Tag Archives: food

Vegetarians, look away now

11 May

Chicken Lady at Bastille Market Photo by Jennifer FlueckigerSince moving to France, I have had to think about renegotiating my relationship with meat.  Pre–Paris we had an understanding. I didn’t eat much and what I did buy was very good quality. In exchange, the meat came clearly marked, in nice plastic packaging from the supermarket or pre-cut and wrapped in paper from the butcher. Now in Paris, all the rules are being broken.

Last Sunday, I got in the line at the chicken lady’s stand, or poulailler, at the farmer’s market around the corner from our apartment. The number of different types of chickens daunted me. The range extended well beyond the caged, free-range, organic, corn-fed options I am used to. There were different varieties and subsections of these varieties. I just wanted a chicken, chicken. I wanted a normal, well-treated chicken.

I was relieved when a simple “Un poulet, s’il vous plait” was all that was needed for the woman at the front of the line to secure a chicken that looked ok to me.  I could say that. This was going to happen. I was going to get my chicken.

However, when the chicken was removed from the refrigerated case, the neck and full head of the chicken, previously tucked neatly under the bird’s body out of sight, dropped down and swung back and forth. Yes, beak, comb and both beady little eyes – left and right, left and right.

This was a clear violation of our previously negotiated understanding. Heads, feathers, eyes, combs and beaks, for goodness sake, were definitely out-of-bounds. I didn’t know if I could go through with it.

Then the lady in front unknowingly threw me a lifeline. She said something in French that resulted in the chicken lady unceremoniously removing the head – CHOP – and then, taking out the insides.  I’d forgotten about the giblets, but these too can be removed by request. 

The game was on again and it was my turn.

Un poulet, s’il vous plait.” Then I pointed. As before, the chicken body was removed and the neck and head dangled.  However, I was only partially equipped for the next stage. I knew there were magic words that would make the next necessary step happen, but I didn’t know what those words were.

But I had to do it and thank goodness for the onomatopoeia and sign language.

Je voudrais le chop et le scoop.”

These words, accompanied by the corresponding hand movements, got me, some giggles from the chicken lady and the rest of the chicken line, as well as, a chicken I was prepared to cook.

Or so I thought. I got home and unwrapped the chicken. The chicken lady had removed the head but not the rest of the neck.  The chicken and its neck lay stretched out on the cutting board. It lay there and I prepared potatoes. It lay there and I chopped carrots. It lay there and I talked to my sister on the phone. I had to do something about this.  Come on Jennifer, you can do this.  Thankfully, living in a furnished apartment in France, a meat cleaver, the knife needed to perform this job, was in the drawer. Otherwise, I am not sure how it would have all gone down.  Even with the right knife it took several determined blows to do the necessary.  And then I was left with my chicken, which I put in the oven, and a neck that looked a bit too much like, well … let’s just say disgusting. Help!

I didn’t want to touch it. I felt really wasteful if I threw it away. This chicken had died for my next few meals, the least I could do was treat it all with respect. However, I’d have to touch it even if I did throw it away. Come on Jennifer, be a big girl one more time.  I quickly picked it up with tongs, put it into the pot and covered it with a lid to wait for the carcass to make stock. I felt like I wanted a cigarette.

The chicken wasn’t the only offender. I’ve broken the rules of the agreement too.  In the original rules, I’d agreed to high quality meat, which meant for me, well-treated animals, free-range situations and organic methods, if possible. I’m afraid foie gras falls outside this category.  Force feeding geese to artificially enlarge their livers makes gruesome viewing.

My first offence was outside of my control. We were at a dinner party hosted by one of my husband’s French colleagues.  It was a beautiful meal and perhaps one of the few we might experience in a French home.  Our hosts had gone to enormous trouble to prepare a wonderful French-style meal that complied with all of my food issues (no gluten, no dairy, no fish/seafood). I wasn’t going to say no to the first course.  And I didn’t want to. I knew I liked foie gras and this was delicious.

My second offence was much more flagrant and audacious.  I went to the restaurant knowing that I was going to order a steak burger with foie gras.  The restaurant had been chosen specifically for this dish. The scene of the crime was, the perhaps aptly named, Grizzli Cafe (7 rue Saint-Martin). The medium-rare fillet of beef, sautéed onions, and red wine sauce topped with a slice of foie gras and served with thick-cut fries prepared in beef dripping was lovely.  I enjoyed it so much, but have been feeling really upset about it since. Talking about this meal I find myself apologizing. I don’t think I’ll be ordering foie gras again. My pleasure does not justify bad treatment.

