The first step to recovery is admitting that one cannot control one’s addiction or compulsion.

I admit that I have a big, BIG problem with markets.

Today, at the market, I cried over salad.

Yes. Salad.

M and I were at the Italian stand, [...]]]> My name is Kristie. Not only am I a baguette-a-holic, but I am also a market-a-holic.

The first step to recovery is admitting that one cannot control one’s addiction or compulsion.

I admit that I have a big, BIG problem with markets.

Today, at the market, I cried over salad.

Yes. Salad.

M and I were at the Italian stand, trying to work our what type of fresh ravioli we would buy, when a radiant green flashed in the corner of my eye.

A row of different types of salad leaves, in separate wicker baskets.

The first, carrying baby spinach leaves, even more beautiful than their name in French: “Jeunes pousses d’epinards”. How can I explain how perfect they were? Tender, fresh, without a single blemished leaf? How is it possible to have a whole basket of delicate leaves without them looking a little transport-weary? I could have sworn that he had picked each leaf by hand and carried it delicately to rest in the basket.

The next basket was full of fine tendrils of rocket. Not the big, burn-your-mouth-out leaves that I used to buy in Woolworths supermarket in Sydney. These rocket leaves were elegant, fine, gently curling, as if asking to be placed on your fork.

And the other baskets – salad leaves that I have only seen in France, like Mache.

It was a moment of amazement and wonder and I actually welled up. How can you live in a big city, and yet have access to produce that you would normally have to go to the country to find, or grow in your own backyard?

And we’re not even in Paris central. We’re in a little suburb just outside of Paris, and yet the market is open 2 or 3 mornings a week.

This market is undercover, in a big hall on the main street. I walked past it’s grimey doors a million times, thinking it looked too ugly to warrant a visit. The supermarket was just fine by me, and if I wanted a proper market experience, then I would just join my friend, A, at the organic market on Rue de Rennes, in Paris.

But one day, M suggested we make a quick Sunday trip to get a few things before all the shops closed on Monday (yes – in most suburbs, all the shops and restaurants close on Mondays. If you dont have anything in the fridge to eat for Monday night’s dinner – you’re stuffed).

Wow – from a dingy entrance, into a fabulous market atmosphere inside. There are:

• 3 cheese stalls (including my favourite husband and wife stall, where they always seem to be bickering and laughing together)
• one basic butchery, one butchery selling offal, and one butchery selling pate, terrines, pre-prepared meat dishes etc
• 5 fruit and vege stalls, with one particularly raucous Italian fruit and vege stall where the owners always seem to be doing more talking, giving kids strawberries to taste and general frivolity, than selling. I dont know how they do it, but they always have a crowd.
• 2 fish stalls (I avoid these like the plague – the smell for me is just too fishy!!)
• 2 flower/plant stalls (you name it – they got it)
• one wine stall (poor guy is always lonely. Everyone prefers the cute man in the bottleshop across the road)
• one cured meats stall (cured meats from everywhere – Corsica, French mountains, Italy, yum yum…)
• one italian stall, with mozzarella de buffala, fresh pasta, fresh pasta sauce, salami, proscuitto and delicious antipasti
• one stall that just does olives, tapenade and antipasti – thats it.
• one stall that just does potatoes and herbs – and salad…..

Now,  every Sunday, I promise myself that I will only buy the necessities: the things that we have run out of from our 2 weekly supermarket shop, or the things that we cant get anywhere else. I promise myself that I will only buy the items I have written on the list. This is partly because the market is more expensive than the supermarket, but also as a way to control my addiction.

Some weeks, I succeed in only buying the things on the list – hurrah!

Other weeks, I just lose myself in the whirlwind of delicious market goodness; the people, the dogs, the banter between stallholder and local – and I want it too. I want to be given chunks of cheese to taste by the cheeseman, I want the fruit and vege man to greet me with a smile, I want the potato man to say “oh well, its better to have a big tall fiance with a big appetite than a small weedy one!” as he piles an extra couple of spuds in the bag. If I pass a fresh and beautifully pink pork fillet that has never seen a styrofoam tray or chemical preservatives – how can I leave it behind? I imagine that everything I buy from the market is full of vitamins, minerals and health-giving properties, and will without doubt be more delicious than anything I can buy from the “Auchan” supermarket (whether that’s true for everything in the market, I dont know, but the placebo effect works fabulously on me!).

Sometimes, the market isnt even about me, it’s just about watching how other people interact, watching how they choose their produce, listening to the conversations two women are having about their husbands and their work. I listen to the politeness, the protocol of the market, how things must be displayed, the interaction between stallholders who discuss whether it’s time to start packing up or if they can put aside a fillet of salmon for a customer who has just bought some fennel and lemons. This is the true France, the true meeting point of the neighbourhood – and I love it.

If there is such a thing as heaven, I am absolutely positive that there will be a market there.

What is wrong with me??

Cheese is a major part of my life here, as it is for most French people (their daily dairy intake is just spectacular).

