In honor of France's birthday

It's Bastille Day! Run amok in the streets! Storm the prisons! Behead the nobility! Tie tri-color balloons to your nether regions!

The star-crossed roomie and I are celebrating tonight wiz zuh steenky cheez and zuh wahn zat ees compleecated lahk a womun ov zee certayne ahj. But we can celebrate right this moment here in cyberspace with a selection of Frenchy blog posts I've freelanced for my friends at Go Green Travel Green. 

Your guide to mealtime in France: You know I was something of a gourmande last year. This post describes all my favorite dishes and desserts, with a special section on les apéros.

How to use the French train system (SNCF): We Americans who live in Fly-Over Land sadly have little occasion to discover what rail travel is all about.  I compiled an exhaustive list of tips on how to ride the French rails for choo choo novices, from how to get your ticket to where to put your luggage.

Paris museums off the beaten track: I ended up going to Paris eight times last year to meet up with various visitors, and I got real sick, real fast of going to the same durn places all the time. These museums are the ones to check out once you're all art-ed out.

Paris in a day: If you're only going to be in Gay Paree for a couple of days but want to stuff as much of it into your eyeballs as possible, read this guide (based on a real-life 25-hour visit).

In other news, I now officially have only three weeks left of funemployment before I rejoin Society as one of its Productive Members. I've learned to keep work and blogging separate so I won't publish the name of my soon-to-be employer here, but if you're curious you can send me an email.


I'm looking for ways to make a little extra dough betwixt now and then (gotta keep up that fromage habit somehow), so if you think you might like to pay me to freelance a bit for your site, let me know in the comments below.

Memories from a perfect French afternoon

I've been thinking a lot about my favorite memories of France. One afternoon that stands out is a Wednesday when the Dude and I accompanied our main meuf and mec Missy and Thomas to Cluny. We meandered along the streets in search of a good place for a nibble, but in true French fashion almost every place we tried was closed during that ambiguous time betwixt lunch and dinner.

Finally we found a charming hotel/restaurant that deigned to have us dine with them. Because it was between meal times we couldn't order from the menu, but the proprietor offered to whip up an hors d'oeuvres platter for us of charcuterie, cheese, and a puréed nomnom with some potato chips with which to scoop it up.  We sat in the courtyard, enjoying one of the first warm days we'd had that spring. Our departure from the little world we'd built for ourselves in the preceding months was inching close enough to make us appreciate our time together, but not so close as to make us too sad to enjoy each others' company.

This is what we drank:

This is what we ate:

 

And this is the Monsieur Fatty Fat Cat who was there:

 And this is what Monsieur Fatty Fat Cat ate:

Photos courtesy of Missy Rococo.

My first Pierre

Thanks to my French buddies Louis and Thomas, I've been learning a lot of useful French. For example:

Baver= to drool
Roter=to burp
Péter=to fart

Thomas invited my main meuf  Missy and me to his family's home in Nevers for the weekend. I'm always happy as a clam to be invited into the French inner sanctum, but I got really pumped when Thomas revealed that his dad's name is Pierre. He's the first Frenchy I've met with the most stereotypical of French names, so I was really eager to impress him.

We stopped off at Pierre's wine shop when we got into town and he offered to let us taste a bottle of delicious Chinon. About a glass and a half in, I remembered that it had been awhile since I'd eaten, which explained the uncontrollable giggles spilling out of me. The harder I tried to stop the more I laughed, to the point where I was beet red and wiping tears from my eyes. I was so embarrassed to be in this state of drunkeness in front of my first Pierre.

Pierre looked at me with amusement and asked, "T'es pétée?" I turned an even deeper shade of burgundy and said, "Non! J'ai pas pété!" Thomas laughed and told me in English, "It's OK. You don't have to hold it in." I was shocked. "J'en jure! J'ai pas pété!"

When Pierre went to change the music, I leaned over to Missy and whispered, "Why do they think I farted?" She busted a gut and relayed to Thomas what I had just asked.

Apparently "être pété" means "to be drunk." Oh. Sorry Pierre.

