The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (13 page)

The first doctor to see me turned out to be, as advertised, American. We chatted and joked around a bit in our native tongue before she got on with the serious questions. Romain, who doesn’t speak English, wondered why the doctor and I were laughing it up like long-lost friends. French doctors don’t laugh with their patients, I guess. Only
at
their patients.

Once she left, the French male nurse came in, ordered me to strip down, and strapped me into a chair, giving me a twinge of nostalgia for San Francisco. (Was this my life passing before my eyes?) He pasted little sticky things, which for some reason they store in the freezer, over my bare chest and legs. Then I understood why he had secured me to the chair. After a bunch of knobs were turned and buzzers went off, the main cardiologist arrived, who spoke very little English. Actually, she spoke none at all, which kind of negates the idea of an American Hospital. Especially at these prices.

Reading the printout, she announced that all was well and it was probably anxiety, and I could breathe a sigh of relief that I was going to live many more years. They released the straps and I was free to go. The well-dressed cashier in his remarkably fashionable suit and tie was also obviously relieved that I was going to live when I tore off a sizable check and handed it over, an amount that made Romain’s eyes almost tumble out of their sockets. Good thing we were in a hospital, although I’m not sure if this one takes French people. Unless they brought their checkbook.

After that experience, when a few months later my doctor recommended the aforementioned leg surgery, I decided I’d go where the French go:
à la clinique française.

I arrived early in the morning, shaved as directed, belly to toe, and walked into my assigned room. My roommate looked up from his book,
Gay Vinci Code
, and gave me a big
“Bonjour!
” then went back to his literature.
His legs had been shaved, too, and when he pulled his nose out of his book, we began exchanging
épilation
tips. The worst part, I said, was being scratchy “down there,” so he shared that I should have used
la crème
instead of
le rasoir
to avoid the inevitable after-itch. And I must admit, without hospital gowns, it was hard not to appreciate how much better his legs looked compared with my own stubbly limbs. Why do Frenchmen, even in hospitals,
always
manage to look so much better than me?

An added benefit was that I increased my French lexicon of anatomical parts, which is good to know if you need medical care. For example, if you use the word
rognons
to describe your kidneys, an entire hospital room of French doctors, nurses, and a roommate will break out in fits of laughter at your expense. Only animals have
rognons
—humans have
reins.
And there’s something like six different words for neck, depending on whether you’re talking about the front, back, or the whole thing. I also learned that
les bourses
is a scrotum. Which is also the word for the French stock exchange. But I’d like to know how one gets differentiated from the other, since I’d like to avoid a crash to either.

Not only did I learn that the French don’t shy away from nudity or that the hospital food in France is just as bad as ours, but I learned about
le bâton de compassion
—what I came to know and love as my “sympathy rod.” When I left the clinic, I had to hobble around with a cane. Although my doctor didn’t offer much of a shoulder to cry on (I was tempted to give him a little stock market crash of his own with it), walking around Paris with that stick changed everything. People became incredibly courteous, and like Moses parting the Red Sea, I could part the crowds on the most jam-packed Métro or markets without Parisians ramming right into me the way they usually do.
Quel paradis!

I hated to hang it up a few weeks later, when I went back to navigating the streets and sidewalks of Paris on my own. The upside is that I’m now in the French health care system, and if something happens to me, I don’t have to worry about anything. Except maybe having to do another clean sweep of body hair. But thankfully, I’ve gotten a second opinion on that.

PAIN D’EPICES AU CHOCOLAT
CHOCOLATE SPICE BREAD
ONE 9-INCH (23-CM) ROUND CAKE

Pain d’épices
is a honey-rich spice bread often made in big slabs, sometimes sold by weight. Mine is a nontraditional version, and since it’s my own invention, I get to call the shots. I can’t resist bucking tradition and adding a dose of dark chocolate. Don’t expect a light, airy cake;
pain d’épices
is meant to be dense and packed with flavor. This is made a bit differently from other versions and has a more compact crumb, with an intense, full-on chocolate flavor.

I serve wedges all by themselves, which are good with dark coffee, or with slices of fresh or poached pears.

1. 1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Butter a 9-inch (23-cm) round cake pan, line the bottom with a piece of parchment paper, and butter that as well. Dust the insides of the pan with a bit of flour or cocoa powder, and tap out any excess.
   

2. In double boiler or a large, heatproof bowl set over a pan of simmering water, melt the chocolate and butter together, stirring until smooth. Let cool to room temperature.
   

3. In another bowl, sift the flour, cocoa, baking powder, cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and salt. Add the anise seeds.
   

4. In the bowl of a standing electric mixer or with a handheld mixer, whip the eggs, yolks, honey, and sugar until thick and mousselike, about 5 minutes on high speed.
   