I think this topic will need some proper investigation though, because my current approach to French cheeses is unsophisticated (this [...]]]> I realised recently that I have barely talked about cheese.

What is wrong with me??

Cheese is a major part of my life here, as it is for most French people (their daily dairy intake is just spectacular).

I think this topic will need some proper investigation though, because my current approach to French cheeses is unsophisticated (this is putting it nicely).

Here is an example of my current approach to French cheese:

Step 1: I am offered some cheese/I peruse the Fromager’s stall at the market.

Step 2: I accept/buy the cheese.

Step 3: I eat the cheese.

Step 4: I decide that the cheese is delicious and therefore more cheese should be eaten.

I dont ask what the name of the cheese is, what type of animal it comes from, where it has been made, how it has been made, how old it is, what it’s flavour is, whether it’s ripe, what is the best accompaniment etc. These are all things that French people ask – routinely.

Buying cheese at a market stall will take each person a good 5 minutes minimum. They will often seek the guidance of the fromager or stallholder. Here is a standard cheese buying process for a French person:

• If the Frenchie doesnt have a specific cheese in mind, they will explain to the Stallholder what the cheese is for (a dinner party, for example). This also allows the Stallholder to suggest cheeses that are “in season”, or that are from a particularly excellent Fromager
• The Stallholder will often ask if the guests/the buyer like cheeses that are strong in flavour or more mild, or if they have a particular preference for the type of milk (Cow, sheep, goat)
• The Frenchie will explain when the cheese will be eaten (ie tonight, or in a few days time, or over the course of a week)
• The Stallholder will then suggest a cheese/cheeses that meet the taste and milk requirements.
• The Stallholder will offer a sample of that cheese for the Frenchie to taste.
• If the Frenchie doesnt like the suggested cheese, the Stallholder will continue suggesting cheeses/giving tastes until the Frenchie rolls their eyes in rapture
• If it is to be eaten that day, the Stallholder will test the cheeses to select the one that is perfectly ripe – this is usually done by gently prodding the softer cheeses, or gently squeezing their middles. If the cheese is to last the week, then they will choose one that is just bordering on ripe, so that you can enjoy every day of the week as it ripens, ending with the perfect texture and flavour.

Of course, even if you know what sort of cheese you want to buy, you still must ask the Stallholder’s advice. For example, M loves a good Comte. So, as a special treat,  I stopped in at one of the Fromage Stallholders at our local market. He had several types of Comte available. He proceeded to present each type, their qualities and then give me a little slice to taste. I couldnt decide. I bought a slice of both. [Note: I CANNOT be trusted at the market. Another blog on my market addiction is currently being drafted. This cheese experience is a classic example of my weakness.]

So, while the Frenchie is telling the Stallholder, I want this cheese, no not that one, more like that, a little to the left blah blah blah, the queue gets longer and longer, and everyone stands and stares at the cheeses, drooling, waiting for their turn. Cheese Torture. But a fantastic selling technique: more time to view the various cheeses, more time to build up an appetite, more time to be jealous that someone else is getting taste tests and not you etc

On some of my first cheese buying experiences, I would just select whatever I thought looked good and buy a slice. I always wondered why I received a cold reception, but thought perhaps it was just my accent/lack of French skills. Now I’m starting to realise that, it’s almost offensive to select a cheese without seeking the Stallholder’s advice. It gives the impression that you know more about the cheese than the stallholder OR are just not sophisticated enough to be able to tell the difference between a good and bad cheese. Either way, you’ll sometimes get a scowl or a robotic transaction. The best way to approach the transaction for beginners? Just start with something simple like “I would like a really runny Brie” or “I would like a really strong flavoured cheese”.

And really, it’s not even necessary to go to the market to buy good cheese. French supermarkets stock a shocking amount of cheese, and even the cheaper brands are generally of a much better quality that we get in Australia.

So, what cheeses are my favourites?

Let’s put it this way – I havent yet met a cheese I didnt like.

But here are some of my favourites…..

Maroilles - This is a really stinky cheese. It comes from the far north east of France, close to the Belgian border (this is where M is from). It’s a famous cheese, in fact, with a starring role in the film “Bienvenue Chez les Ch’tis” (“Welcome to the Sticks”). It is square with an orange rind, and a camembert-like texture inside. It is such a stinky cheese that we have to seal it in a tupperware container when we store it in the fridge. Even then, everytime one of us opens the fridge door we accuse the other of farting. M makes a quiche just using slabs of this cheese and it’s delicious (Nathan – please feel free to comment). It’s also delicious melted over “pain d’epices” – a heavy french gingerbread. Another similar cheese, from the same region, is “Fromage de Bergues”. Also very delicious and stinky.

Boursin - French people will call me unsophisticated (again), but this is a long time passion of mine. You can buy it in Australia, but only the little boxes and it costs a fortune. Here I can buy the big box for a little price It’s a light (as in not dense) cream cheese, in a solid shape, but spreadable and slightly crumbly. It often comes with herbs, garlic, nuts, figs etc. It’s a cheap cheese that Frenchies spread on their stale baguette for breakfast, or as a snack – therefore not a REAL cheese, but I am just in love with it. Boursin is the brand name, and you can get the same cheese made by different brands, but nothing beats the original.

