Will Try Harder

It has come to my attention that my Reims post was a bit...long. Even I got bored re-reading it, so kudos to you who made it through the whole thing. The next day trips will be split into more digestible portions, I promise.

Yesterday, as it was Wednesday's Patisserie day, I decided to try something a little more simple. I love to bake fancy things like flottants and a certain Dark Chocolate Raspberry Clafoutis is calling my name (not to mention a burning desire to learn how to make a proper soufflé), but the best part of baking something is watching people devour it. In the house I live, this is tricky because Host Dad is lactose intolerant, the Young One doesn't like cheese, and Host Mom has basically stated that she doesn't like anything that is not a tart.

This narrows down my options quite a bit but the other night after a decent dinner where she complimented my artichokes, she shared with me several cookbooks from which I could choose "The Family's" (i.e. her) favorite desserts. While she flipped through them I took careful note of which desserts she ooh-ed over, and ignored when she warned me that the flottants were "very difficult" because I didn't find it so hard when I made some delicious ones a year ago. Whatever.

SO. Blood Orange Tart it was.

(If anyone knows how to get the 'bitter pith' off an orange, please share.)

(Mmmmm, sugar!)

(Toasty goodness. I froze and baked it for half the time cause I'm lazy. Seemed to work just fine.)

With caramel sauce. Because I love me some caramel.

In other news, I stole the neighbors black cat.

(Pipelette made herself right at home.)

I gave it back, don't worry, but it's kind of a perfect cat to have since I am semi-permanent. Toad offered me the perfect name for her - Pipelette (the french word for gossipy) because Bavarde (talkative) wasn't quite girly enough. But she is a talker.

Also? I finally broke down and joined Twitter when my mom sent me an email requesting to follow me. My mom, ya'll. Thankfully I needed one more internet addiction.

I leave you with a flower porn. I don't know why it's so bright, my camera is just funny like that.

It's almost spring!

le Pure Café I Died In Your Arms

When I was moving to Paris I bought a slew of interesting guide books to help me get over my fear of leaving the homeland. In my opinion there is no better way to get excited about a new city or country than discovering it's out of the way sights and the best kept secret restaurants. Even though I bookmarked almost every single cafe in EatShopParis, the first one on my list was le Pure Café.

Well known for it's appearances in Before Sunset and a slew of French films (most recently in Le Code A Change) most foreigners visit this cafe for to the celebrity of it. The residents of the neighborhood frequent it because of it's casual, friendly atmosphere. Me, I was craving food - really good food - and a chance to verify the review in my little brown guide book.

Toad and I have begun a rather bizarre (and perhaps a tad unhealthy) tradition for our Sundays. We wake up late, get dressed and have a massive brunch somewhere delicious. We don't usually have dinner because, like any good brunch, the meal lasts well into the afternoon. This funny habit sometimes allows us a rare quiet spot between the busy lunch and dinner services of Parisian restaurants. Entering le Pure Cafe found us in just such a situation.

We took a seat and surveyed the menu to find it's flavors. Perhaps I am not the most trained palette in French Cuisine but I do know a good plate when I taste one, no matter what the cultural base. I love food, it's as simple as that. And from the second our waiter set down our planche mixte I knew I would not be disappointed.

To share such an appetizer with your sweetheart is a must, but if you have a group it's better because you will want to leave room for the delicious Magrit de Canard and dessert. This duck was actually cooked à point as I requested but - while this is a tricky task for some places to accomplish and I greatly appreciated it - the highlight of this dish was the puréed potatoe cream sauce. I am not giving credit to the complexity of its flavor by calling it that, but just know it was good. I thought about requesting a tub to take home and swim in but as I do not have a bathtub, this would prove a waste. Instead I dipped everything on the plate in it, only stopping because I knew I would be having something sweet at the end.

For dessert Toad and I shared the Nem au Chocolat which I am fairly certain is not traditional French cuisine, but was a nice light finish to the meal. Presented with a tangy raspberry mango sauce, the wrapped chocolate in crispy pastry was also licked off the plate.

The best part of the leisurely three hour meal (we did have three courses) was watching the city go by. It was rainy and dark, but still the neighbors came in for a long lunch while searching trivia on their iPhones and having a good laugh. A man in the corner wrote something intently on his laptop. A giggling child was served a gooey glass of steaming hot chocolate at the Café's handsome zinc bar. Outside, in the building across the street and four floors up, an old grey haired woman in a pink robe opened her window to survey the happenings on her street. The barkeep chatted with the waiter in the warm light of the cream colored walls, stained by a hundred of years of grease, and was polite enough to offer me phrases in French even though I was clearly American and his English was superb. It felt comfortable, like home only tastier.

Next time you are in the 12eme, I recommend you take a look for yourself. Apparently the dinner service is terribly romantic and if you think I disliked one thing I ate there you are dead wrong, because I didn't even start on how good the espresso was.

A Bientôt? I think I will.

le Pure Café
14 Rue Jean Macé
Paris 75012
Metro Station Charonne
Does not serve meals between 3:00 and 8:00 so plan ahead.

