Getting attuned to life in France

On this recent visit to Paris by myself, I wanted to try out something different. Instead of racing around to catch the latest art exhibits and eat at new, trendy restaurants, I challenged myself to stay closer to home. I wanted to enjoy what my neighborhood, the Marais, had to offer. The goal was to slow down from my manic Manhattan pace, unplug my iPhone, and turn off the news for two weeks. I sought to channel the French. You know, the ones we’ve all read about, a people who believe that true joy stems from being present, focusing on pleasure and taking the time to enjoy life now, not later.

Yes, I attended exhibits and concerts but certainly not as frequently as on previous trips. I also tried to observe two other self-imposed rules: 10,000 steps and eating out only one meal a day. This meant a lot of food shopping and cooking at home. However, with food being my truc or passion, this was not a burden. Also, this new regimen gave me a chance to practice my French and see if those hours of Berlitz lessons were indeed worthwhile.

Prendre le temps d'apprécier le moment

So limited meals out, fewer museums, and slowing down. That included chilling out at the end of the day with my knitting or relaxing with a good book in a park after a little stroll. Just like the French. You’ve got the picture. My version of Marie Antoinette playing farmer in son hameau, her rustic retreat at Versailles. Or Marsha puttering around her Paris pied-à terre emulating local bourgeois ladies “of a certain age” living a quiet, but certainly enjoyable lifestyle. What follows is a play-by-play on the very first day of this experiment.

Before going to Paris, I had planned a birthday party for a long-time friend, Victor Taylor. He’s the American who’s making a splash with his wine, Serre Besson produced in Vinsobre, a Premier Cru Côtes du Rhône wine appellation. Don’t think for a moment that I attempted a French meal. No way. As the California-born guest of honor has no access to good Mexican food in France, I thought a dinner à la Mexicaine might be much appreciated.

Homeowner then party giver

While hard-to-get ingredients were brought from New York, everything else could be sourced locally. Day One in Paris was therefore primarily devoted to shopping for party provisions. But first, I needed to do something about my bedroom’s empty flower boxes.

Off I trotted with my black and white polka dot caddie (shopping cart) to see what was available at Leroy Merlin, a homeowner’s best friend. This is France’s version of Target minus the clothing section. My branch is a 20-minute walk from my apartment. There some cheerful-looking pink, artificial geraniums caught my eye. In a flash, I checked out with six flowerpots, a tiny spade or une bèche—a new word for me—and rubber gloves. Now, off to the food shopping. Well, not quite yet.

I had inadvertently forgotten to pack cookie cutters for the party’s empanadas and bizcotos, a super flaky cookie sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Luckily, Paris’s best pastry supply store, Mora, is nearby. While tempted to make Eiffel Tower-shaped bizcotos, instead I opted for simple round cutters. Another word to add to my vocabulary: un emporte-pièce.

The wicked good lure of foie gras

Across the street from Mora, is Le Comptoir de la Gastronomie. This gourmet food store, with a restaurant attached, specializes in the best foie gras, truffles, and smoked fish in town. A veritable food lover’s paradise. I jokingly asked the young, strikingly handsome and impeccably attired store manager if by chance, he had any foie gras for sale. A half smile, half smirk slowly telegraphed across his full lips. “I believe we can accommodate you, Madame. We do sell just a little in our shop.” He proceeded to show me an entire range of foie gras products: goose and duck; fresh and tinned; whole, preserved and mi-cuit; with and without truffles. That is French black truffles from le Périgord, bien sûr.

A singe serving of duck foie gras for my at-home dinner that evening was requested. “Oh, then you must try our homemade mi-cuit,” or partially cooked duck foie gras, the merchant pronounced pulling out a beautifully packaged slice from the refrigerated counter. I explained I had read about his shop in the newsletter of Jane Bertch’s cooking school, La Cuisine Paris and knew his establishment was one of Paris’ finest for foie gras. His smirk turned into a full-fledged smile of pride making me think he was probably the son of the owner. And all this exchange had been in French. “May I put this into your caddie, Madame,” the merchant asked gently wedging it in between the flowerpots. “See you for lunch the next time? “ he purred genteelly as if I were now one of his loyal clients.