St Moret – This is another cheapie supermarket cheese, and therefore not a ‘real’ cheese according to Frenchies. It’s very similar to philadelphia cream cheese, just with a slightly higher water content. And more salt too I think. Another cheese that’s delicious spread on a baguette with a slice of tomato, salt and pepper….mmmm

Chevre - Where do I start? Goat’s cheese is enormous here. You can get goat milk, goat yoghurt, very creamy, almost liquid cheeses, solid logs of white cheese, and very hard, yellow, cheddar type cheeses. Where to they keep all those goats??? They dont give as much milk as a cow, so why isnt France covered with goats? All running down the main street, India-style? That would be so cute!….until they started nibbling on your jumper….Anyway, some Australians shy away from goat cheese, saying that it has a flavour that’s too “goaty” and powerful. Honestly, France is the best place to get the full range of flavours. I’m sure that they’d be converted. For example, a French friend living in the Bourgogne brought us a present on his recent visit to Paris. He had driven out to a local farm and bought a beautiful log of pure white goat cheese. It was quite solid, but still with some moisture. And the flavour was a cross between a delicate, slightly acidic cream cheese and that slight ‘goaty’ flavour. Yummy yum yum. Hoorah for friends bringing gifts of cheese! One of the other things that some people find a bit strange is that the softer, more spreadable cheeses are sometimes preserved in ash. No, not because the cheesemaker drank too much red wine and dropped the cheese in the ash from his cigarette (although, now that I say that, it’s probably not too far from the truth about the origin of the technique…). The ash doesnt leave an unpleasant flavour, so dont hesitate to chomp straight into it!

Epoisses - Another killer stinky cheese. Dont give your significant other a kiss after eating this one, unless they too have shoved a blob in their mouth. This is a square, orange rind cheese, with a runny centre (when properly ripe), and is therefore often sold in a wooden basket-type container to make sure it holds it shape and isnt punctured. How can you explain why something that smells so bad can taste so good? Crusty piece of baguette, lathered with liquid epoisses – brilliant. (lol – just read on wikipedia that it has reportedly been banned from being carried on public transport because it’s so stinky!)

Camembert - I have come to call this cheese “The Silent Killer”. Camembert in Australia is very mild in smell and flavour. There are some really mild French camemberts as well. But there are also some really smelly fart-like camemberts that can stink out a room in less than a minute. The problem is: you often dont know which type you’ve bought until after you get home and have let it sit in the fridge for a while. I have indeed blamed M for farting when all he’s done is open the fridge door. He blamed the camembert and I said “Yeah right, an innocuous little buttery cheese smells like a rubbish dump!”. And damn, he was right.

Reblochon - This is another favourite cheese, with multi-purposes. It  looks similar to a camembert, but has a slightly stronger, buttery flavour. It comes from the French Alps, and to be honest, the best one we have eaten, by far, is the one we bought while on a ski trip to Serre Chevalier. Supermarket brands are ok, but just pale in comparison to the delicious alpine treat. This cheese is fantastic just with a bit of baguette and red wine. But it also is a key ingredient in a fantastic French dish called “Tartiflette”. It’s a delicious variation of a potato bake: potatoes, onions, ‘lardons’ (bacon bits), cream, and a layer of sliced reblochon, all grilled in the oven. What better way to coat the inside of your arteries!

Morbier - This was the first ‘real’ French cheese I ate on my first visit to France. I managed to score a private tour and lunch at the chateau Moet et Chandon in Epernay. I happened to be seated next to a senior officer in the French secret service, who was amazingly gracious to this poorly dressed, unsophisticated little Australian. He recommended a cheese for me from the cheese platter, and I immediately fell in love with it. I asked him to write down the name of the cheese on the back of his business card so I would never forget it. It is a soft, slightly elastic cheese, with a thin layer of ash running through the middle, horizontally (although you cant taste the ash). Apparently the style came from farmers having leftover milk from the day, insufficient to make a whole cheese. They would pour it into a mould and cover it with a layer of ash to preserve it until the next day, when they would top it up from the next morning’s milk. This cheese smells bad, tastes delicious. It is nutty, slightly bitter.

Tete de Moine – This is a recent discovery. It means “Monk’s Head”. It was made originally by monks, but what it has to do with their heads, I’ve got no idea. It’s a quite solid cheese, but with lots of flavour. The novelty though, is in the way you cut it. Or rather, in the way you shave it. You basically skewer it on a metal apparatus called a “girolle”, and use a metal blade attached to slowly turn around the cheese in a circular motion. This shaves the cheese off into beautiful “curls”. Kids love the mild flavour, the novelty of turning the blade and how the cheese curls melt in the mouth. What am I saying: Yes, little kids AND big kids like me!