So, after indiscretions on both sides, I am not sure where my agreement with meat stands.  However, looking your food in the eye is a good, and sobering, exercise.

My dinner with Kayne West

29 Apr


me outside spring photo by Jennifer Flueckiger

My brother-in-law and I had dinner with Kayne West last Saturday night. Ok, we weren’t exactly at the same table, but he was at the next table over.  We even made eye contact a few times, although he didn’t smile.  I couldn’t decide if this was because he thought I looked too cool for a common acknowledgement or he thought, ‘I wish that crazy woman would stop turning around and looking at me.’ 

Either way, maybe it was best we did not actually converse.   I am not sure I could name a Kanye West song if my life depended on it. Also, MTV recently gave him the honour of having the ‘best tweet of the year’. Here it is:

“I hate when I’m on a flight and I wake up with a water bottle next to me like oh great now I gotta be responsible for this water bottle”

I had thought for a moment that this might be some sort of deep statement about each individual’s environmental responsibility.  Then I read some of his other top tweets:

“dating models I had to learn to like small dogs and cigarettes”

“I specifically ordered Persian rugs with cherub imagery!!! What do I have to do to get a simple Persian rug with cherub imagery uuuuugh.”

Also, if I’m honest, he wasn’t who I hoped to see. When we were seated the server leaned over and told us in a hushed voice that Beyonce was dining there tonight.  This really did excite me.  I am a little embarrassed to admit this but I am a bit of a fan (I actually own several albums) and, it was possible, as I had seen on twitter that Beyonce and her husband Jay Z were in Paris.

When Kanye and his party were seated at the ‘Beyonce’ table, there were two extra seats.  I kept looking round in hope but alas, she did not join them.

However, we didn’t go to this restaurant for star spotting, we came for the food. My brother-in-law was in town for the weekend and asked me to book something special. Given the daunting task of choosing a special restaurant in a city where even a neighbourhood bistro will offer something I have never tasted before, I employed help. Excellent foodie website parisbymouth.com actually lets you choose Paris restaurants by number of Michelin stars, but also has a less daunting list of editor’s picks. Paris-based food writer and pastry chef David Lebowitz also has a list of favourites. Restaurant Spring (6 Rue Bailleul) appeared on both.

Both sites also said that it was necessary to book reservations at least a month in advance.  I was only two days out.  I decided to give them a call just on the off chance that they had a cancellation.  I was in luck. Each sitting they offer a limited number of seats at the bar on a first-come, first-served basis.  The maitre’d advised us that we were to get there no later than 7.30 (on time and early, both things unheard of in France) to get a seat.  He also showed no signs of panic or horror when I let him know about my food ‘issues’. ‘No problem at all, madam.’

And what a delight! We were also freed from actually thinking about and choosing what we wanted to eat and drink. The chef prepares a new, seasonal menu each night and the sommelier chooses the best wines to go with each course.  (If you need proof that each night’s menu is a one off here it is: I went back to the restaurant yesterday to confirm my memory of the menu and they had to think hard about what they’d served for dinner on Saturday as they’d served 4 other different menus after it).

They asked us at the start if we wanted to know what was coming or enjoy the surprise.  We loved each dish being unveiled to us.

  • Potato croquettes with cheese and anchovy paste (champagne, for me)
  • Morel mushrooms, radish and carrot in chicken consumme with a leaf of a French wild herb
  • Langoustine (hot fennel salad, for me)
  • Pigeon with marinated grapefruit in a pigeon jus
  • Strawberries and rhubarb with Normandy cream and strawberry syrup
  • Creme fraiche sorbet with lemon (double helpings of the chocolate for me)
  • Chocolate sorbet

Yes, three desserts! And, champagne and wine to match all the way through. Special food, excellent service and good company. What a great night.

(Another reason to be glad we weren’t at Kayne’s table: apparently there was a small problem with the bill at the end of the night. One of the servers had to chase him into his limo.  I am sure that whipping out a credit card might cramp his style and he has people to handle these things.  The meal, I’m told, has been added to his hotel bill.)

The first lady of Pletzl

21 Apr

Sacha Finkelsztajn bakery, rue des RosiersWhat my landlady lacks in height, she makes up for in energy. When I met her for a promised tour of the neighbourhood, her kitten-heeled sling backs brought her up to a mighty 5’1’’.  They also powered a three-hour purposeful march through the history of the Marais and Pletzl areas of Paris, stories of her childhood, book advice, where I was to buy the best baked goods and even the best gay cruising spots.

