The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (25 page)

VARIATION:
If you use a 9-inch (23-cm) square pan, increase the total amount of grated coconut to 1½ cups (120g).

NOTE:
Unsweetened coconut is available in natural foods stores. Sweetened coconut can be used, although the marshmallows will, of course, be sweeter. If you have only large-shred coconut, it’s best to pulse it in a food processor or blender until the pieces are smaller.

LE BRONZAGE

I was minding my own business on a quiet, sunny morning, walking though the seventh arrondissement on the way to meet some friends for coffee and a croissant. Most of the neighborhood is relatively deserted, as the people who live there tend to reside in posh, expensive apartments and don’t hang around on the sidewalks much. As usual, there was no one around, and although I find that neighborhood a little boring, I was enjoying the peace and quiet of being away from the hectic buzz of the Bastille.

As I approached a corner, my moment of bliss was broken when I heard a muffled thud. Then it was followed by
another, then another.
Thump … thump … thump …
Soon the thuds were so close together they began to sound like a stampede. I could feel the sidewalk shaking so violently I became more than a little concerned about what was around the bend, which was for sure on a collision course with me.

As I rounded the corner, I saw what all the fuss was about. President Nicolas Sarkozy was heading right for me, followed by a trampling pack of photographers who completely encircled him, madly clicking away while he wore his customary glare as he barrelled through them. He had recently won the election, and the press was finding him and his personal life just as fascinating—even more so—than his political leanings.

Although Sarkozy was accused of a number of things, from being anti-Semitic and a racist, to having a violent temper and a penchant for serial monogamy, he had one addiction that no one seemed to want to talk about: tanning.

As I stood transfixed, just a couple of feet away from him, Monsieur Sarko’s diminutive size didn’t shock me. Nor did his famously fierce expression. It was the color of his skin, which was like none I’d ever seen before. His face had a glowing orange tint, the exact same shade as the flesh of a lush, ripe cantaloupe.

Flip through the television channels in France any evening of the week and you’re bound to land on some round-table program where topics are discussed by notables in the news and entertainment industry. But there’s no need to adjust the saturation mode on your
télécommande;
each guest seems to be brighter, and more tangerine-tinted, than the next. I don’t know how those people can even speak without cracking through all that heavy-duty makeup they have caked on.

The French adore
le bronzage
, natural or not, and at the end of every summer during
la rentrée
, when millions of Parisians flood back home, the city comes alive in an artist’s palette of cocoa-crisped cheeks and caramelized cleavages. And even though I’ve had interesting arguments with disbelieving Parisians who blow aside the notion that secondhand smoke is harmful, or that dragging a filthy rag from room to room is unhygienic,
I’m proof that it’s entirely possible to get secondhand damage from UV rays right here in Paris. My retinas are still singed from the day I came across my doctor’s fifty-something receptionist sunbathing, bare-breasted, by the Seine one summer afternoon. God love her for being so brazen at her age, although the poor dear’s dark skin made her look like a rolled-up chocolate crêpe. And the icing on that crêpe wasn’t a mound of whipped cream, it’s the fact that she works for a dermatologist. (I’ll leave the cherries on top to your imagination.)

But there’s no reason to limit melanoma, macular degeneration, skin cancer, and premature aging to summertime festivities. Since Paris is gray nearly 360 days of the year, there’s no problem getting yourself
brûlé’d
at
l’espace bronzage
, the tanning salons that are a fixture as ubiquitous in the city as the
boulangeries.

Actually, they outnumber them: a search though les Pages Jaunes (the Yellow Pages) lists 1,326 tanning salons, eclipsing the city’s 921 bread bakeries. Apparently bread’s not the only thing getting baked to a crisp here.

I’ve been seduced by lots of loaves in Paris, but I can’t say the same about the tanning salons, which are manned by young people who are all several shades darker than the Africans up in the Goutte d’Or neighborhood. But there’s something about going into a booth with a warning out front that says what you’re about to do is likely to cause a fatal
maladie
that makes it less than appealing to me. The death penalty was abolished here in 1981, yet Paris is full of places where they’re happy to grill you to an early death.

I stay out of the sun at all times, which makes me the whitest person in Paris—with the possible exception of the flour-covered young bakers working in the basement at Poilâne. Even more than my accent and pearly whites, my pallor pegs me as an
étranger américain.
But perhaps I’ll outlive a few of the people around here who have been giving me a hard time over the years, like the women at the
préfecture
to whom I have to report annually for my visa renewal, or the particularly hostile saleswoman who presides over the chocolates at A la Petite Fabrique, where she refuses to sell me any of their chocolates, for some unfathomable reason. Outside of the
window is about as close as I’m going to get to their chocolates until she’s gone.