Mimolette - This is a very mild, hard cheese, bright orange on the inside and brown and crusty on the outside. It looks like a rockmelon. No joke. The best way to eat it is when it’s really aged, really dry, like an old parmesan. The flavour is much milder than a parmesan though. If you’re sick of stinky soft cheeses, this is the one to buy.

Comté - This is another hard cheese that knocks your socks off with delicious flavour. If you’re a cheddar lover, then I think you’ll like this cheese. It’s less “milky” than cheddar, but has a great nutty, sweet taste. Aged for 24 or 48 months and it doubles it’s deliciousness. M often has a hard time choosing between me and Comté. If he’s eating a slice, best to save the conversation for later.

St Marcellin – I’ll ask Mel to write a comment about what this cheese is like and why she loves it It’s basically a small, white, soft cheese with a runny centre, perfect for lathering over a baguette. It’s larger sister is called Saint-Félicien.

OK, so even if I am still getting used to being more sophisticated in my cheese selection, one thing I do ask of my dining companions is how the cheese should be cut. It’s just a common courtesy for those who may eat from the same piece (if I leave any behind that is). And there are specific rules for how certain cheeses must be cut. I always forget them though. How to cut the cheese is a minor issue compared to the main task at hand – eating.

It has been a very challenging year from that perspective. Managing my cheese intake to ensure I dont gain 1000kg is difficult in the extreme. Luckily, the French culture has saved my butt (literally) in this respect.

In Australia, cheese is (generally, and especially in social circles, as opposed to restaurant dining), more of an entree, or an appetizer. When you arrive at someone’s house for dinner, you will be greeted and promptly given a glass of wine/beer and be offered a plate of cheeses, antipasti, biscuits, dips etc. (I’m laughing at myself as I write this because the thought of eating cheese as an appetizer is making me feel odd – “eew, imaging eating a whole lot of cheese BEFORE the meal”. Oh, how I have changed….lol). This is meant to keep your hunger pangs as bay while you chit-chat away and await the main course. Of course, when you’re hungry, and there’s a plate of delicious cheese in front of you, guess what happens? You eat a tonne of cheese. Which is fantastic for the tastebuds, but not so happy for your arteries or Body Mass Index.

Thankfully, here in France the cheese platter is not offered until AFTER the main meal. AND there is a salad course and dessert to follow (usually something equally delicious). So (a) you’re not so hungry that you could eat a whole camembert and (b) you need to keep some space for the dessert deliciousness that is to follow. Naturally, cheese intake is kept to a minimum – just enough to appreciate the flavour.

[OK, time to be honest. I ALWAYS forget that there is a cheese course and end up eating a full entree and main. During the elation that results from the presentation of a gorgeous cheese platter, I ALWAYS forget that there is a salad course and dessert to follow. I just dig in with reckless abandon (and ignore everyone staring at the amount of cheese I've served myself - I hope they think that I skipped lunch or something and that's why I'm so "hungry"). I think this is where French people manage their weight better than some other countries: they are used to eating smaller meals because there is just no way you can finish a full French dinner with a full entree, full main etc. They learn from a young age to control their portion sizes.]

But of course, while there are rules about how to cut cheese, how much to eat, when to eat it etc, in the end, cheese is just there to be eaten. So I say: eat it however, whenever and in whatever quantities you like!

Politeness

You wont get ANYTHING done in France unless you’re polite. And not just basic common decency, I mean OTT, almost grovelling type [...]]]> OK, after a year in Paris, and after reading possibly every book there is on what foreigners think about French culture and values, I think I’m getting the hang of some of the themes….

Politeness

You wont get ANYTHING done in France unless you’re polite. And not just basic common decency, I mean OTT, almost grovelling type politeness. One of my favourite ways to witness this is when listening to French people call someone “official” (including customer service lines for your internet etc – oh, and recruiters…). Their voice becomes soft, higher pitched, sweet as sunshine. They use all forms of politeness: Mr, Mrs, I’m very sorry to disturb you, I’m not disturbing you, am I?, I just have a small problem and I would be SO grateful if you could help me, oh? you cant help me? and you dont know anyone else who can?, oh, well, thank you very much for your time, I wish you a very good day, good bye”. Even if they’re in the wrong, if you’re not polite, they really will hang-up/tell you to piss-off/not answer your question.

The same goes for the markets and boulangeries: you MUST say hello and you must say please and thank you and you must put on your best accent and formal pronounciation. If a stall holder asks you if you would like your potato galette heated, you must never say “Bah, ouah!” (Translation: “Ummm, yeah!”). Just try it, and see the stall holders face look like they’ve just bitten into a lemon. If it’s a fairly touristy market, they will probably bite their tongue, but beware of doing that in a locals market. I wouldnt even dare do that in a boulangerie – even if you do get your bread, it’s likely to be the baguette that is over-cooked, was dropped on the ground and it will be given with a sneer. Most times, I think you’d probably get yelled at or told that there is no bread available (then serve the person behind you, with their pretty French accent).