Girls Day á Reims

When Jas suggested a day trip to Reims, I did not initially agree to go. I am trying to save money to go to Spain (and it isn't going well, by the way) and in addition I tend to be the non commital type when it comes to making plans too far in advance. Fortunately Jas is a very good salesman and on Saturday morning I was on the TGV with she and Sarah. The day was incredible - full of laughter and drinking and about seven million photographs. I offer some of the highlights here and highly suggest that you hop on a flight, take a TGV from Paris and wander all over the funny city of Reims trying Champagne. Oh, and see the Catherdral, too.

I was happy to be on a trip with two women who excelled at planning and organizing. This meant that we were equipped with maps and reservations and itineraries for the whole day.

This was just after I pulled back my crazy Farrah Faucet 80's wave I've been rocking. See how happy it made me?

After we left the train station we went straight for the Cathedral de Notre Dame. Built around the same time as Chartres, it's facade was heavy in gothic architecture. Each statue was intricate and meaningful.


Some days I feel just like this guy.

The thing I find amazing about the Gothic Cathedrals is that even though each one has the same basic structures, each one is so different in it's delicate details. The windows, or the woods or the chandeliers each show a distinct difference in the time and place from which it came.

In WWI most of the windows were destroyed in fire or bombings and so with the help of wealthy benefactors, including John D. Rockefeller, the Cathedral was restored. In the restoration, Artist Marc Chagall was employed. He's mostly known for stuff like this:

(Linked from Here. Thanks.)

But offered Reims these.

They bathed everything in a lovely pale blue light.

After the Cathedral we went to the Basillica. Older and less well taken care of, the Basillica was the church devoted to St. Remi, whom I know nothing about except he was anointed here, so they decided to keep his body here as well.


"Here lies the body of Saint Remi." There was something about looking in this crypt that gave me the worst case of the chills.

The Basillica itself was structured so that it was much darker, but the lights were less colorful thus allowing in the full effect of whatever breath of sunlight showed itself that day.

Before heading on back to back Champagne Tours, we fueled up at a sandwich shop.


Then we took the bus to our first stop: Mumm. The Mumm tour and tasting was interesting and classical. They took us through the entire process of fermentation, down 14 meters below ground to their caves and back up for a classy tasting of their Cordon Rouge and Millimese Champagnes. I now have a full appreciation for the creation (and thus the cost) of a good champagne.

There are 25 MILLION bottles in Mumms Caves! 25 kilometers of cave equals a million bottles of champagne per kilometer! Holy crap!

(I thought this corking machine looked rather like an implement of torture.)

(A clever light fixture.)

(This lovely green piece of art is actually showing the exact degree at which each bottle should be hand turned in order for the sediment to settle correctly.)

(Our Tour Guide, popping a new bottle for us to taste.)

After Mumm, we hopped back on the bus and maybe went in the wrong direction twice before getting to Pommery. By then we had only had two tasting glasses of champagne but were in full swing for the next tour.

As it turns out, the Pommery Caves are all about The Widow Louise Pommery who took over the business at age thirty-nine. Madame Pommery is actually the one who purchased the land and Chateau on which the caves now rest and she is also responsible for creating it's original name and flavors. She loved art and so to this day a different art exhibition is held at the Pommery, within the caves themselves. This made for a very interesting contrast of the two tours.

(Vve Louise Pommery.)

Each of the caves was dedicated this year to a country in the European Union. I had a hard time making the correlations and forgot which was which by the end, but I found them all intriguing. It turns out I do love Contemporary Art after all.

(On top of this warming light was a finches nest. This room was somehow meant to represent France. We didn't quite get it.)

(This one was not related to France. All of these microphones were made of wood. It is my favorite photo of the whole day.)

(That's an alien with a crown of thorns. It was on the ceiling. I think this was a Finnish piece of art.)

(At the beginning and end of the tour we were required to walk down 30 meters - 136 steps or something. Going up was much harder.)

(Here you have our variety of champanes ready for the tasting. A Rose, a Dry - which is sweet, we didn't know! - Apanage, Milliseme and a basic Brut.)

(Yes, we got drunk.)

(Phrases like "Fluffy Soft Easter Bunny Bubbles" were utter followed by too loud cackles. I was the cackler.)

Finally, we were on the TGV back, giggly and red faced. It was then that we took a moment to pray the TGV didn't wreck because it turns out that if you need to escape a flaming high speed train you have to smash and cut through three layers of glass. Thankfully there was a helpful diagram.

By the time we got back to Paris, we were exhausted but hungry. Our sandwichs had long since digested and the champagne high had begun to come to a crashing halt. Our purses were weighing heavily opposite our respective two bottles of wine bought at Pommery. We took one last drink and some wonderful Brazilian food before splitting up for the evening, deleriously happy.

(Brasilian Food I Heart You. Thank you Favela Chic.)

But not before running into an old friend.

