The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City (16 page)

Two hints: To make the blue cheese easier to crumble, leave it unwrapped on a plate in the refrigerator to dry a bit a day ahead. The second tip is to reserve the bacon fat and use that to grease the pan, which will add aromatic smokiness to the cake.

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Grease a 9-inch (23-cm) loaf pan with butter and line the bottom with a piece of parchment paper.
   

2. In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, chile powder, and salt.
   

3. In a separate bowl, whisk together the eggs, olive oil, yogurt, mustard, and chives until smooth.
   

4. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and use a rubber spatula to stir in the wet mixture, stirring just until the wet ingredients are almost incorporated. (A bit of flour should still be visible.) Don’t overmix.
   

5. Fold in the blue cheese, Parmesan, and bacon bits until everything’s just moistened. Scrape the batter into the prepared loaf pan.
   

6. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until the top is golden brown and the cake springs back when you gently touch the center.
   

7. Let the cake cool for 5 minutes, then tilt it out onto a wire rack. Peel off the parchment and let cool before slicing.
   

STORAGE:
The cake can be wrapped in plastic and kept at room temperature for up to three days. It can also be frozen, well wrapped, for up to two months.

VARIATION:
For a
cake au chèvre et aux olives
(Chèvre and Olive Cake) substitute 6 ounces (170 g) crumbled goat cheese, such as a Bucheron or Montrachet (or one that’s neither too aged nor too soft) for the blue cheese and omit the bacon and Dijon mustard. Add ¼ cup (40g) finely chopped pitted green or black olives in step 6 as well.

JEANNE

Even though I live in a small apartment, I’m not especially good at keeping it tidy. I’m fairly neat and organized, which is essential when living and working in the same space. But I’d rather spend my time baking brownies than scrubbing sinks, if you can believe it.

Jeanne is my housecleaner, and she comes every other week (except during her eleven-week summer vacation). The first time we met, she strode in the front door for her interview, and immediately said to me,
“Je ne suis pas une voleuse, monsieur”
—“I am not a thief.” And I was sure she was telling the truth, since she was better dressed than I.

She arrived wearing a silk scarf tied impeccably around her neck and strode through my door in elegant leather pumps. The flowery lilt of French perfume wafted toward me as she entered, and her hair was so neatly coiffed and sprayed into place that a mistral, the violent wind that sweeps through Provence, wouldn’t have been able to budge it. Being from San Francisco, I did the brief Adam’s-apple check and yes, indeed, Jeanne was the real thing.

But lest you think Jeanne was dainty and sweet, think again. The first time she came to clean, she kicked off those fancy pumps, put on some slippers, and padded off in search of the
eau de javel
, that universally loved liquid developed here in 1789 that’s still dear to the French to this day. In fact, they’re still beaming with so much pride they’ve named a Métro stop after it, “Javel.” Imagine if there was a subway stop in your city called “bleach.” It’s one of the few Métro stops in Paris I’ve never been to—but I presume it’s the cleanest.

Because my apartment is basically just two small rooms, you’d think it would be simple to clean. When we first met, Jeanne said it would take her two hours to do it, which sounded like a long time. But since it takes me about two weeks to work up the energy to unearth and untangle all those cords and hoses on my
aspirateur
(and I always manage to find something more interesting to do in Paris than vacuuming), I went along with it. During her first visit I left and went to the movies.

When the film was over and two hours had passed, I figured she’d have finished up and it was safe to return. But when I turned the key in the lock, the door swung open and there she was, still padding around, engulfed in bleach fumes. Although she’d been there way past her estimated time of departure, she was cleaning around the buttons on my fax machine like a madwoman … but hadn’t yet made it to the kitchen or the bathroom.

I hung around and tried to stay out of her way, and when she finished, I suggested that the next time she came, it might be better if she started in the “critical areas,” namely the bathroom and kitchen—instead of detailing
le fax.
Jeanne slipped back into her pumps, neatly folded her rubber gloves, and finally left a good four hours after she had arrived.