And public transport: oh dear. Here is where you’ll find yourself yelled at pretty quickly if you arent polite. I have heard screaming rows on the metro because a man had inadvertently touched a woman in a sensitive spot (I’m not sure where, and maybe he did it intentionally, who knows?). Oh boy, did he get a slammed by the woman and her female friends. Even the very polite French will make it very clear to you that you are very badly brought up and that you really had better find somewhere else to stand.

Pride

The thing that I find interesting is the reaction to abuses of politeness. The Japanese are a polite culture, but breaches of these rules are not met with assertive statements proclaiming that a rule has been breached and that there will be retribution. Why do the French make it known that you’ve been impolite? I think it’s pride. They are very proud people. They are proud of their culture and traditions and will shout it to the rooftops. They are also proud of themselves, and believe that they are, quite often, superior to everyone. Without a doubt, the French will tell you, straight-faced, that France and French people basically invented everything. M says that a Frenchman invented electronic/dance music, for example. OK, maybe Jean-Michel Jarre was one of the pioneers of this genre, but, ya know, maybe Kraftwerk was doing some similar stuff at the same time and how can we REALLY be sure who “invented” it? No, it’s a fact, he says, the French invented dance music. Ok…..

Passion

The French are hot-blooded animals. Even those wealthy sophisticated Parisiens will find a way to channel their passion: political debates, hot sexy affairs, lingerie. It doesnt matter what it is, be it the state of the economy, or the quality of the eggplants at the market, the French will find a way to be passionately involved in everything.

I’m sure there are lots of other things, but these 3 P’s just struck me as I was doing the washing up today ((how glamorous!)

That’s not to say that I didnt realise my life was good – I knew it was great.

Thats not to say either that I didnt appreciate what I had – I was so grateful for what I had.

But I [...]]]> I didnt realise how good my life was until I got here and realised it was gone.

That’s not to say that I didnt realise my life was good – I knew it was great.

Thats not to say either that I didnt appreciate what I had – I was so grateful for what I had.

But I seriously lacked the depth of understanding.

I did, really, take a lot of things for granted. Like the cheap cost of living, variety of restaurants, perfectly fabulous group of friends where each one is an absolute star that I would happily spend hours with. I didnt realise that the friends I have in Sydney are the result of year and years of culling and careful selection, a gradual build-up of fantastic people. I thought I could make friends in Paris quickly and easily, and while I’ve met lots of new people, there are not many I would be willing to keep as friends. Or is a friend an acquaintance that has shared years of trials and tribulations with you, and has become a friend through proof of commitment? I didnt realise that making friends was actually a very complex process.

I thought I would find out who my ‘real’ friends were by those who stayed in contact with me. Actually, staying in contact superficially is  quite easy and doesnt necessarily mean that someone is a good friend. Some of the people I’ve realised are good friends dont always contact me. But they are are the one’s who are first to support me when things are a bit tough, the one’s who encourage me to keep going and remind me why I’m doing this in the first place.

That said, what I also didnt realise, was how comfortable I would be here in Paris.

I knew I would like it, that I would enjoy it. I thought I would like living here.

But it’s turned out to be more than that.

I find that I have a lot in common, in general with Paris and Parisiens. I have discovered that I havent really had to change my personality to be “socially correct” all that much at all and that most of the ways I’ve changed have been in ways that I’ve enjoyed changing.

I am loving politeness. I’m loving the bitching about paying too much in taxes and yet getting so excited about government paid leisure activities (Paris Plage for example: 3 “beaches” created next to the Seine by way of truckloads of sand, temporary restaurants, palm trees, book hire, hammocks and deck chairs etc etc – who needs to leave the city for holidays?!!). I’m loving that people dont eat and walk at the same time. I love that at a dinner party everyone will agree that the wine doesnt go with the meal, and the host will put the cork back in and select another. Takeaway coffees dont exist.

I didnt realise that I would be so comfortable with the French acceptance of both the pains and joys in life. Life is lived passionately, joyfully. Even anger, sadness and depression is, I wont say “welcomed”, but “accepted” as a facet of human existence. Emotion is a normal part of living, and there is no shame in showing it publicly.

I didnt realise how much of an English “stiff upper lip” I have, and how cold and repressed I can be.

What I did realise, was that living in France would give me a whole new perspective on life. And I’m still so grateful to have the opportunity to broaden and deepen my experience of life.  I hope it makes me a better person. I think it’s started a little already

This article claims that it’s because the French have acquired a certain taste for burnt dishwater, but I think it’s more that they havent been exposed to anything better.

Which I find REALLY strange. I mean, they really do train their children to have sensitive palates, they appreciate [...]]]> But no – coffee in Paris really IS bad.

This article claims that it’s because the French have acquired a certain taste for burnt dishwater, but I think it’s more that they havent been exposed to anything better.

Which I find REALLY strange. I mean, they really do train their children to have sensitive palates, they appreciate the subtleties of flavour and they insist on quality of their food and drink.