More creepy French mannequins delight, terrify American tourist

I know I've been posting like a mad dog this week, but I'm trying to make up for the time I'll be sans computer in MOROCCO in a mere week and change. Did I mention I'm going to MOROCCO? I'll be travelling with a very lovely lady named EJ, an assistant in Angers (pronounced /ON-zhay/, not /AIN-gurrs/). You should read her blog. Anyway, we're going to have a lovely five days in Fes wearing the eponymous hats, huffing spices and riding magic carpets. Bonus: she speaks a little Arabic.

But MOROCCO (did I mention I was going there? In like a week?) is not the reason why we're gathered here today. No sir; we're here to talk about the creepy brand of museum mannequin that France does so very well.

"I hope you don't mind if I stand here and get a really good vacant stare going, my good sir. It is ever-so-tiring to maneuver through Medieval France with these ridiculous wings on my shoulders." "Oh, not at all, Sister! I intend to do the same."

One of my cousin Kiki's very most favoritest hobbies is to go wine tasting. Living but a wee distance away from Nappa Valley in California, it's something she's able to partake in on the reg. As she is currently residing in Burgundy, it was only natural that we sample the local, world-famous brand of delicious fermented grape.

My partner in crime Missy Rococo wrangled her buddy Atomic Tom into chauffeuring us to Beaune, a city known for its beauty, hospices, and wine, of course. Every year the city holds a gigantic wine auction to benefit charity.

"No, I don't think I shall sew anything today. I'll just fondle these spools of thread and stare vacantly into the distance. Tis the new fashion, you know."

After we sampled what the caves at Patriarchie had to offer (b-t-dubs... you're left completely alone in their cellars and can sample as much of the wines on display as you dare), we made our way to the Hospices de Beaune, a hospital founded in 1443 under the rule of Burgundy Duke Philip le Bon. It features beautiful tiled roofs, examples of red-blanketed hospital beds tailored to the short men of yore, and a healthy stock of be-wimpled creepy mannequins. Jackpot!

"I'm famous 'round these parts for being one of the few people who can appear to be engaged in the task at hand. That and skinning rabbits."

This is why I'm fat

My cousin Kiki is currently visiting, and she's rekindled my desire to eat my way through this country. The girl is fearless, and as such in the last week we have sampled fare not for the faint of heart. (Literally. This food is so rich it would kill you if you had a faint heart.)

Without further ado, this is why I'm fat:

Lunch at Le Relais des Canalous, Digoin
Entrées: Tartine de chèvre chaud et pesto sur saladine, demi-douzaine d'escargots
Plats: Joue de boeuf confite à la Bourguignoone, Cuisses de grenouilles à la persillade
Fromage: Roblochon with mustard seed, Brie de Meaux, Stinky goat
Dessert: Profiteroles au chocolat, Tiramasu

A blizzard hit Digoin Thursday night, dumping a whole five inches on the town by the next morning. As a result, the buses weren't running, and I had only a handful of kids in each class. Kiki and I had hoped to go to Beaune that afternoon to sample some of their world-class vino, but the roads were impassable so we had to stay in Diggy instead.

In order to make the best of our predicament, I suggested we get Burgundized at a nice restaurant. Like a rockstar, Kiki was all about getting the fixed price menu with escargots and frogs' legs. Unlike the none-too-appetizing specimens I'd encountered in Paray-le-Monial a few months back, these were served piping hot and drowning in a delicious parsley-garlic-butter sauce.

The frogs' legs were pan-fried and looked like chicken wings. They were to be eaten by hand, and were, "so garlicky and good and delicious!" quoth Kiki. I sampled one, and was shocked by how many itty bitty bones there were to eat around. What do frogs need so many bones for, I ask you? There's a joke in here somewhere about "jumping your bones," but I'm carb crashing and can't find it.

No matter. My beef cheeks were unbelievably tender, and accompanied by crisp, thick frites and vegatables. Next up was the cheese course. I've been trying really hard to get excited about cheese despite my mild lactose intolerance. But sometimes stinky cheese is just stinky, with no redeeming qualities. There was a representative from this genus of fromage-dom on the plate, but there was also a lovely roblochon with a spicy mustard seed exterior that I got friendly with.