Since our first encounter, we’ve been together for years and Jeanne’s become a fixture in my life. So much so that I’ve slipped from using the more formal
vous
to the friendlier
tu
with her. Although she still uses
vous
, I guess she feels pretty comfortable with me, since each time she arrives, she scrutinizes my face very deeply and tells me she’s worried about my health. She says I should be eating more red meat, a diagnosis that she brings home by vigorously punching her fist in the air. I want to tell her, thanks—now could she just clean the toilet? But I’m worried about that well-manicured right-hand jab, so I don’t say a word.

I’ve finally got her down to cleaning my tiny place in just under three hours, a feat that’s taken me years to accomplish. I can’t tell her outright to leave, so I come home and feign surprise each time that she’s still there, praying that she might get the hint. That’s after I’ve sat through
War and Peace
, stopped somewhere afterward for a glass of wine, then wandered aimlessly in the freezing rain until I thought, “Of course, she
must
be finished by now” hoping to be allowed back into my home again. But no matter what time I return, there she is, bleach in hand, scrubbing the rubber bumpers under the base of my Kitchen Aid mixer.

I’m not complaining. True to her word, nothing’s gone missing and I’m happy with the great cleaning job she does—in spite of the small fortune I’m spending on
eau de javel.
My next task is to convince her that I participate in this newfangled thing called “recycling.” Still, I can’t imagine life without Jeanne, and I’d miss our bi-weekly sessions of her doling out health advice and me wishing she’d concentrate her energy on the kitchen floor instead of the plastic holes behind my alarm clock.

Oddly, one day I came home and she’d already left, which was a first. There was a note that she was missing a sock and if I found it to please let her know. I looked under the shelves, where there was not a speck of dust. I moved a few boxes around and saw the walls and corners had been scrubbed and polished. I lifted up the sofa, and the carpet looked as fresh as that day I installed it. But no sock.

Feeling the need to stop in the bathroom, something struck me as odd: I looked around and noticed that it hadn’t been cleaned—at all.

I couldn’t imagine what she’d been doing and how someone could spend half a day cleaning a two-room apartment but forget the bathroom. Yet I was happy to forgive her. Because when you’re all alone in a foreign country, it’s nice to have someone looking after you. And I think it’s a good idea to keep her on my side. Especially with that right hook.

BOUCHEES CHOCOLAT AU YAOURT
CHOCOLATE YOGURT SNACK CAKES
MAKES 12 INDIVIDUAL CAKES

I often wonder what Jeanne does during all that time she spends in my apartment. Sometimes I think that as soon as I leave she slips off her slippers and socks and curls up on the sofa, watching television and snacking on chocolates. I suppose if I installed a hidden camera, I could find out for sure, as well as finally finding her long-lost sock.

The recipe for these moist little chocolate cakes comes from my friend Meg Cutts, the mother of two young boys, who I’m sure knows a thing or two about cleaning house—and lost socks.

The French call things that don’t neatly fit into any other dessert category
bouchées
(mouthfuls), and these little cakes certainly fit that description.

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Line a 12-cup muffin tin with paper cupcake liners or lightly butter the pan.
   

2. In a heatproof bowl set over simmering water, melt the chocolate with ¼ cup (60 ml) of the oil. Once melted and smooth, remove from heat.
   

3. In another bowl, mix the remaining ¼ cup (65 ml) oil with the yogurt, sugar, eggs, and vanilla and almond extracts.
   

4. In a large bowl, whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt.
   

5. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and add the yogurt mixture. Stir lightly a couple of times, then add the melted chocolate, and stir just until smooth.
   

6. Divide the batter among the muffin cups and bake for 25 minutes, or until they feel barely set in the middle.
   

7. Remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack before serving.
   

SERVING:
Even though the French never take their coffee until after dessert, I make an exception and like to serve it with these cakes, to adults, of course. Kids will probably appreciate a glass of milk instead.

STORAGE:
The cakes can be stored in an airtight container, at room temperature, for up to four days.