I’ve thought about sending her an airplane ticket to somewhere warm and sunny so she can roast herself to a crisp. Or maybe someday she’ll find that working in a tanning salon is far more rewarding than safeguarding their chocolates from enthusiastic Americans.

Frankly, I don’t care where she goes, as long as she goes somewhere else. I’m just terrified that I might run into her, and I can’t think of anything more frightening than coming across her outside of the shop.

On second thought—yes, I can.

CREPES AU CHOCOLAT, DEUX FOIS
DOUBLE-CHOCOLATE CREPES
MAKES 16 CREPES

Crêpes are easy to make, and once you get the rhythm down, it’s hard to stop. I always want to just keep going and going and going. The most important thing is not to be in too much of a hurry and to give them a good
bronzage
in the pan before flipping them over.

Once cooked, they can be stacked and filled with any filling you want, or simply eaten warm on their own. Crêpes are the quintessential French snack, and they’re sold at stands all over Paris, often filled with a smear of Nutella (chocolate-hazelnut paste) or big chunks of melting chocolate. Either choice is good if you’re one of those people like me who just can’t get enough chocolate. (Which is true in my case, thanks to a certain nasty lady at my neighborhood chocolate shop.)

1. Heat the milk, cocoa, butter, sugar, and salt in a small saucepan until the butter is melted.
   

2. Put the eggs and flour in a blender and pour in the cocoa and milk mixture. Blend until smooth. Chill the batter for at least 1 hour.
   

3. To cook the crêpes, remove the batter from the refrigerator and let come to room temperature.
   

4. Heat a 10- to 12-inch (25- to 30-cm) nonstick skillet or crêpe pan over medium to high heat with a tiny bit of butter in it.
   

5. Once the pan is hot, wipe the butter around with a paper towel. Give the batter a good stir and pour in ¼ cup (60 ml) of the batter. Quickly tilt the pan so the batter spreads and covers the bottom. Cook the crêpe for 45 seconds to 1 minute, until the edges are crispy, then slide a spatula under the bottom and flip it over. Sprinkle about a tablespoon of chocolate chips over the top or smear a tablespoon of Nutella over one quarter, and let cook for another minute.
   

6. Fold the crêpe into quarters (once in half, then in half again), enclosing the chocolate, and serve immediately.
   

STORAGE:
These are best served hot off the griddle, like in Paris, and don’t hold well, so they should be eaten right away. You can keep them warm on a baking sheet in a low oven as you cook them up, if necessary. The batter can be made in advance and refrigerated overnight.

PATE DE FOIE DE VOLAILLE AUX POMMES
CHICKEN AND APPLE SPREAD
MAKES 8 SERVINGS

The word
pâté
doesn’t mean “terribly difficult, snooty French food.” It can refer to any meat-rich spread, which is everyday fare in France and not meant to be reserved for special occasions. You can easily make and enjoy pâté no matter where you live, and this recipe takes less than a half an hour to put together, so there’s no excuse not to give it a go. Especially true since I’ve replaced the slablike
baratte
of butter traditionally used in pâté with cooked apples, in case you’re concerned about how you’re going to look in, or out, of next summer’s swimsuit.

1. In a large skillet, melt half the butter over medium heat. Add the apple and cook for about 6 minutes, stirring only once or twice, until the apples are browned and completely soft. Scrape the apples into a bowl.
   

2. Melt the rest of the butter in the same pan. Add the shallots and cook for a minute or two, stirring constantly, until soft.
   

3. Add the livers, season them with salt and pepper, and cook for about 3 minutes longer, until they’re firm on the outside but still quite pink within.
   

4. Add the cream, then the liqueur, to the pan. (If you add the liqueur first, it can flame up.) Add the chile powder and continue to cook for about 3 minutes more, scraping the bottom of the pan to release any browned bits, until the pan liquids are slightly reduced. You’ll know the livers are done when a test liver cut in half is just cooked through and the pan juices are the consistency of thin gravy.
   

5. Add the livers to the bowl of apples along with the liquid and all the appetizing brown bits left in the skillet. Let rest until no longer steaming hot.
   

6. Puree the livers, apples, and any juices in a food processor until completely smooth. Taste, adding more chile powder and salt if desired and lemon juice to taste. The pâté will seem runny at this point, but will firm up as it chills. Scrape the pâté into a decorative serving bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and chill for at least 4 hours or overnight.
   

SERVING:
Bring the pâté to room temperature. Smear the pâté on little toasts, sprinkle with a tiny bit
of fleur de sel
or other delicate sea salt, and serve as an hors d’oeuvre. Ice-cold rosé makes the perfect accompaniment, especially in the summer.