Gastronomic Delights in France

Monday, August 20, 2007

After these long Paris posts - journal entries, really - I wanted to write something "on the lighter side"- though perhaps not: the topic is food!

On the way to the Eiffel Tower the other day we stopped by our neighborhood boulangerie, the P. Weiland, on the corner, near the Cambronne metro stop.

There I bought what I think is the most delicious thing I have ever eaten in my life, no exaggeration: a petit pain au chocolat aux amandes, flaky and soft and perfect.

I'm convinced M. Weiland baked a hint of brown sugar into the outermost layer of this heavenly pastry. The next day I bought a few more.

The boulangerie also had the largest palmiers on display I have ever seen - one of my father's favorite pastries, so I have to include them here.

The bathroom scale in Paris said I lost 3 kilos. How is that possible? (And why on earth did I get on it in the first place?) It's absolutely ludicrous. Obviously the device is defective. But wait, the pants are a little looser too...Could two intense days of stair-climbing have worked miracles? Nah!

But facetiously, let me outline the rules for The Paris Miracle Diet (or, The Anti-Atkins Revolution), just for fun:

-Have a small breakfast, a heavy lunch, a light goûter, and a light dinner every day.

-Butter your bread generously and eat it with gobs of home-made confiture.

-Drink French lait demi-écrêmé every day, which is supposed to be low-fat milk but which I am convinced is the equivalent of Half-and-Half; how can it taste just like cream, otherwise?! Is it just that the COWS in France are different? For that matter, how come almost EVERYTHING tastes better in France? Is it a conspiracy?!

-Eat rich cheeses twice a day.

-Eat meats of all kinds.

-Have wine with lunch and dinner.

-Have fromage blanc with your berries.
-Have dessert - don't deprive yourself - but only have a WHOPPING dessert once in a while.

but also

-Don't eat between meals.

-Limit your portion sizes.

-Climb lots of stairs each week.

-Avoid processed food; have milk from the cow, pork from the pig, fish from the river, etc. with as little interference from industry as possible.

-Finally, SAVOR EVERY BITE! Live in the moment! :)

Ah, Paris!

We drove into Paris this morning in glorious weather. It's so interesting to think the Eiffel Tower was so controversial when it was being constructed, with people complaining it was an eye-sore. Now it's iconic, and I have to say, the sight of it from the quai as we entered the city still took my breath away.

We dropped off our things at my in-laws' apartment in the 15th arrondissement, then walked to the tower with our kids, my brother-in-law & his kids, & his girlfriend. I already have many lovely memories associated with the Eiffel Tower. I remember pushing my son's stroller here when he was 6 months old and sharing a crêpe with him. Now he's almost 7 and saying things like "Are these (the Eiffel Tower stairs) made of titanium?" and, from up at the top of the tower, "The people walking look like molecules."

I can't help but think of decades of visitors from all over the world in this place. Paris has been international for hundreds of years. Even Filipinos, faraway as they are, came in the 19th century; Jose Rizal, for example, studied at the University of Paris before he went to Heidelberg. Perhaps he saw the tower during its contruction?


This might sound geeky but every time I look at the metalwork I think of the trabeculae of the femur, sketched by anatomist Hermann von Meyer, which inspired Gustav Eiffel's design for the tower and advanced in engineering the concept of building along lines of force.

Climbing up the stairs to the first and second étages is the way to go. At 10:30 a.m. on a sunny Saturday morning the line for the stairs is much shorter than the line for the elevator. I have to reprogram my stair-master protocol when I get back - a Chartres setting, and a Tour Eiffel setting! There are 329 steps to the first level, at 187 ft (57m), and another 341 to the second, which is at 377 ft (115m). I have to admit I got a little bit vagal (intense wave of nausea) looking up toward the top (but weirdly, not looking down). With tiny clouds passing so quickly overhead and us looking up at the top of the tower from the second level, the tower seemed to be swaying toward us, adding to my queasiness, but it was an optical illusion; in reality the construction is so solid, according to my little Dorling Kindersley guidebook (Top 10 Paris), that it doesn't sway more than 2.5 inches (7cm).

The tower is 1050 ft (320m) tall, but the highest overlook is at a still-dizzying 877 ft (274m). The view of Paris from up there is amazing on a clear day. We could see the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Sacre Coeur in Montmartre. We're hoping to visit the latter tomorrow.

***

This afternoon we walked along the Quai de la Tournelle and Quai Saint-Michel, sans enfants, to visit the bouqinistes and take in the beautiful view of the cathedral of Notre-Dame. My husband and I try to do this every time we come back to Paris.



I love the Quai de la Tournelle. Where else can you find a cello shop next to a shop of antique toy soldiers? A little further down the quai we swung by Shakespeare and Co., an English language book store which has to be my favorite in Paris.

