Thursday, July 30, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
After graduating from college in the 1970s, I lived and worked in Harvard Square. It was urban enough, hip, and had sufficient international flair to placate a French major like me with no foreign place to go (Paris was out of the question, financially).
One wintry day at lunch break I was combing the aisles of Sage's, the local gourmet store. In the corner of my eye I spotted an apparition -- a 3/4 length grape-purple mohair coat with elbow-length sleeves, seeming to float in midair. I squinted and looked again. There She was. Familiar and unmistakable. A tall, imposing woman tilting her head over the Camemberts and Saint Andrés. I was in awe. It was ... Julia.
Rapt (and shy), I simply stared, mouth agape. I knew Julia lived in Cambridge, and even knew people who knew her. But here stood the real Julia, larger than life, ogling the Tome de Savoie.
Julia Child! Her name to me was like the name of a goddess who represented everything a francophile like me could love about France and the French: joie de vivre, good cuisine and happiness at table, a hearty "Bon appétit!" She understood the French from the inside out.
I wanted to say something, utter a sliver of a phrase to express my ardent admiration and shared francophile life. But no. I remained mute, slyly trailing her sideways as she maneuvered among the leeks and shallots and filet mignons. I kept enough of a distance to not be too obvious -- but close enough, I hoped, for osmosis.
I savored that moment, and rued it too, wishing I'd had the courage to spout a clever bon mot. In retrospect I justified my silence by convincing myself that surely the hallowed Julia needed to be able to venture on home turf without being approached by French Chef groupies every day. Ah, I felt noble in protecting her from intrusion of fans like me. And if she noticed my semi-stalking, she never let on.
Besides, how cool was she? A purple coat? I absorbed her brilliant inspiration: if you're a nationally famous 6'2" redheaded woman, there's no point trying to disguise yourself in a somber brown cloak when in public. So why not do it with purple panache? Ah, a Julia moment.
A few years later I was working in the public affairs office of the Quebec Government's New England office. One spring, our project was to promote lobsters from the Magdalen Islands, purported to be the tastiest crustaceans in North America because of the extreme cold of the water where they grew. "Why not take some to Julia Child?" I ventured at a brainstorming session. "Who better to appreciate the quality of excellent lobster than America's favorite French Chef?"
Pourqoui pas? With a few phone calls, I had arranged to deliver two dozen lobsters to Julia and her staff, who were taping a video at her home in Cambridge. At 10 a.m. on the appointed day I pulled up to her rambling house in my dilapidated Mercedes.
Toting two large cases of wriggling lobsters, I crossed the wide porch and elbowed the doorbell. I was greeted by one of multiple public TV assistants buzzing around the ground floor. Cables snaked all over the floors, taped in place. Lights beamed in the kitchen and big black control boxes hid in the shadows. I was ushered in the foyer to meet Julia, to hold up my cold blue live offerings to the high priestess of Food and France. She approached with a smile and a hearty greeting, and I felt as though I'd just stopped by to visit Aunt Ruthie, not a celebrity. Not a hint of diva-persona: just genuine warmth and charm. Hundred percent grande dame with zero percent attitude. And that lilting voice. "Thank you so much. Isn't this super? We'll cook them for lunch! I'm sure we'll eat them with gusto."
I would have lingered forever, but I backed discreetly out the door with an I'll-never-wash that-hand-again glow. A few days later her assistant called to pronounce the lobsters indeed tasty and to thank us for the gift. Lesson from Julia moment number 2: always be yourself while being generous with kindness, no matter what your VIP status.
After these Julia moments, I often wondered how I might pattern my life after hers. From watching her on The French Chef and glimpsing her twice, I knew this much. She recognized her life's passion and pursued it with unbridled enthusiasm. And she won the hearts of millions by just being herself. I never dreamed of winning the hearts of millions, but I knew that her approach to life was one I hoped to mirror.
A decade later, woe was me: I had hit the big Four-Oh. As I pondered about Life on that miserable January birthday I still wasn't sure what I wanted to be when I grew up. Agony & angst, ready for a pity-party. Shopping therapy was definitely in order. At the dreaded mall, I stumbled into a store that catered to the WASPy mother's crowd. "Finest ladies' togs," was their motto. I was doomed anyway; at 40, my now-matronly fate was sealed, I figured, so I might as well start dressing the part, right? I cringed and entered. There on the sale rack was a floating apparition. A periwinkle-purple full-length mohair coat. I knew at once this was a harbinger, a sign. What Would Julia Do?
I bought it. Haven't looked back.
Monday, July 20, 2009
The famous Art Deco building overlooking the Seine will be reborn as a 100-room luxury hotel. In a compromise with the City of Paris department of urban planning and the owners, Moet-Hennessy Louis Vuitton, the building will also house a conference center, commercial space including offices and daycare, and some residences.
No specifics were available about the future of Le Toupary, the restaurant on the top floor with unrivalled views of the Seine. (The name, of course is a variant on le tout Paris, a wink at the real or anticipated clientele of the hot-spot.)
photo via Wikipedia
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
It's still a source of happy amazement to me how much the US celebrates Bastille Day. And though le quatorze juillet is over in France, the Bastille Day celebrations continue all week here. I'm attending my local Alliance Française event on Saturday July 18 at a nearby vineyard.
But today our Cercle Français had our own fete, a pot-luck luncheon. Er, a little admission: I get cuisine anxiety when cooking for French people, even if they're dear friends. Today was no exception. But after a morning fraught with missteps and not-so-silent oaths to kitchen gods and Julia Child, I managed to pull together a respectable Salade Niçoise. So who cares if the vinaigrette landed in the bottom of the plastic grocery bag? I poured it on anyway. Here's the final result.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Break out the (cheap) champagne -- méthode champenoise. I just found out that Polly-Vous Francais? ranks #43 in all France-related blogs worldwide. I'm in some pretty esteemed company. See the list here, and discover some great blogs that you might not already know.
Yeah, yeah, I'm promoting the competition, but when we're writing about France, it's all friendly competition, right?
Merci to Art Goldhammer at French Politics for the tip.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
"Oh My God," booms one bouncing voice. "Tell her not to talk to any French boys! Have you seen that movie, Taken?" She continues, explaining the plot in terrifying detail, about a 17-year-old who goes to Paris one summer and ends up getting kidnapped into white slavery. (Plot synopsis here.)
I don't budge, but I do twitch for a moment. I am torn. I really want to go cannonball them and say, "Come on, ladies, that's just a contrived thriller plot, total fiction," and enlighten them (har!) with my monologue about how it's so safe in France, how I just lived in Paris for three years, yadda yadda yadda.
But instead I laze there like a lizard in the sun, wondering how much damage that movie has done.