Dessert was to die for. My tiramasu was the lightest, creamiest slice of heaven on earth. The chocolate sauce on the profiteroles were sinful, dark, and daring. Clearly, I could write a romance novel about this.


Dinner at Le Merle Blanc, Digoin
Entrées: Filets de bar superposés en duxelles de champignons et escargots, Oeufs en meurette à la bourguignonne
Plats: Canard confit avec purée de pommes de terre, Faux-filet de charolais et sa garniture
Fromage: Fromage blanc
Dessert: Ile flottante avec pralines rosés, Crumble aux pommes et aux noix en caramel laitier
Wine: Domaine Michel-Andreotti Montagny 2009 1er Cru Chardonnay de Bourgogne, Michel Sarrazin 2008 Givry Sous La Roche

Suzanne picked us up on Thursday night and took us back to her house, where Christian had been watching their two grandchildren. The boy approached me and looked like he wanted to tell me a secret so I knelt down. He planted a quick kiss on my cheek, and then went up to Kiki to do the same. The 4-year-old girl was next, and removed her pacifier to give me a bisou. It was the cutest thing, possibly ever.

We braved the icy roads and went to Le Merle Blanc, which Suzanne had deemed the best quality food for the price in all of Digoin. After our meal I'm inclined to agree. My entrée was delicious skewers of mushrooms and escargots on toasts, with a gratinéed cheese topping. Kiki sampled the local specialty oeufs en meurettes, eggs in a red wine sauce with lardons. She said it's the best thing she's eaten in France so far (she's had Ladurée macarons, so that's really saying something).

The next course brought me deliciously rich duck confit, made from the same beast used to produce foie gras. The creamy mashed potatoes made the perfect complement. Kiki's Charolais steak (another local specialty) had a chunk of herb butter melting on top, and was flanked by chestnuts and cabbage. She was already getting incredibly full, and could only finish about half of what was on her plate. France, please get doggy bags already.

She was the only one with a cheese course ,and had to really psych herself up to be able to stand even a spoonful on such a full belly. But, like I said, she's a rockstar. She liberally sprinkled sugar on her fromage blanc-- very fresh cheese that almost has a yogurt consistency. Christian informed us that he prefers to eat it with salt, pepper, and garlic.

All the while, we were downing the excellent Burgundy wines that Christian had selected-- a very floral red from Givry and an impeccable Chardonnay from Saint Vallerin. Myam.

I must admit, I was more enamored with Kiki's dessert than my own. She got an apple cobbler in a divine caramel sauce. I was lucky enough to get a bite, and had to restrain myself from grabbing the rest and running away to savor it in private. I had wanted to try the Ile Flottante, meringue in an anise-flavored English cream. It was alright, but not really my bag.


Chez Couch Surfing Host, Strasbourg
Entrée: Sauerkraut topped with sliced magrette (smoked duck breast)
Plat: Chicken sausage, andouille (blood) sausage, apple sauce, chestnuts
Dessert: Tarte flambée

We arrived in Strasbourg on Friday afternoon for a weekend of Christmas marketing. After dropping our stuff off at our host's apartment, we braved the frigid temperatures to go back in the city and enjoy the lights, gift displays, and vin chaud. We were pretty frozen solid by the time we returned a few hours later, and we were more than ready for some hearty Alsatian fare.

Both Kiki and I adore sauerkraut, and were delighted by the flavor combination of the pungent cabbage with the flavorful duck. She was brave enough to try the blood sausage, but I opted instead for the infinitely more Kosher chicken. The healthy portions of chestnuts and homemade apple sauce left me full to bursting, but I of course squeezed in a slice of pie.

So when they have to roll me down the aisle at my nups, you'll know why.






*One more food-related revelation from the weekend: hot orange juice with honey. Try it. You're welcome.*

Le Beaujolais Nouveau Est Arrivé!

I know, I know exactly what you're thinking. "Another post about wine? What are you, some kind of lush?" To that I say: touché.