TOO MANY WAYS TO SAY THE SAME THING

Somewhere in the city of Paris there exists a shop dedicated to anything you might ever want, no matter how strange or obscure. I’ve visited shops in Paris that manage to subsist by offering one and only one thing, such as light-bulbs, vanilla, taxidermied animals, handmade umbrellas, fresh-pressed nut oils, antique medical equipment (which is kinda scary), horsemeat (which is very scary), antique doorknobs, organ meats, vintage musical instruments, new and used rat traps (the used ones still have the rats in them), vintage little black dresses (at more than modern-day prices), beer, fishing lures, and American paramilitary gear. I’ve
been to a place that stocks nothing but five bottles of perfume, a latex clothing boutique where a fetish-minded friend insisted I try on an outfit (taking it off was another epilation lesson, and a rather painful one, I might add), and the tiniest shop in Paris: the sports nutrition store on the rue Quincampaux, which always seems to be empty.

But the most unusual shopping experience I’ve had in Paris was just a couple of blocks from the working-class place de la République. With a doctor’s note in my hand, I knew I was at the right place when I stood facing an expansive
vitrine
that was a mad jumble of plastic limbs pointing in a myriad of directions, each sporting the latest and greatest in orthopedic hosiery.

Stepping inside, I handed over my doctor’s
ordonnance
and accompanied the no-nonsense woman of
un certain âge
to the back of the shop to the changing room, in preparation for my fitting of over-the-knee socks that I was told would make the hours I spend on my feet a pleasure, rather than the problem they had become.

Before she closed the curtain, the saleswoman instructed me to take off every stitch of clothing, including
mon slip.
Then she handed me two flimsy paper towels before snapping the curtain shut. French people are pretty lax about public displays of body parts and don’t shy away from nudity, which I’m now used to. Chalking it up to the French penchant for
naturisme
, I stripped off everything, including
mon slip
, and covered my bases on both sides, with the flimsy paper towels, which barely did the trick: French paper towels aren’t exactly Brawny-size.

On the other side of the curtain, she asked if I was ready.
“Vous êtes prêt, monsieur?”
to which I replied, clutching the two wispy squares of paper,
“Oui, madame.”

Pulling back the curtain, she walked in, her rubber-gloved hands outstretched like a surgeon. She stopped, took one look at me, from top to bottom, pausing in the middle, and let out a gasp so loud I thought it might have been her last breath, ever.

Thinking about it later I realized she must have said,
“Déshabillez-vous. Enlevez tous vos vêtements
sauf
le slip,”
instructing me to take off everything
but
my underwear. Funny, I don’t remember hearing that. (And I’m still not clear on what the paper towels were for.)

I don’t know which of us was more embarrassed by my inadequate command of the French language, although since I was standing in a booth with someone’s grandmother, clutching a couple of squares of paper for dear life, I’d say it was me. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be the last time I was caught with my pants down when it comes to my understanding of the language.

It’s entirely possible to get by in France without speaking much French, thanks to the Internet, CNN, international bookstores and newsstands, and the very eager English-speaking waiters who have learned that if they charm a table of flummoxed American tourists, they’ll get a nice tip. But if you want to live here and be a part of French life, and do more than barely cover your butt, learning French is essential.

When people ask, “How long did it take you to become fluent in French?” I respond, “Become fluent? Even the French aren’t fluent in French.” To prove it, there’s an annual Dicos d’Or, a dictation contest where French people compete against each other to see who can best comprehend and write down what’s spoken to them—
in their own language!

To alleviate some of the confusion, there exists the Académie Française. Within those hallowed, plush chambers on the Left Bank, the definitive dictionary of the French language was started in 1635. And to this day, forty
immortels
(a name that demonstrates the reverence they inspire) regularly meet and discuss what words should be spoken in France, a decision that can take decades. American dictionaries are updated far more frequently to include new, important words, like
muffin top
(the overhang from low-slung jeans),
prehab
(intervention for junior celebs), and
designer baby
(none of which I’ve been able to translate, or even explain, in French).

The biggest problem these days for
les immortels
, whose average age is
a ripe seventy-eight, is trying to prevent the insidious encroachment of the English language from contaminating the sacred French vocabulary. Nevertheless, words like
relooking
(makeover),
le fast food
, and
très People
have jumped the line and are heard in everyday speech, government-sanctioned or not.