Why not coffee?

There are plenty of Italians and Spanish in Paris – why havent they kicked up a stink? Why havent they set up their own coffee shops to sell coffee like they have in Rome or Barcelona?

I suspect that this is part of France’s cultural pride and insistence on assimilation of foreigners.

Too proud to admit their coffee is crap and intolerant of people retaining their own culture within France (despite public declarations of welcoming all those in need of a home).

It really brings home just how coffee-centric we are in Australia.

Most cafes wouldn’t even dream of putting someone behind the coffee machine unless they’d been to (at least one) barista course and had several years experience.

If a cafe has bad coffee, we wont go back. And if the coffee is good (like my old local Single Origin in Surry Hills), then we’ll line up on the street for 20mins and pay $3.50 without question.

I know a couple of Frenchies who have been converted to Sydney “Lattes”. I cant wait to convert a few more!

I’ve hard about the coffee shop mentioned at the end of the article. I’ll have to pay them a little visit in the hope that I will, finally, find a great cup of delicious coffee a little closer to home than Rome or Sydney….

http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/08/ristretto-why-is-coffee-in-paris-so-bad/

I have made so many mistakes, but [...]]]> There are a lot of things about eating (and drinking!) that people dont know when they come to Paris. Some things will be overlooked as simple cultural misunderstandings, but other things will have Parisians seriously fuming and talking in hushed tones with their colleagues about how “rude” tourists are.

I have made so many mistakes, but each mistake has brought me further and further behind the Parisian “Cold Front”: the seemingly impenetrable facade of arrogance and disinterest.

I’ve added to this list for about a year now. I keep adding and adding, never knowing when the list will be complete and I can finally write a nice piece on them (or perhaps have an idea of how to break them up into little sub-categories. But having all these incomplete posts in my drafts is driving me batty! so I’m just going to post my list and come back to it later (perhaps when I get an offer for a book deal….. lol).

And this list form is probably easier for you all to read as well! (but dont be surprised if I start changing it bit by bit and it starts to look more and more categorised and polished!)

Entering and Leaving a Cafe/Restaurant/Bar

• Golden Rule for all restaurants, cafes, bars and small shops: You MUST say “Bonjour Monsieur” or “Bonjour Madame” to the first person you see (and also any other waiters/staff you pass as you head to your table). The French see eating establishments and shops in the same way as they see their home. Would you walk into someone’s house without saying hello and casually go through their cupboards? Do you not say good night to you friends as you leave after dinner? Waiters are not there to provide a service to anyone who walks in the door, in the same way that you dont have to accept just anyone into your house. Behave badly, and a waiter will be sure to tell you, or ask you to leave. You are there to ASK if they would SO GRACIOUSLY provide you with a coffee. It’s the restaurants decision as to whether they will serve you or not. And in Paris, with so many tourists, they really CAN afford to be picky. They would much rather be treated with respect than take your money. They are proud people. Which is kinda noble, in a way, but is also perhaps a factor contributing to France’s languishing economy.

• When leaving an establishment, always say at least one of the following “Merci” (Thank you), “Au revoir” (Good bye), “Bonne journee” (Have a good day). If you manage to squeeze in all three, you’re on a winner!

Dealing with waiters during the meal

These points are actually universal for dealing with Frenchies in any situation. They are guaranteed winners for getting a gentle, helpful response and a smile.

• Always apologise first when you need to ask a question or seek their assistance. Even if you dont know how to say this in French, say it in English and put an “I’m sorry” expression on your face. The classic line is “Excuse me, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have a small problem…..”.
• To get somones attention in a cafe/restaurant you say: “S’il vous plait…”

Coffee Rules

“Un cafe” literally translates as “a coffee”. But in practical terms, it means a small cup of coffee, straight up: ie a short black or espresso. If you are asked if you would like a coffee, and you respond “Oui”, then your waiter will rush off and get you a short black. If you want another type of coffee then you need to respond with the name of the type of coffee you would like (even if that means not saying “Oui”). This is just done out of habit because most French people only drink short black coffees. They believe that milk in your coffee is bad for your liver (?).

If you want to be considered as a local, then a great way to show it is to ask for “une noisette”. This is the same as the Italian “Macchiato” and is basically an espresso (short black coffee) with a dollop of milk. (I think the French call it a “noisette” because the word means “Hazelnut” and that’s aboug the size of the blob of milk that goes in the cup. But maybe I just made that up…lol). Sometimes they add the blob of milk for you, but you may also get a jug of warm milk on the side to add to your own taste.

“Allonge” – This is a large black coffee, usually an espresso shot with some added hot water.

If you want a coffee with lots of milk (White Coffee, Flat White, Cafe Latte), then ask for a “Cafe Creme”. Whatever you do, dont ask for a “Cafe Au Lait”. You will most likely get a cup of disgusting American coffee that tastes like boiled dishcloths. Some places will do a Cappucino, but dont bank on it. France is also a little like Italy when it comes to coffee with lots of milk: It’s seen as a breakfast drink, and definitely not something to have with lunch or in the afternoon. But at the end of the day, just drink whatever you feel like and let the waiter give you a funny look – your stomach is the boss!