Today was the release of the Beaujolais Nouveau, a wine in its tender infancy of but six weeks in the bottle. My Diggy BFF Suzanne called me up and asked if I wanted to go to a soirée with her to celebrate, and eat some pot au feu while we were at it. "You're going to think all we do in France is eat and drink wine!" she said. To that I say: "Et...bon?"

The Beaujolais herself, fresh outta the cave.

Suzanne and Christian's English friends Bryan and Pita came round to pick me up, and Christian explained that the whole Beaujolais phenomenon has become a commercialized tourist trap to get foreigners, particularly the English, to buy this très young wine. Bryan told me there are races in England to see who can get their hands on the very first bottle.

We arrived at the restaurant and met two of S and C's other Diggy buddies, and cracked open a brand spanking new bottle toute de suite. Apparently the bouquet contained aromas of cherries and bananas, but my palate is so undeveloped I resort to making nonsense comments like, "This wine is sly, but witty," or "It tastes awkward and menacing."

Pot au feu, containing boeuf, carrots, potatoes, leeks, and love.

Next came the pot au feu, a beef (kind of but not really) stew served with the carrots, leeks, and potatoes it was cooked with. We passed around Dijon mustard and a very coarse seat salt to sprinkle on top. It was the perfect hearty meal for this chilly November day, and accompanied the wine quite well. (I suppose I should say the wine was a good accompaniment to the meal rather than vice versa, but today was all about the Beaujolais. Plus I'm a lush. Shhh.)

That big bowl in the center contains a heaping pile of calves' femurs, prized for their creamy marrow innards.

 Then our waitress came out with a rare treat: a big steaming bowl of cow femurs, the marrow inside just waiting to be spread upon a slice of baguette. When in France, right? So I dug in and spread a gelatinous, greasy spoonful onto my bread. Mmmm... offal.

In which I get thoroughly soused at 10 a.m.

The program I'm participating in over here in Franceland allows applicants to choose the top three regions they'd like to be placed in. Because my previous sojourns here had been restricted to the Paris region, I really had not a clue what to choose. Should I go to Brittany, where crêpes and cider reign supreme? Should I go to Strasbourg, where I could just hop, skip, and jump into Germany whenever I so choose? What about the south of France, where I could spend all winter on the beach, convincing myself that I was getting tan?

Domaine René Fleurot in Santenay is guarded by a vicious taxidermied weasel. So don't get any ideas.

In the end, Burgundy was my top pick, for no other reason than I had just seen Julie and Julia and thought bœuf bourguignon looked pretty good. And wine! Wine. I didn't know a whole lot about wine, but I figured going to the home of some of France's most celebrated could make me into a connoisseur. Or a least a wino.

Les caves de spook

I got a good start on a career as the latter yesterday. My buddy Suzanne had invited me to go with her and her husband to a cave in Santenay, the first city on the Cote de Beaune. She was kind enough to let Missy, my best buddy in the entire Saône-et-Loire, tag along too. Suzanne's brother-in-law had organized a group of business associates to taste at 9:30 a.m. Saturday morning, also known in France as wine o'clock.

After tasting a few premier cru whites, we headed downstairs to the spookiest, scariest, horror movie caves this side of Transylvania. There was gobs of thick dust hanging from the ceiling and coating the oldest bottles, some of which dated back to the 20s. Those gems were locked in their own special spooky cellar, and one of the fellow tasters joked that if we weren't good we'd end up there too. Scared straight.

So... much... wine

We were with a real connosieur, someone who was able to take one taste of the wine and guess its year correctly.  He taught us to look at the color (older white wine is more yellow; older reds are more brick colored rather than purple), swirl the glass to "open" the flavor, and slurp it in your mouth to get the full effect.

I lost count on how many whites we tasted, but there must have been at least six and maybe as many as nine. Thank Bacchus Suzanne's brother-in-law (or his wife, more likely) had thought to provide us with all manner of snacky-poos. Salami on toast, smoked salmon on toast, paté on toast, foie gras on toast, toast on toast...

