Lunch in Paris (14 page)
Plus, I have lousy genes for happiness. My father’s depression is like a shadow, some days it walks in front of me, some days
behind. I’ve learned to watch myself. Is this
a
bad day, or
the
bad day? The one I never quite recover from.
I worried that Gwendal was too contented, that if he wasn’t constantly striving (and therefore constantly dissatisfied) like
myself, that there was something wrong, something missing.
“How is he ever supposed to be successful? He needs to be a little bit miserable, like us. It’s how you get to the next thing.”
There was something else.
“When I’m with him, everything is wonderful and I can’t imagine being anywhere else. But when I’m on my own—there’s just…
nothing. I can’t work, I can’t study, I can’t even read a magazine on the metro. I’ve always known that by living abroad
I made the choice to be a little bit uncomfortable, one sixteenth of an inch out of step. That’s the price I pay for not being
bored at home. Still, you have to wonder if there isn’t something wrong with me.”
I looked down at the river lapping at the stones beneath our feet. “How can anyone choose to be this lonely?”
S
ATURDAY NIGHT WAS
the 13th of July. The fireworks at the Eiffel Tower were for tourists; we were going to a fireman’s ball. The
bal des pompiers
is a French Independence Day tradition; each Bastille Day the local fire stations throw a party, open to the neighborhood.
The French love their firemen; they are truly the first responders. Whether it’s a gas leak or a heart attack, in France you
don’t call a plumber or an ambulance; you dial 18 for the
pompiers
.
I don’t know if they select on looks, but I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. They are also the only people in Paris you will
see openly exercising, running through the Tuileries Gardens in tight standard-issue navy Ts. You need to be in pretty good
shape to run up six flights of spiral stairs with a stretcher.
We got to the entrance at around midnight—me and my fabulous sense of direction had underestimated the distance—climbing the
hill into Ménilmontant for what seemed like hours.
Even at this time of night, there was a line. We paid our three euros and got our hands stamped. “I thought we said we’d never
go to another frat party,” said Courtney as we walked inside. This particular fire station had a parking lot in the interior
courtyard, and the place had been completely transformed. Streamers and flags hung from the bandstand. There were tables selling
wine and beer and fries and little plates of
saucisson
. There were
pommes d’amour
and
barbe à papa
for the kids. Personally, I never met a candy apple
I didn’t like. I wondered if I could buy one without a five-year-old to hand it off to. The
bal
was the only event I’d attended in France where I’d seen wine served in plastic cups.
There was a swing band on the stage and dozens of couples turning like tops. Courtney got whisked way. Fathers swayed back
and forth with kids on their shoulders.
It was only a matter of time before the striptease began. One of the firemen, with a blond crew cut and the cuffs of his pants
still tucked into his regulation boots, jumped up on the bandstand, whipped off his shirt, circled it slowly above his head,
and tossed it into the cheering crowd.
It was three a.m. before we headed down the hill toward home. We walked along the boulevard de Belleville arm and arm, singing
old camp songs at the top of our lungs.
Miss Lucy had a baby.
She named it Tiny Tim.
She put it in the bathtub
To see if it could swim.
We were loud, raucous, totally inappropriate. And anyone who had seen us on the boulevard that night would have smiled. Just
a couple of happy idiots, drunk on life. It felt so good to be acting out instead of trying to fit in.
When Gwendal turned the key in the door on Sunday afternoon, we had just gotten out of bed. “Having fun?” he said, surveying
the wreckage. “Mm-hmm,” I mumbled with my mouth full. We’d been caught red-handed: two American college girls in our pajamas
at three p.m. with the freezer door open and our spoons in a container of pear sorbet.
Salade de Chèvre Chaud aux Figues Fraîches
Fresh figs and snow-white goat cheese are a match made in heaven. Walk by any café terrace in Paris during the summer months
and you’ll find someone eating this simple green salad topped with a
tartine
of crusty bread and fresh melted cheese. The figs are my special touch of late summer sweetness.
1 small head of red Batavia lettuce
4 fresh figs
2 tablespoons best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
2 teaspoons balsamic vinegar
¼ teaspoon coarse sea salt
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
8–10 ounces soft goat cheese, cut into ½-inch slices
2 large, thin slices sourdough bread, cut from a round boule (pain Poilâne is the gold standard in Paris) or 3 slices of whole grain
toast
Preheat the oven to 500ºF.
Wash the lettuce and dry it thoroughly. Rinse the figs and gently pat them dry; cut into quarters.
In a small bowl, whisk together the oil, vinegar, salt, and mustard. Toss with the lettuce and figs.
For the goat cheese toasts: Place the goat cheese rounds on top of the bread. I like to make 1 large or 3 smaller toasts per
person. If using bread from a square loaf, cut slices in half on the diagonal so you have 6 triangles. Bake on the middle
rack
of your oven for 5 to 6 minutes, until the cheese is softened and beginning to color.