5. Fold half of the whipped eggs into the chocolate and butter. Then fold in the remaining egg mixture.
   

6. Add the dry ingredients one-third at a time, using a spoon to sprinkle them over the batter and folding until the dry ingredients are just combined.
   

7. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until the cake feels barely set in the center, but still moist.
   

8. Remove from the oven and let cool for 15 minutes. Tap the cake out of the pan and cool completely on a rack. Wrap the cake in plastic and let stand at room temperature for 24 hours to let the flavors meld.
   

STORAGE:
Well-wrapped, this cake will keep for about one week at room temperature, or one month in the freezer.

MY FRENCH PARADOX

Americans became obsessed with the French paradox when a report aired on
60 Minutes
in 1991, which explored the question of why the French eat lots and lots of rich, fatty foods but have very low rates of cardiovascular disease. The impact was so profound that red wine sales in the U.S. soared by nearly 50 percent for weeks afterward.

They may indeed have lower rates of heart disease than we do, but that doesn’t keep them from being obsessed with their cardiovascular health. While Americans are famous for trying an endless string of wacky diets, French people are equally apt to beg off cheese or dessert because, they’ll tell
you, they’re terrified of
le cholestérol.
Most are stunned when I tell them I’m not taking anticholesterol medication. Indeed, it’s surprising to the French to come across
anyone
who isn’t on any medication of some sort. That’s another reason the French home bathroom is off-limits: it’s usually crammed-full with every kind of pill and remedy you can imagine.

After my health scare, which had prompted the trip to the American Hospital, my general practitioner referred me to a French cardiologist to get my heart checked out. Whenever I’ve stepped into a doctor’s office in France, it’s invariably pitch black and I find myself having to squint to see anything. And this cardiologist’s room was no exception. The French seem to like being in the dark, which probably explains the explosion of fancy eyeglass boutiques that are in a race with the banks to take over any and all storefronts as soon as they become vacant in Paris.

Undressed and ready for my cardiogram, I felt my way over to the examination table, worried how I would be able to find my clothes afterward. (Now I know why everyone wears that nautical clothing with all those reflective patches.) The gruff doctor hooked me up to a machine that beeped and blipped while reading my vitals. When we were done, he looked at the printout, grudgingly nodded, and told me everything seemed to be just fine. So I hopped off the table, groped around until I located my clothes, and got dressed. We found our way back to his desk, where I sat down across from him, and he began to question me about my health and lifestyle.
“Vous êtes sportif?”
he asked.

“Oui, bien surf
” I told him. “I do yoga three or four times a week.” “Yoga?” he said, recoiling. “That’s not exercise. That’s a philosophy!” While he himself didn’t look like he’d had any firsthand experience with exercise, I suppose he might have been partially right. When I’m standing on my head, with every muscle in my arms and back quivering to support the weight of the rest of me, I do question why I ate that generous, melting block of foie gras with the perfectly sublime glass of Sauternes on Saturday night, or why I couldn’t say no to a scoop of
glace à la vanille
with that
gâteau au chocolat noir
after lunch.

Then he asked about my meals.
Gulp.
Aside from the occasional indulgence, I eat pretty well. I like a good steak if I go out, but tend to cook mostly leaner meats, like pork and poultry, at home. I avoid squid, at all costs, but try to eat a good amount of fresh fruits and vegetables. After dinner, I usually take a bite of cheese before dessert. (I somehow omit any mention of the
pistoles
of chocolate I snitch from my stash all day.)

At this point, the doctor began a diatribe about Americans and why we’re all fat: “There’s something in your genetic composition that makes all Americans fat. They’re not quite sure what it is, but it’s in your nature. You Americans are just prone to being fat.”

Even though the light was dim, I could make out, paradoxically, that his expansive French waistline was at least three times larger than my American one. Still, I just nodded in agreement, thanking him for the lecture on diet and exercise. I wanted to return the favor and give him a few pointers in exchange, but I’ve learned it’s just easier to nod rhythmically in agreement and let French people, doctors or not, finish their commentary.

There are lots of things that don’t seem to make sense around here: the waiter who tells you that there’s no mineral water when a slew of bottles is lined up in plain sight behind the bar, the teller at your bank who tells you they have no change that day, or why it’s perfectly okay on the Métro to stick your finger in your nose but it’s not okay to stick a sandwich in your mouth.

I’m learning not to let these paradoxes bother me, since I don’t really need to see anyone for diet or exercise tips. Especially from someone more than twice my size. Plus I’m concerned about my eyesight. But at least I know there are plenty of fabulous eyeglasses in Paris, should I ever need them. I’m just worried that if I go to my bank to withdraw some money to buy a pair, they’ll tell me they’re out of cash that day. And everyone knows stress isn’t good for your heart.