With not a millimeter of space left in the cart, I headed home. My permanent botanicals were immediately planted. Then I forced myself to take a long pause to admire how they looked. Slow down, have a glass of water, I reminded myself. Thus refueled, the caddie and I were back on the road.

Rue de Bretagne: Paris’ quintessential food shopping street

Rue de Bretagne, the major food shopping street in my hood, is a five-minute walk from my apartment. First stop was La Boucherie du Marais where the middle-aged head butcher—who is built like a linebacker— ground the beef and pork in front of me. As I had explained I was preparing a mixture for stuffing empanadas, he packed both meats together. Handing me a ticket with his beefy hand, he gestured with the flick of his head towards the back of the store to pay. In most small, family-owned shops in France, you pay at la caisse which is run either by the mother or wife of the owner. I approve wholeheartedly this French division of responsibility: men do the labor, and women collect the money.

Then off to Rôtisserie Stevenot, a sliver of a store which offers an amazing choice of just about anything you can roast. From chickens to beef tenderloin to succulent sausages. But you can also find an entire meal worth of roasted side dishes too, including potatoes dauphinoise, roasted endive, and ratatouille. But that day, I only needed one plumb, roasted chicken for the tortillas soup. Automatically, I headed to la caisse to pay.

Next up a quick visit to Le Jardin des Délices, my favorite fruit and vegetable shop run by a slightly bent over, chatty Vietnamese gentleman with an infectious laugh. He loaded up my cart: vegetables for making the soup’s chicken broth and a dozen limes for margaritas.

Working my way back home I stopped at Nicolas, a reputable French chain of wine shops, to purchase a bottle of vermouth. The shop owner is a jovial sort who welcomed me as if I were a long-lost friend. He asked what I needed. That simple question propelled me into a short discussion detailing the party’s game plan. “You’re cooking what? Mexican? “he asked in disbelief, insisting on hearing the entire menu. It’s true. The French love nothing better than chatting about food.

I explained that I had brought some ingredients from New York, including a small bottle of Tequila. “But, Madame, that certainly was not necessary,” he sounded almost insulted, then turned around pointing to a selection of six Tequila brands on a shelf behind him.

A modern-day troubadour

As I expressed amazement—all in my best French—I heard music wafting through the air. “Oh, that damn trumpet player, he’s driving me mad!” the merchant moaned, hitting the top of his forehead with the palm of his hand. “He only knows three songs: La Vie en Rose, Sous le Ciel de Paris, and Je ne regrette rien,” referring to Edith Piaf’s classic tune. “From morning to night, he plays those three bloody songs to pick up a few coins from the café next store’s clientele.” I offered a few consoling words and wished him “Bon Courage,” as I stepped out onto the street only to be confronted with the musician’s outstretched hat.

It was time to take my caddie home and unpack it. It was almost 1:00 PM and I needed to head out for my one meal a day à l’extérieur. Having discovered Des Gars dans la Cuisine on my last trip, I really was looking forward to lunch. And as hoped, the chef’s cooking did not disappoint. I selected “le menu” or the daily special which is always the most reasonably price and freshest choice as the chef changes it up every day.

Dining like a queen

For the entrée (or first course, as the French call it) came a salad made with fresh endive slices smothered with a whipped cream sauce with chunks of salty Roquefort, then topped with dried cranberries and toasted hazelnuts. When the chef poked his head out from the kitchen to ask if I liked it, I replied with “Pas de calories, eh, Chef?” His response was the classic” Bof!”an interjection made by blowing out a puff of air which means, “Well maybe.” “But don’t forget, we’re talking about an endive salad, Madame,” he remined me with a soupçon of sarcasm but also a seductive smile and wink. Next up was pollack draped with a pale pink cream sauce flavored with lobster bisque. Dessert was a Pain Perdu, literally “lost bread”, or French toast for us. The chef’s version was topped with a rich, homemade caramel sauce, the color of dark brown leather. I ate like a queen, only fitting considering the restaurant is owned by several gay guys. My entire meal, including a glass of Chenin Blanc and a Languedoc Rosé, was only $50.00. Remarkable! (Written in French.)