When Your Talking In Your Sleep

In the dream I was standing in the living room of the house I grew up in with my mother and step father. Whatever built up to this moment in the dream was light, maybe even pleasant, like a fond memory. I don't really remember that part though, because just after my mom sat in her long hair smiling obliviously and I perched over her screaming at my step father.

"You just going to leave anyway! You don't love her because she's sick! You're going to leave her because she's sick! You bastard, son of a bitch! You're going to leave!"

I stirred then, the sensation of Toad gently kissing my face rousing me.

"Already?" I said in French, thinking he was getting up to go to work.

"Are you okay, baby?" he said?

"I was screaming at my stepfather," I said, and rolled over back to sleep. My body was covered in sweat and heart was beating fast.

An hour later when the alarm actually woke us up he asked me again if I was okay. "You were yelling."

"Like making noises that sounded like yelling? Or actually screaming?"

"No, yelling. I was afraid," he said seriously.

The heaviness of the dream still lingered over me.

"I didn't know I talked in my sleep," I said, trying to be light. "...I blame him. I blame him for taking away my childhood, for destroying my mothers life. I haven't forgiven him."

"It's understandable," he said and kissed me good bye.

I went back to sleep trying to think of something more pleasant.

Oh Those Crazy Kids

One would assume that after eleven years of good drinking that I would, by now, be able to know my tolerances a little more. Alas, I woke this morning next to a giant green plastic sack that Toad had snatched off a street bin lest I need to vomit again on the ride home.

In America I remember there's a saying that's something like "Beer before liquor never sicker; Liquor before beer in the clear." Or maybe it's the other way around, I'm not sure. But I don't drink much beer in Paris. It's expensive and the selection leaves much to be desired after years and years of tasty microbrews. No, here I drink wine. It's like water, I have it with dinner, I have it after dinner, I have it at parties. I no longer drink whisky, but that's another story, and sometimes I have vodka but really I prefer wine. It's predictable. So predictable that here they have a saying "blanc avant rouge, rien ne bouge; rouge avant blanc, tout fout le camp."

Which basically translates into White before red nothing happens; Red before white christen your friends toilet in her amazing new Parisian flat. SO sorry about that Emily.

Despite the fact that I spent the last half hour on her bathroom floor, I had a wonderful time visiting Emily and Jerome's new place in the 9th arrondisment. I am always amazed at how large the group of American expats in Paris is. And how many of them are women. Needless to say there was an natural split in the party between the American girls and their French boyfriend/husbands. Toad had much to bond over.

As for me, I suspect I will spend the rest of the day dragging myself through the cleaning, nursing a headache and a rotten stomach. Should be fun. Talk amongst yourselves.

I Owes You A Post

In case you were wondering, yes I had a fantastic Valentine's Day. It was low key, just the way I like them. Monday, Toad stayed home from work and we wandered around Meudon. Together we walked to the Social Security Office where I had what was quite possibly the world's shortest stay. I was in and out in less than five minutes, left for wonder why I had put it off for so very long. The woman promised I would have my Carte Vitale in three weeks. We'll see I guess.

After that we stopped by my favorite Parisian natural food store to see if I could find some Flax Seed Oil. I have been looking for awhile now but nobody seemed to know what I was talking about when I asked. There, on her little table of natural makeup, I found what I suspected might be what I was looking for.

"Quick, will you google Flax Seed in French, baby?" I asked Toad.

Sure enough in my hand rested a bottle of L'huile de Lin, otherwise known as Flax Seed Oil.

"Yay!" I exclaimed and began to search for other random items.

"Awwww, someone left their baby behind," Toad said sarcastically.

"Huh?" I turned to look.

"But it's okay I think he'll make it. He has a weapon."


There, guarding the oatmeal was a charming little pirate. I'm not sure if the doll was using the knife or if it was intended to be used on it, but either way it was terribly funny. Unfortunately I think someone got in some BIG trouble for this little laugh.

I purchased my Lin and gleefully wandered across the street to Meudon's best Chinese food restaurant. I happily ate my Carmel Porc and Noodles with two cans of Guava nectar and Toad devoured the Pinapple Chicken and Canton Rice. He proclaimed it the Best Chinese Food in Paris.

Stuffed, we headed home and on the way we ran into the owner of the natural food store, dropping off her dry cleaning.

"Hello!" She said. "As you left I remembered you! You're the young American girl!"

"Yes!" I said, happy that she had remembered. It had been so long since I had gone in that I had been too embarrassed to say anything about our first meeting.

"How are you?" She asked, bright green beret capping the back of her plain brown hair. "How is your French?"

"It's better and better," I answered in French.

We chatted for a moment in the fading daylight about the Flax Oil - which apparently had been banned in France up until recently - and I told her how excited I was to have found it. When we parted I promised to come again soon, and this time I meant it.

Something about her touches me - her simpleness, her frail look and the heaviness she wears behind her smile - and I admire her desire to do something really good with her life. I can tell that it is not been easy for her. And now, as opposed to the time when I first met her, I have the strength to share more of my own life. I feel like I once again have something to offer, even if it's nothing more than a genuine smile.