Sometimes you may be given a little (wrapped) square of dark chocolate with your coffee, or a little biscuit. If you’re lucky, you may be given a biscuit called a “speculoos”, which is a delicious spicy caramelised hunk of Belgian goodness!

Before you Start to Eat or Drink – The Aperitif

Most French people will have a little glass of something while they’re reading the menu and waiting for their meal to arrive.

You’re not obligated to drink alcohol, even a glass of juice or sparkling water is fine.

And of course, you can say that you dont want anything (but be prepared for the waiter and your fellow French diners to think you’re weird).

One classic French favourite is the “Kir”. It originates from the days when preservatives and cooling wasnt around and wine often went off quickly. To keep it “fresh” and to disguise the slightly off taste, they would add a dash of sweet fruity liqueur to the wine. These days, it’s often a nice little glass of white wine (usually Sancerre) with your choice of fruit liqueur: “Peche” (Peach), “Cassis” (Blackcurrant), or “Mure” (Blackberry/Mulberry) are the usual choices. To really go crazy, try a “Kir Royale”, which is a glass of champagne with Cassis. Yum…

Ordering Water with your Meal

It’s never required that you order a pricey bottle of water. Be like the French and ask for a carafe d’eau. If you want to order a bottle of water, ask for gazeuse (with gas) or plat (flat, without gas). Be sure to specify when you order.

Drinks dont normally come with ice, but you might get lucky. You can ask for some more though.

Choosing the Wine

Dont be put off by ordering wine by the carafe. It’s usually pretty good quality and not expensive.

If you have no idea which wine to order, ask the waiter (this also scores brownie points). Unlike Australia, nearly every French person has a fantastic wine knowledge and can happily recommend something to go with your meal and within your price-range (although, as always, beware the waiter who is just trying to get you to order the most expensive wine on the menu because you’re a “tourist”). If you’re too shy, then a Sancerre is a good white wine (although a bit sweet) and a Côte du Rhône is a red that will usually go with everything.

Ordering Meat Dishes

When ordering red meat you will always be asked how you would like it cooked.

Bleu (Blue) means “rare”. Raw meat, hardly cooked, which is how many French people eat beef.

Saignante is medium-rare.

A point (to the point) is medium

Bien cuit is well-done.

If you order something “Tartare” that means that the meat is raw, completely uncooked. Steak Tartare is a French speciality and comes mixed with raw egg, herbs and Wostershire sauce (sometimes Tabasco too). They may just give you the meat and you get to add everything else to your liking and mix it on the plate. You can also ask for this “Aller/Retour” (There and Back), which is the patty seared quickly on each side.

One thing that I absolutely insist on is that my Confit de Carnard (Duck Confit) be very very crispy on the outside. No flabby fatty skin thank you very much! I’m not the only one who thinks so either: http://www.davidlebovitz.com/archives/2009/01/where_is_the_best_duck_confit_in.html

When ordering, it’s best to ask for your Confit de Carnard “bien grille”, to guarantee a yummy crunchy skin.

Tipping

A service charge is always included in the amount shown on the bill (look for the words “service compris”, so tipping isnt really expected. It is still a nice way to show that you’ve been given good service though. Most Parisians just round up to the nearest dollar. For a sit down dinner for two, probably 2 or 3 euros is fine. That said, if you’ve had excellent service, then tipping 5 or 10% will certainly be appreciated To keep waiter’s tipping expectations down when you’re eating in touristy areas, make sure to mention that you’re Australian and not American…

Its not just a French phenomenen, but Paris, being the most visited city in the world, and one with a really high unemployment rate (ie I’ll do [...]]]> I hate to say this, but I hate those people who jump in your face on the street and try to sign you up to donate to their charity.

Its not just a French phenomenen, but Paris, being the most visited city in the world, and one with a really high unemployment rate (ie I’ll do anything for work), really does breed a lot of them.

Those garish coloured & branded t-shirts, clip boards, OTT grins, employing tactics like spreading their arms so you cant scoot past them, compliments, hugs….

It drives me insane.

I really want to hit them.

If I want to give to charity, I’ll choose my own charity thank you very much. No amount of grinning is going to get me to give to your charity instead of the one/s I choose.

So one day I said to one of them when I was walking through a really touristy area “I’m sorry, I’m not French, I dont live here, I’m just a visitor”. As soon as he heard my accent, he backed away like I had leprosy. He raised his hands up like a surrender, “oh….ok….you’re a tourist, um.., have a nice holiday!”.

BINGO. I now have instant Charity Grinner (“CG”) repellant. I’ve used it several times since, even when in the company of French friends. I just tell them not to speak and let me do the talking. Works a charm.

According to stats, the French actually have one of the lowest levels of donation to charities in developed world. But this is official donations, recorded by registered charities.