Divide the salad between 2 plates. Top with the goat cheese toasts and find yourself a sunny spot!
Yield: Serves 2
Magret du Canard aux Mûres
When I moved to France, Nicole introduced me to a beautiful series of brightly colored pamphlets printed on handmade paper
with uncut edges—mini cookbooks with ten recipes for a single ingredient. This is especially helpful in a Parisian market,
where blackberries or white asparagus might appear for three weeks and then disappear until the following year. This recipe
is adapted from
Le Canard, dix façons de le préparer,
by Pierre Dubarry and Georges Audabram, 2002. Duck breasts are wonderful with seasonal fruit—try the same sauce with sliced
mango.
2 duck breasts
A good pat butter (about 2 teaspoons)
1 tablespoon sugar
1½ cups blackberries
Splash (½ teaspoon) of sherry vinegar (or red wine vinegar)
1 tablespoon chicken broth
Place the duck breasts, skin side down, in a nonstick frying pan. Cook over low heat until they render their fat and the skins
are golden and crisp. If you are being really French, reserve the fat to sauté some potatoes you’ve parboiled and drained.
Meanwhile, melt the butter in a small frying pan, add the sugar and the berries, and stir, crushing the berries lightly with
the back
of a wooden spoon, until they release a bit of juice and begin to bubble.
Deglaze the pan with a splash of sherry vinegar. Add the chicken broth, reduce a tiny bit, and set aside.
Finish cooking the duck breasts, skin side up, for 3 minutes; they should stay deep pink in the middle. Pour any juice from
the duck breasts into the sauce. Reheat lightly.
Serve the duck breasts, topped with sauce, with some skinny
haricots verts
and roasted potatoes.
Yield: Serves 2
Crumble Fraises Rhubarbe
Crumble has crossed the Channel. This traditional English dessert now graces the menu of every trendy French bistro. The topping
is a slight variation on the crumble from Jane Stimpson’s
New Food for Thought
(André Deutsch, 1994), the cookbook of a wonderful cubbyhole of a vegetarian restaurant near London’s Covent Garden. The
rhubarb—as far as I know the world’s only hot pink vegetable—is a personal passion.
½ cup vanilla sugar (or ½ cup sugar plus ½ teaspoon vanilla extract)
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1½ pounds rhubarb (the thinner and pinker the better), cut into 1-inch pieces
Zest and juice of 1 organic orange
½ cup light brown or turbinado (raw) sugar
2 cups whole grain oats
Scant ½ cup whole wheat flour
½ cup plus
cup ground almonds
8 tablespoons (1 stick) cold butter
1 cup strawberries (halved or, if large, quartered)
2 tablespoons water
For the compote: Preheat the oven to 375°F. Combine sugar and cornstarch in a bowl. Spread the rhubarb in a baking dish (I
use a 12-inch oval casserole). Sprinkle it with the sugar mixture; zest and juice the orange directly into the dish. Stir
to combine. Cook for 45 minutes, stirring once, until the rhubarb is tender. Let cool completely so the juices have time to
thicken.
For the topping: Combine the dry ingredients in a bowl. Cut in the butter, first with 2 knives, then with your hands, until
the mixture is crumbly. Everything up to this point can be done in advance and refrigerated.
Add the strawberries to the cooled rhubarb mixture. Add the water to the crumble mixture, 1 tablespoon at a time, stirring
to combine.
Layer the topping over the fruit; bake on the bottom rack of the oven for 25 minutes, until golden and bubbly.
Tip: To make vanilla sugar, split 1 plump vanilla bean lengthwise, down the middle, and add to 2 pounds white sugar. Let it
sit for a few days. I use it as a substitute for regular sugar in most of my baked goods.
Yield: Serves 6–8
The Long Winter
I
spent my first winter in Paris under the covers reading
War and Peace
. No better way to avoid making a decision than burying yourself in a big fat book. These were the grayest days of February,
when the sky in Paris feels so close to the ground you can almost step on it. Nearly a year had passed since I put my toothbrush
on the shelf above our tiny bathroom sink, but in many ways I still felt like a stranger in Paris. My name was on the gas
bill, but I didn’t have the right to work. I took the entrance exam for the Sorbonne, but failed because I didn’t understand
the directions at the top of the page. We talked vaguely about buying an apartment, but I didn’t even have a French bank account.
As I read about Napoleon’s retreat across the Russian tundra, I thought more and more about going back to New York. There
were two things standing in my way. One was a fear of going home with my tail between my legs; the other was a marriage proposal.
It happened one Sunday in August, just before I went back to the States for the Jewish New Year. Gwendal said we were going
out for dinner; I put on a sundress and grabbed an umbrella, just in case. He told me, his voice on edge, to put it back.
It wasn’t going to rain.