Back home, after a soothing nap, I set about prepping the chicken broth and the cookie dough. Before I knew it, it was time for my stay-at-home dinner. I had left the foie gras out on the counter for a half hour, which was perfect to bring out all its rich flavors. Based on the recommendations of the Comptoire de la Gastronomie, it was served it with slices of crunchy baguette—even better than toasted brioche the merchant assured me—along with some fig jam. Then, off to a much-anticipated evening of culture at Notre Dame Cathedral.

The enduring magic of Yo-Yo Ma

Without a doubt, there were going to be large crowds as I was heading over to hear Yo-Yo Ma perform with the Cathedral’s youth choir. I leisurely zigzagged my way to l’ Île de la Cité, arriving an hour early to join the throng of people already gathered. We waited patiently for the Cathedral’s massive wooden doors to open. Thirty minutes before the performance, as the bells of Notre Dame struck eight, we were let in. The mass of attendees heaved their bodies through the doors, like an unstuck drain, hoping to find the best seat possible. Total madness. I made a beeline to the far-left aisle and rushed to the front of the church, landing a seat in the front row. Next to me were two seats reserved for handicap.

Ten minutes before the performance, a gentleman arrived carefully pushing a woman wrapped in a fluffy white blanket, like a silkworm cocoon, stretched out on a reclining wheelchair. Trying to be discreet, I stole several glances of the couple as the man—who I assumed was the husband—wheeled his wife right up to the sanctuary of the church, near the stage, so that she could see the new alter. He leaned over to hear her whispered comments as if they were the only ones in the cathedral. Next, he pointed out the pristine white Gothic columns which flanked either side of the choir. Now stripped of their centuries of dark patina, the stately columns looked more like elongated legs of fashion models rather than those of solid stone supports. The couple, clearly in their own world, seemed to marvel at the work done to restore Notre Dame. Then, minutes before the concert was to begin, the husband brought his wife back to the front row. But before taking his seat, he covered her face with a cascade of tender kisses as one might do to comfort an ailing child. It was so moving that I could not stop thinking about how hard it must be for this caregiver to watch his wife in such a diminished state. And yet the gentleman was clearly determined to provide some quality of life and normalcy by bringing his wife to enjoy the evening’s concert.

Yo-Yo Ma was invited last December to help inaugurate Notre Dame’s reopening after its devastating fire in 2019. The audience could not have been more excited about welcoming him back. He played a Bach piece for cello, No 6 in D-major. We were all spellbound.

But the part of the program I enjoyed most was when Yo-Yo Ma accompanied the cathedral’s youth choir for the world premiere of a three-part motet composed by Lise Borel. Unfamiliar with the term “motet,” I later learned it was a vocal musical composition originating from medieval times, which uses multiple groups of voices, one often echoing the other. Motets are mostly performed unaccompanied. But having the world’s most celebrated cellist added as the accompaniment produced a magical effect.

Not that Yo-Yo Ma was playing second fiddle to the children. But in truth, he was, and he knew it too. He appeared to revel in this secondary role as he’d periodically turn around when there was a pause in his playing to offer the children a master’s smile of approval, encouragement and sheer joy.

To say that the evening’s experience was transformative—as we listened to the choir commence the motet with “Lord, make of me an instrument of peace,” — would be an understatement. Just reading the title in the program was enough to make the audience tear up, especially in these turbulent times.

A lasting unexpected experience

At the end when the audience quietly filed out, this time in an orderly fashion with everyone engrossed in their own emotions evoked by the concert, I held back. It seemed only fitting to pause and light a candle. This was a tradition started by my late husband Ed, a catholic, on one of our early vacations in France. This was his way of remembering all his loved ones who had passed. It’s a custom I now follow. But this time, I also felt the need to acknowledge all the compassionate caregivers who look after the ailing. And especially those who take the time to cover their faces with tender kisses.