It doesn’t take into account all of the social services that France already provides, which is paid for by taxpayers money (and which services French people take for granted).

It also doesnt account for the unofficial donations that people make. And France, by far, is the most generous place I’ve seen.

People think nothing of giving a few coins to the local drunk. I watched 3 people exit a boulangerie yesterday and each of them delivered several coins into the paper cup of a dude sitting just outside the door. That was just as I was walking past. How much money could he have made in a day?

People in my neighbourhood buy food and drink for the homeless guy across the road from my apartment, delivering it from supermarket to his sleeping nook. The only person I ever saw doing that in Sydney was my Mum, and she’s nuts (in a good way!). Buying food for homeless people you see on the street is certainly not something most Australians would consider doing, let alone ACTUALLY do.

I’ve also seen homeless people selling magazines on the street similar to “The Big Issue”. Not only to Parisian’s buy the magazines, but they stop and talk to the vendors, for ages, discussing how the government is letting down its citizens and how it needs to do much more. They’re also happy to listen to the person’s story – how they got where they are, what their situation is like now.

I also dont think I’ve ever seen garbage bin foraging as frequently, and as openly, as I have in Paris. And not just by long term homeless people. I saw a nicely dressed old lady yesterday, taking a few nice apples out of a big green bin just in front of a fruit and veg store. No one batted a seductive Parisian eyelid, and she continued on her very ladylike way.

My French teacher has had to leave Paris recently because of a massive decline in students this year (a crisis by-product – fewer Americans taking Paris sabbaticals and paying for trillions of private French lessons). Her remaining income just wasnt enough to pay for the very expensive Paris living costs. She described Paris as a big casino, full of dazzling lights, and beautiful gowns, but where the average person just sits and watches, through the window, as the wealthy play with all their money.

I still dont really know what to think about Paris. There certainly is an attitude that it’s the state’s responsibility to provide for its citizens. The idea of starting up your own business to create your own wealth is pretty much unheard of. Marketing and business development are somehow dirty words. Rich people send their children to rich schools which get them into the best universities which get them the highest paid jobs (as a massive generalisation). And how much of these attitudes have to do with France’s current economic problems? Do the attitudes cause the economic problems, which then further encourage the attitudes? I’ve got a whole lot of stuff to say about work and France….thats for another post.

But I also often wonder how much of this attitude is a historical “gene”, which still thinks of wealth in terms of the excesses of Marie-Antoinette and the righteousness, and victory, of the poor during the revolution?

And could Australia’s convict heritage, having to build a nation, and personal wealth from scratch, have something to do with our “can do” attitude, where building wealth is often something to aspire to?

At the moment, given I still dont have a job, all I know is that I’m going to head back to that fruit and veg store and see if their bin contains some nice oranges….

I cant tell [...]]]> About 3 months after I arrived in Paris, and after a multitude of visits to my favourite cafes and bars, hoping desperately that I would one day become like one of the Parisians and be greeted warmly by the barman, I was finally recognised by the barman at Au Petit Fer du Cheval.

I cant tell you how satisfying that was

At first it was just the barman in the evening. A flicker of recognition in his eyes. A slight smile. The next time, it was a full smile, and a “comment ca va?” (“how are you going?”), which is usually reserved only for friends.

Over the following visits, it turned into playful banter, conversations, and unexpected generosity. Like when I had a cold, but had made arrangements to meet some people for networking purposes and went anyway. The barman was shocked that I ordered a cup of tea at 8pm, but realised that I was sick. He looked concerned, and said that I should have some honey and lemon with my tea because it would be good for me. Before I could say anything, my tea, a pot of honey and some slices of lemon were sitting in front of me.

Over the last couple of weeks, the owner who works during the day started to remember me. Yesterday, Lisa and I stopped by at 4pm for a coffee and a slice (slice? more like a slab) of Tarte Tatin (caramelised apple tart) with deliciously sour creme fraiche. I clapped my hands excitedly when my plate arrived and the owner and barman laughed at me. The owner said “you know, this is really easy to make at home.”. I agreed that it looked easy but I had no idea how to make it, let alone make it as delicious as they did. He said: “Next Friday, at 8am, come past, and you can come to the kitchen and watch how we make it.” “Are you sure?” I said, and he held out his hand to shake on it.

Last week, they said I should bring my business cards down to the bar because they often have lawyers stop by and they would be able to let them know I was looking for work.

People say that French waiters can be really rude (I’ve got another post coming on that topic). And its true, sometimes they can be. There are reasons for it, which I’ll attempt to explain in the other post. But once you get past the initial “waiter/client” barrier, and you’ve established yourself as a “regular”, or even just someone who is polite, most waiters will go out of their way for you.

A friend told me that they once went to the same cafe in Potts Point (Sydney) every morning for 2 weeks and not only did the same waiter never remember his order, he didnt even remember his face.

Can you imagine Bill Granger (famous Sydney chef) inviting you to join him in the kitchen to watch how they make their pancakes? I think not….