Most of the words arrive via
les teenagers
, which is evident when you consider some of the un-French words that have become part of
la langue populaire: nonstop, le weekend, le star système, l’ happy hour, le feeling, le jet-set, le shopping, le “must”
(always in quotes),
le snack, le gadget
, and the latest rage that’s sweeping all of Paris—
le scrapbooking.

There’s so much concern about the encroachment of
franglais
into the French vocabulary that the government has issued
les quotas musicaux
, which mandates that only a strictly limited percentage of music played on the radio in France can be non-French. Listen for a short while to French radio, and you might start off by enjoying a heart-wrenching serenade by Edith Piaf, followed by an ear-splitting blast from Iron Maiden, leading into a jaunty chant from French tennis star Yannick Noah, whose successful recording career, if you’ve ever heard him, is one of the more unfortunate consequences of
les quotas musicaux.

The French take their language very, very seriously, and I can’t remember a dinner party where an argument about some aspect of the language didn’t at some point break out and was not resolved until someone went to a bookshelf and pulled out a copy of Larousse, an important fixture in every French household.

Especially vexing is that seemingly ordinary words that one might innocently translate from English to French, like
populaire
(“I’m popular!”), take on drastically different, less-than-complimentary meanings when translated. Calling someone
populaire
means they’re from the lower classes.

Similarly, complimenting the beauty of something—
“C’est Joli!
—can have frightening consequences. I made the grave mistake of telling a clerk at Moisan bakery what I thought was a compliment—that the magnificent tray of golden-rimmed madeleines she was putting on display were
indeed
très jolies.” Elles ne sont pas jolies, monsieur! Elles sont délicieuses!
She screeched back, “They’re not beautiful! They’re delicious!” before walking away in a huff. After that, I avoided the bakery for a full year. Which was unfortunate, as it was one of my favorite places to buy bread. But after monitoring the situation safely from the other side of the window week after week, only when I deduced she no longer worked there did I dare step inside again to try the madeleines.

After I took my first bite, I took smug satisfaction that I was right: they were, indeed, beautiful. And I stopped wondering what happened to her and figured she must have been fired for lying because they weren’t, as she claimed, all that delicious.

I give Parisians a lot of credit for taking pity on me as we mutually struggle to understand each other. Even after living here for over six years, more often than not, I still don’t have a clue as to what people are saying to me. I have become a
César-worthy
actor and perfected an award-winning look of comprehension, avoiding the deer-caught-in-the-headlights look when someone barrages me in rapid-fire French. But what can they expect? I mean, in all honesty, how can one begin to master any language that’s so difficult, it lists six different ways to say “because”?
Puisque, comme, à cause de, car, grâce à
, and
à force de
all mean “because.” The difference between them comes down to because of
what?

Look at the banquet of choices for a chicken breast:
poitrine de poulet, blanc de poulet, émincé de poulet, escalope de poulet
, and
suprême de poulet.
And a jug of wine can be a
carafe, picket, pot, décanter, cruche
, or
fillette
, which is also a young girl. So be careful where you are when you order one.

A can of soda is a
canette
, not to be confused with
canette
, a young female duck (not be to confused with a young male duck, which is a
caneton).
And a can of vegetables is a
boîte de conserve
, but if you’re going out to a nightclub, you’re going to
sortir en boîte
, so let’s hope that after a night out on the town, you don’t come home a vegetable.

If you want chicken, you go to a
volailler.
But if you want beef, head to the
boucherie.
Is it pork you’re after? Stop off at the nearest
charcuterie
, because the
boucher
might not have it. Pork is not meat, it’s pork. But lamb
is
meat, and you can find that at the
boucherie.
Like innards? Those can be found at the
triperie
, which I’ll let you find on your own.

Rabbits fall inexplicably in to the same category as our feathery friends found at the
volailler.
And in case you’re looking, horsemeat is normally found at the
boucherie chevaline
, although it can sometimes be found at the regular
boucherie
, too. But not necessarily vice versa. And if anyone can tell me the difference between a
saucisson sec
and a
saucisse sèche
, I owe you a dried sausage. Or a freshly dried one.