It has so much character, with books floor to ceiling on two stories, and an occasional object of interest tucked between the shelves now and again, like an upright piano. I can understand why this book store has been a gathering place for writers / Paris literati. Upstairs, in fact, a writers' workshop was in progress, down a tiny corridor off which there were also small areas containing books piled high in no particular order. What a dream, to enjoy a workshop like that in this place, in this city!

Tonight we dine on a friend's boat on the Seine. I think that will have to be a post unto itself.

Oboe-ing in Rural France

I haven't entirely abandoned my trusty little oboe. I'm so glad it's so portable! There was plenty of room in my carry-on bag for other stuff next to my little oboe case. I wish I could have taken a picture of the security guy's face when he paused the conveyor belt to scrutinize the x-ray image of my hand luggage inside the machine. His eyes got more and more scrunched up and finally he put his hand over his brow, leaned on the screen, and looked at my bag intently. I wanted to speak up and say it was just an oboe, but I thought better of it.

I've realized that I love a lot of things whose origin is (as far as I know) French. Crêpes, croissants, and opera gateau. Ballet. Oboes. The French language. Lots of great saints. Gothic cathedrals. My husband. Maybe I had a past life in France or something! :)

Practiced in our cozy country home with the windows open and a breeze blowing in from the fields, while my kids and their cousins were clomping up and down the wooden stairs and raucously practicing a play my daughter had written, partly in French. It was a brief practice session, especially because I really don't feel comfortable playing when other people are around. 'Twas in the Moon of Wintertime (a.k.a. the Huron Carol), in honor of René and his fellow-Jesuit missionaries. The opening passage of Swan Lake. Scales. Gabriel's Oboe. Some exercises from the method book. They are getting easier, but it's tought to practice consistently on vacation!

We're off to Paris tomorrow for a couple of days. Not sure if I'll be able to keep writing, but I have no doubt I'll be hungering to catch up either from there or when we get back. If anyone has suggestions for where we should go to eat, let me know!

à la Recherche de Saint René

We started our day yesterday at a lovely outdoor mass in Montreuil-sur-Maine, on the banks of the Mayenne river, at a place known as La Grotte, meant to be a replica of the grotto of Massabielle in Lourdes. The gospel reading was the passage containing the Magnificat, probably more beautiful in French than in most languages:

Mon âme exalte le Seigneur, mon esprit exulte en Dieu mon Sauveur. Il s'est penché sur son humble servante; désormais tous les âges me diront bienheureuse. Le Puissant fit pour moi des merveilles; Saint est son nom!

All the towns we drove through appeared abandoned - shut down for the Feast Day of the Assumption of Mary. It was like driving through a U.S. town on Thanksgiving Day or Christmas morning. Restaurants were open, though, and we were able to enjoy a delicious lunch of prosciutto with melon and spinach cannelloni at La Fleur du Maquis just outside Saint-Martin-du-Bois.

After lunch we drove into Saint-Martin to see if we could get a look at the baptismal font in the church where René Goupil, patron saint of anesthetists, had been baptized on May 15, 1608. To our great surprise, despite the fact that there was not a soul visible on the streets (I did see a little girl poke her head out the door of a café called, fortuitously, Le Goupil), the church door was ajar as if waiting for us to enter (the mairie, on the other hand, was locked). There was no one around. At the back of the church we found a plaque commemorating René's baptism as well the 400-year-old baptismal font beneath it. This had at one time been in a park outside a restaurant in Angers, according to the book A Ghost in the Mohawk Valley by William Breault, S.J., but comparing pictures of it there and our own pictures from the church yesterday confirmed that it had been transported back to its original place in Saint-Martin-du-Bois.

After this satisfying visit we made our way back to the Chateau du Plessis via the village of La Jaille-Yvon, which is up on a hill and has a 12th-century church as well as a breathtaking view of the rolling countryside below. Dinner was another gourmet masterpiece from Valerie, a terrine or little charlotte of fromage de chevre with chives and a salmon purée, with a sweet cherry tomato on top, followed by a succulent quail in a coq au vin type of sauce with the tiniest little onions I have ever seen. Dessert was a dense chocolate fondant with orange sorbet.

The best part of dinner was the after-dinner conversation, which went till midnight. Among the eight of us there were six countries represented (Romania, England, Ireland, Denmark, the U.S., and the Philippines). A couple from Manchester, England, who were Seventh Day Adventists; the Englishman's Anglican parents; a couple from Ireland who were atheist humanists; and my husband and I, fairly moderate Catholics, all got into a spirited and good-humored discussion about faith. From this lively, intellectually stimulating, and enjoyable conversation I relearned about myself that my journey in faith has been largely one of hope rather than arrogant certainty, and that if I believe anything, it's that it's just as erroneous to believe in God because good things happen as it is to disbelieve in God because bad things happen. The question is, how does each person's faith take the path it takes, and why?