TAPENADE AUX FIGUES
FIG-OLIVE TAPENADE
MAKES 6 TO 8 SERVINGS

It can be stressful entertaining Parisians. Manners dictate guests arrive at least twenty minutes late, as a courtesy to the host who’s doing last-minute preparations, but I have some friends who think nothing of arriving an hour or more after the appointed time. It makes having people over nerve-racking, since it’s hard to come up with a workable timetable.

To deal with latecomers, Parisians have
l’heure de l’apéro
, which is the hour between when people are requested to come and when they actually do. So hosts offer nibbles to go along with apéritifs, which are more popular than cocktails. Thankfully, most dips and spreads can be made well in advance, so harried hosts can enjoy drinks with their friends.

One of the first things I wanted to stock my Parisian kitchen with was one of those gorgeous Provençal marble mortar and pestles. The kind that are well worn from years of use—and huge! It’s seems I’m not the only one who wants one: I searched everywhere in Paris, and if you’re lucky enough to find one, it’s likely to cost hundreds of euros. Dejected, I sulked for months until I found an inexpensive mortar and pestle in the thirteenth arrondissement, the Chinatown of Paris, for less than fifteen euros. Nothing to complain about there, except lugging it home on the Métro during rush hour.

I use dark kalamata olives or olives from Nyon, which I get from my pal Jacques, whom you can find manning his stall, Le Soleil Provençal, at the Richard Lenoir market. He stocks the best, and biggest, selection of olives from Provence I’ve ever tasted outside of the region itself.

My favorite recipe is Carrie Brown’s Fig and Olive Tapenade, which she serves up at the Jimtown Store in Healdsburg, California. Her recipe uses dried figs, which means less pitting and cuts the saltiness of the tapenade. I like tapenade with pita bread points that have been brushed with spiced oil, then
toasted until crisp (page 126). Ice-cold rosé or
vin d’orange are
lovely accompaniments, too.

1. In a small saucepan, simmer the figs in the water with the lid askew for 10 to 20 minutes, until very tender. Drain.
   

2. If using a mortar and pestle, mash the olives with the garlic, capers, anchovies, mustard, and rosemary. (Sometimes I chop the olives first, which means less pounding later.) Pound in the figs. Once they are broken up, stir in the lemon juice and olive oil. Season with salt and pepper.
   

3. If using a food processor, pulse the olives, figs, garlic, capers, anchovies, mustard, rosemary, and lemon juice to create a thick paste. Pulse in the olive oil until you’ve achieved a chunky-smooth paste. Don’t overdo it; good tapenade should be slightly rough. Season with salt and pepper, if necessary.
   

SERVING:
Serve with pita toasts (recipe follows) or crackers, or smear it on grilled chicken breast or tuna steaks for a main course.

STORAGE:
Fig-Olive Tapenade can be made up to two weeks in advance and stored in the refrigerator. It’s actually better served at least a day after it’s made.

NOTE:
If you don’t think you like anchovies, next time you’re in France, try the French anchovies from Collioure, a town on the Mediterranean justifiably famous for its anchovies. At home, it’s worth tracking down a good source of anchovies (see Resources, page 271); oil- or salt-packed are both fine to use. If using salted anchovies, soak them in warm water for about ten minutes, then rinse them well, rubbing out any bones with your thumbs. If you’re still not convinced, simply omit them.

All of the Arab markets in Paris sell puffy rounds of pita bread, which is sometimes called
pain libanais
, or Lebanese bread. It’s slightly thinner than its American counterpart, more delicate, and it crisps up beautifully in the oven if cut into triangles, served crackerlike with lots of different spreads. Whatever the thickness of the pita bread that’s available where you live, the important thing is to bake the triangles until they’re golden brown and crispy; no one anywhere likes a soggy chip.

You can use regular or whole wheat pita bread, and feel free to add some herbs to the oil. Finely chopped Oregano or thyme (fresh or dried), a generous pinch of chile powder, or some
za’atar
—a mix of herbs, sesame, and salt, which Arabic spice markets sell ready-mixed—are all excellent additions.

1. Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
   

2. Generously brush the pitas with olive oil on both sides, but not so much that it’s dripping off. You’ll need about 1 tablespoon of oil per pita.
   

3. Cut the pita rounds into six or eight equal triangles, depending on
   how large the pita is and how big you want the triangles. Arrange them in a single layer on a baking sheet, sprinkle with salt, and bake for 8 to 10 minutes, turning the sheet midway during baking, until the triangles are golden brown and crisp. If they’re very thick, you may want to flip them over to ensure crispness. Cool before serving. Pita chips can be made a day or two in advance and stored in an airtight container at room temperature.