After a nearly 60 years in the area she knows the labyrinth like streets of the Marais well and she had a story for every corner, every shop.  She darted down alleys, into courtyards, I was lucky to keep up.  I was also lucky to come out alive. She says she doesn’t use her white stick because she claims it makes her a target and invites unwanted help. I felt like a target as she literally led us blind into the middle of crowds and into the middle of traffic, but always on course.

‘They say that I am the lady who sees everything,’ she said of the would-be shoplifters at store she owns with her husband. ‘I stand and move my eyes around the store.  But, they could steal a suitcase from in front of me and I would not know.’

She said she hates what she has become.  She was a surgeon before her sight started to deteriorate and I am sure her life has changed in innumerable ways that a sighted person cannot understand.  However, as with the would-be thieves, how one approaches the world has a lot to do with how people respond, and we were on a mission.

The village of Saint Paul (off rue St Paul) was her first top tip. A series of courtyards filled with cute antiques shops, artist’s workshops and cafes. The weekend seems to be the best time to catch the action at St Paul. We could only window shop as nothing was open at 11.30 on a Friday morning. By way of explanation my guide said this was because they were run by ‘BoBos’ who didn’t feel the need to get up and do a day’s work like the rest of us.  She assured me that this was an affectionate term and she was a fan of this area, but according to my landlady this group seemed to be at the root of many of the changes to the neighbourhood that she chronicled during our walk.

Bourgeois Bohemians are just the latest of many groups that have seen this neighbourhood change over hundreds of years. The aristocrats who first developed the area with beautiful mansions moved out in the late 17th and early 18th centuries and working people gradually moved into their palaces. A Jewish community has been in the area for hundreds of years and there are still kosher stores, bakeries and Jewish bookstores.

She showed me where many Jewish stores used to be, now trendy clothing stores. You can see some of this history as original signs  have been conserved when the spaces have been converted.  Of the stores that remain, the L’As du Felafel (34 rue des Rosiers) restaurant and the Sacha Finkelsztajn (27 rue des Rosiers) bakery were favourites.

She remembered the neighbourhood of her childhood, where it felt like a real community and people looked after each other.  She said that her family did not have a lot of money, but talked of living in a house that had a grand sweeping staircase and French doors between rooms with high ceilings. With the new wave of people coming into the area, house prices went up and people who had lived here all of their lives could no longer afford to do so.

Even with all of the changes, she would not live anywhere else. The renaissance courtyard of the Hotel de Sully (62 rue Saint-Antoine) and the Musee Carnavalet (23 rue de Sévigne), a free museum dedicated to the history of Paris, are some of her favourite places in the world.

‘Everything is here,’ she said.  However, she recommends coming on weekday mornings before all of the BoBos wake up and you can’t move for people.

Happy accident or trainwreck?

20 Apr

forbidden fruits - bread, cheese, wine


Ok, here we go – thoughts on my meanderings and people I meet in Paris.  I’ll probably talk a lot about food, too.

I am in Paris for at least the summer and am here, as the title suggests, by accident.  This isn’t an Eat Pray Love sort of journey.  I was really happy where I was.  However, when someone offers you 6 months in Paris (my husband took a job here and wanted a partner in crime), if you can, you take it.

Besides the disappointments in temporarily leaving my happy life back in Scotland, there are several other aspects to this adventure that make accidents more likely. 

First, there is my ambivalence towards Paris.  I’ve been, it’s a nice place, but there are so many other places to see.  When the trip was first mentioned Paris felt a bit ‘old world’, a bit like well-covered territory, almost cliché. Everybody either loves Paris or dislikes the French … or a mixture of both.  Rio, Mumbai, Shanghai – these are places you can write home about.  Paris – haven’t all of the stories been told/heard before?

My next hurdle is a communication problem. I don’t speak French.  I had a good old American school stab at learning Spanish and later, in situ, learning Japanese. Based on these experiences I can say with quite a bit of authority that I am not a linguist.

Finally, and possibly the most accident-inducing aspect of my time here is food related. Imagine telling a French person that you don’t eat bread, cheese, butter or drink wine.  I do eat meat and, by some chemical miracle, can drink champagne, but I am allergic to gluten, dairy products, fish/seafood and wine.  I don’t go into anaphylactic shock if any of these substances come my way, but I am pretty uncomfortable until they clear my system. Wish me luck and send toilet paper.

Anyway, will my time here be a happy accident or a trainwreck? Let’s see.