***

This morning we contacted the cattle farmer who owns Le Grand Oncheray to see if we could visit the place. Le Grand Oncheray was discovered to be René's home relatively recently, in the 1970's. We had made contact with the owner through the mairie in Saint-Martin-du-Bois a couple of times before and explained my interest in visiting René's place of birth. He was a shy and taciturn but gracious man who met us at the farm and, over an hour or so of conversation while we were there, warmed gradually, especially after his girlfriend, an equally gracious woman, arrived. He showed us a plaque he had made himself to commemorate the homestead's history as René's family home, now a rather ramshackle but still charming farmhouse. He also pulled out a folder of articles about the place written by various people with an interest in René Goupil. We were thankful for his willingness to welcome strangers from the U.S. on an unusual mission to track down a fairly obscure and rather elusive saint.

Valerie's husband's property was right next door, and we had been given leave to drive in and see it. This chateau, too, was a gorgeous one, and a tenant on the property had reindeer, a yurt, and a large, very affectionate camel who enchanted our children. After this pleasant stop we drove through Saint-Martin-du-Bois with a mind to pick up a picnic lunch in Segré, just beyond, but before continuing on I asked my husband to stop to see if we could sneak a peek at the ancient baptismal records which, I had read in Breault's book, could be found in the mairie. The mairie doors were locked, still on holiday from yesterday, but through a wide open window we saw two women inside discussing something.

"Excuse me, is the mairie open today?" my husband asked in French.

"No, we're closed, but do you need something?" came the reply.

"Well...we're retracing the footsteps of Saint René, on a pilgrimage of sorts, and we heard his baptismal registry could be found here..."

"Ah, oui! Bien sûr!" said one of the women. "Come, we'll open the door back here for you...You know, you're lucky to find me here today; usually I'm not here on holidays...Now what year was it, his baptism? 1608? Hmm..." She opened a closet door in the office. "Let's see...1800's...1700's...ah, here we are, 1575 to 1630's."

We leafed carefully through the slim, bound volume with its beautifully penned record in old French, came across his older brother Claude's bapistmal record from 1607, our excitement mounting, then finally found his, at the bottom of a page, faded but still legible. The lovely woman made an enlarged photocopy of it for us to take home. When we left the mairie, out of curiosity I crossed the street to the church to see if it was open. This time it was locked.

We got our picnic lunch and spent the early part of the afternoon at a place called Le Domaine de la Petite Couère, a large estate where various animals such as alpacas, watusi, black swans, emus, mountain goats, pigs, cattle, and water fowl are kept. There is also a period "village" containing a blacksmith's shop, saboterie, school room, general store with artifacts from the 19th and early 20th centuries, replicas of cottages and depictions of village life, and collections of old tools, vehicles, costumes, toys, and the like. Here and there there were witty literary quotes tacked up to the walls, which were entertaining. The place reminded me of the Shelburne Museum in Vermont or the Adirondack Museum, but smaller in scale, and very interesting.

After this we headed home, a three-hour drive. I have been very impressed with the French highway and road system. We have managed to find every town without a map, simply because directions are so well-marked on the road. Essentially all we had to do was find our way from one church steeple to another. There have been a couple of more humorous reminders that we are in France: the roadside coffee shops serve quiche and crêpes, and even the toll collectors look like fashion models. Vive la France!

We're now back at La Morinière after a fruitful pilgrimage in the steps of Saint René. Making the journey, even in reverse - from his place of death to his place of birth, over the last couple of months - has given us an idea of the scale of this journey, especially when one considers what was available to travelers (or not) in the 1630's. He had to leave Anjou, a region which reminds me so much of the Champlain Valley in Vermont and the Mohawk Valley in New York, where he died. I had to wonder the other night, while driving down, if it had been similar back then, too, in the 1600's, and if being in New France had made him homesick for the landscape of his birthplace. He traveled overland probably to Paris and then to Dieppe, then boarded a ship bound for the New World, then somehow managed within a couple of years to get from Quebec to what is now Auriesville, NY, only to die there after weeks of torture. His brief life was a pilgrimage in and of itself, with a long, lonely trek in its final years. I can't explain why his life means such a great deal to me, but I'm glad to have traced its outline, knowing of course that we'll probably never be able to describe fully its depth and its meaning.

Chartres Cathedral: a pilgrimage begins

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

« Un vaisseau de pierre et de lumières sur l’océan des blés. » Charles Peguy's description of Chartres Cathedral captures the moving experience of catching sight of it above the wheat fields from afar, a sign of strength, community, artistic outpouring, and faith, at once ethereal and solid. I was surprised by the emotions that arose when we first caught sight of the cathedral from the highway. When we entered the town of Chartres and arrived on foot before the massive facade, I was overcome with feeling once again - perhaps because of its great beauty, or the sheer scale of it, or the amazement of coming upon it after weeks of anticipation, or the subconscious knowledge of countless lives over hundreds of years that had worked to build and preserve this sanctuary. How to describe such a place, where human works and divine mystery meet in stone? I won't even try.