Quoth Louis Pasteur, "Le vin est la plus saine et la plus hygiénique des boissons." (Wine is the healthiest and most hygienic of all drinks)

We thought we were done, until the proprietor busted out the reds. The first one was totally nom, and Missy and I each got a bottle for our upcoming Thanksgiving in France: The Turkey's Revenge (a topic for another post).

Missy and I were swaying a bit after drinking the equivalent of an entire bottle of wine before noon, but don't judge. It was wine o'clock in France.

A Real Frenchy Dinner!

When I first learned I was coming to Digoin, I researched the crap out of it. Given that there are only a handful of Digoinais Internet sites, most of which are a time warp to 1995, that didn't take me very long. In desperation, I then turned to Facebook, and carefully looked over everyone who had "liked" Digoin. I chose a woman who looked nice and asked her for advice on how to best travel from Paris to her fair city. We commenced a correspondence, and when I told her I had arrived she suggested meeting up last night.

I wasn't quite sure what to expect, since Polly Platt told me in her book "French or Foe" that it would take months, years even, for a French person to feel comfortable enough with a stranger to invite them into their sanctum. Maybe we'd go out for some pastis, I hypothesized. Perhaps she just intended on taking me on a tour of the charming countryside.

But non! She took me to her sanctum! She lives up in the hills just outside of Digoin, in a charming stone house with an ancient bread oven outside. She introduced me to her rotund dog, Desi, who looked distinctly human and who, after pleasantries were exchanged, held court in the armchair, sitting on her hind legs with one paw proffered as if she were queen and I was supposed to kiss her ring.

Suzanne went upstairs to grab her laptop so I could show her pictures of my family, and meanwhile her son Fabian came home. Fab just received his Master's in geography (juste comme mon frere!) and was in the process of moving to Macon to study dams. After I went through Facebook and showed her the important peeps in my life, she went through her own files and showed me all the family trips she's taken in the last year.

While we waited for her husband she served me vin de noix, a wine she had made with chestnuts. It was about a 3 on the sweetness scale from one to Manischewitz. Her husband Christian then arrived home from a rousing game of boules (the French version of Bocce) with his friends, and we sat down to eat. The first course was avocado halves filled with mayonnaise and an olive and sprinkled with pepper. The mayonnaise here is different from at home-- it's tangier and has more of a yellowish tint. What I ate last night was probably homemade. They then poured me a glass of AOC* Beaujolais, and Suzanne served me chicken, mushrooms and potatoes as a main course.

I attempted to explain to them what my job was in Portland, but it was difficult to do since nothing similar exists in France. Here, the state takes care of most of what nonprofits do in the US. I had a heckuva time trying to explain workplace giving. Plus, I mispronounced culture (cool-TUYR) as couture (coo-TUYR), so they thought I raised money for art and sewing. Bof.

Christian encouraged me to use baguette to sop up all the juices on my plate before the next course. "En Frace, c'est la sauce qui est la plus importante," he explained.

Next Suzanne presented us with a cheese plate. Christian went through each one and explained its origin, what kind of milk it is made with and how strong it was. He told me one was from Gier, and I thought he said giraffe, as if the cheese had been made from giraffe milk. Bof encore. There was a camembert, a roquefort, and five other cheeses whose names I forget. He encouraged me to start with the most mild and end with the strongest. "Mais tout est fort!" Suzanne countered. The last one I tried was so strong it made my eyes water. "Du vin! Du vin!" they exclaimed when they saw my expression.

Finally, dessert. Suzanne had marinated figs in a sauce of cinnamon and ginger, and offered a selection of petits fours to go along with them.

After dinner we retired in front of the fireplace and first watched a scintillating program about windmills, and then the soccer match between Lyon and Tel Aviv. Lyon won. It was about 11:00--or, excuse me--23:00 when I arrived back to my cell, stomach gurgling from all that lactose but heart happy that I had triumphed over Polly Platt.

*AOC= Appellation d'origine controllée, a designation given by the French government to wine, cheese, butter, etc. that comes from a specific geographical region and has met certain standards. Nothing but the mustard created in Dijon that meets the AOC standards may have AOC on its label.