkled around on all of the tables. You pick up a carafe and fill it from a machine in the corner and you enough water for two.

I also love whatever I had for lunch. The guys in my group tried to explain that it was a river fish with a long nose and big teeth. I said that sounded like crocodile. Upon returning to the office and consulting the French/English dictionary, it turned out to be pike.