My husband and I were deeply thankful that our children are now at an age when they can reflect on and appreciate the history of places like Chartres. I related to them the story / legend of the holy relic kept within, the Sancta Camisia believed to have been a garment of the Virgin Mary, which was a sign of hope for the townspeople for centuries and which survived a devastating fire. I tried to point out details in the stained glass and stonework and asked them to think of the craftsmen who took such care over them, some never to see the final outcome of their labor, some losing their lives in the process. We climbed up 289 steps of one of the towers to marvel (and tremble) over the view from the windy heights above the green-tinged copper roof. All in all a visit that reminded us of the true meaning of the word awe.

***

We are on pilgrimage, mostly for my sake. Last July I wrote about our visit to the place where my favorite saint, René Goupil, was martyred. For a long time I've also wanted to visit his place of birth. Our visit to Chartres was part of our way down to the Anjou region, to the villages around Saint Martin du Bois, his home town. We found a gorgeous bed and breakfast, the Chateau du Plessis, in La Jaille-Yvon, where a talented woman named Valérie Renoul welcomed us tonight and served us a fabulous table d'hôte of prosciutto and stuffed grape leaves, filet mignon with a mild sauce of green olives and onions, and a grand marnier chocolate mousse that rivaled any 5-star restaurant dessert. Sixteen of us fit around the dinner table! Tomorrow, Assumption Day, we begin our "search for Saint René" in earnest.





We found out tonight that Valerie's husband, Laurent, happens to own a chateau property that abuts Le Grand Oncheray, the farm where René Goupil was born. A nice coincidence.

Book-lover's Pun

Drove through a few quaint villages and towns today - Hardencourt, Vaux sur Eure, Croisy sur Eure, Pacy sur Eure (where I think one of my favorite cheeses, Boursin, is from), Menilles, and wound up on a nice stroll through Evreux, where just past the cathedral on the rue des Harpes we saw this cute storefront, a play on the word bouquineur, or bibliophile:

I also laughed out loud at this translation of The Bible for Dummies. Why are things sometimes funnier in one's native tongue and sometimes funny to a foreigner but not to a native speaker? (Though I must admit, I can find humor in almost everything...)

My husband told me he heard a story about the townspeople of Evreux removing all the stained glass from the windows during World War II, only to have it blow out in a terrible storm after the war. This and seeing the reliquaries inside made me pause to think about relics in general - why we are consoled to hold on to objects from remote times. I think we all have a certain longing for the physical presence of a cherished person or memory, and a deep hunger for ways to keep connected...as well as a yearning for the sacred...

A Village in Normandy

Our flight landed half an hour early, and with almost no one else on the road at dawn on a sunday morning, it only took us an hour and 5 minutes to reach our base of operations for the next 2 weeks: La Morinière.


My husband's family's country home is in a village so tiny I was able to draw a map of it.



My daughter and I took a walk into the village, past the little mairie, to the tiny church where my in-laws got married and whose nave dates, I believe, from the 12th century.



Under a light drizzle we spent a quiet moment at the grave of her great-grandmother, a special woman I am so glad we had a chance to get to know. I'll remember that sacred space and time with my daughter always.

It's only our first day and we've already eaten three gourmet meals. My husband's aunt creates what she calls "simple but typical" French meals. I think they are some of the most delicious I've had, as good as any I've had in a restaurant...in fact, better, because of our beautiful country setting. The fruits in our tarts, jams, and sorbets come from trees in our garden. We can also pick and eat our very own haricots verts, onions, and other vegetables. The wine and cheese - and, at last, some fromage blanc - are all just what you'd drive to a gourmet food store to get, only here they're widely available.



Breakfast: pain grillé, homemade confiture, chocolat au lait chaud

Lunch: pork roast, haricots verts, sautéed potatoes, salad, assorted cheeses, mirabelle tart


Dinner: quiche made with lardons (I was invited to make the custard - nervous about it, but it turned out well), salad, cheeses, fresh raspberries with fromage blanc

The mirabelle was a fruit I hadn't seen before. It's a type of small plum, the size and consistency of a large grape, with beautiful gold and red skin and the taste of peaches. My son, my mother-in-law, and I went outside to pick some at dusk, shaking them off the trees behind the house and culling them from the grass. By then the sun had let some beams through again. The weather turns quickly here in Normandy; it's been sunny and drizzly off and on all day, but always pleasant. We've had a beautiful start to our time here this summer.