Champagne in (Where Else?) Champagne

The Reims Notre-Dame Cathedrale


Pommery's secret stash


The McFerdi: Words do it no justice.

On Saturday, I managed to force myself out of bed to catch the bus to Reims, to see the cathedral and town with the program. Though the weather was relatively warm in Paris this weekend, it somehow felt below zero in the countryside. And due to the fact that heating had not been invented in 496 AD, I experienced the joy of freezing to death inside as well. There really is not much more to say about it, as I had been to the cathedral before and even our guides had that please-let-this-be-done-so-we-can-go-somewhere-warm-and-drink voice. Luckily, that was not the sole purpose of the trip.

Reims happens to be in Champagne. As in champagne, champagne. Because it would have be unimaginably cruel to do otherwise, we also toured the Pommery champagne caves and had a tasting that quickly devolved into something else entirely, making the traffic back into the city much more endurable.

And as usual, I did have to make a dinner date. C, A, M and I had reservations at Ferdi, one of my absolute favorite restaurants. Ferdi stands for Ferdinand, the owners' son, whose quirky childhood toys decorate the tiny space. Now around 18-years-old, Ferdi also happens to make a mean mojito just like his papa. The menu is extremely eclectic, with everything from Spanish tapas to risotto to the infamous McFerdi cheeseburger (Seriously, I do not know what the cheese is, but I must have more of it). We inhaled tapas of mac & cheese and grilled piquillo peppers. I tend to praise Ferdi so highly (in case you can't tell) that I was slightly worried it couldn't live up to my friends' expectations— but they all agreed that we should beg for standing weekly reservations. Although this particular meal's popularity might have had something to do with the fact that we were seated next to a certain Kanye West.

Yes, he let us finish.

An Ode

Patriotism en croûte


So much crispy love.


How crème brûlée was meant to be done.

If you've ever traveled with me, you know that I'm somewhat (a lot) of a control freak when it comes to where to eat and shop. But when a good friend who just returned from Paris told me that I had to try Le Petit Pontoise, that is was the one thing she would have me do, I couldn't say no.

A large piece of my heart now belongs to the owner, who sheltered five of us from the cold and seated us immediately without reservations. She was efficient, warm and every bit the stereotypical French bistro host. Her explanation of my roasted camembert en croûte with honey and almonds was as pleasurable as the dish itself— she practically glowed with pride while describing the cheese. Next, the roast chicken and mashed was one of the best I've ever had. And as a French chef at Le Cordon Bleu once told me, "Crispy skin on a bird means the chef is showing you their love and attention." Clearly the gang at Le Petit Pontoise is an affectionate bunch.

Time Is Money After All

My new children


This chou has incredible taste.


Heaven: Breizh Café style

Paris really should be for relaxation: soothing walks along the Seine, contemplation over a glass of red wine, sitting in a café to quietly people-watch. However, for the past week, my Paris has been alarmingly high-energy. Between learning to speak French (Sorry, what? This is sort of important?) and the ever-pressing national soldes, I've been a busy parisienne-in-training.

The sales have been somewhat disappointing this year, though I have managed to stock up on some favorite, often local brands, including a Vanessa Bruno cardigan w/ blazer detailing, an A.P.C print scarf, a draped COS frock and Viv Westwood's collaborative Melissa wellies. I also found a velvet turban at Bon Marché, and am thrilled to report that I do not look, "bat-shit crazy in it." (Thank you for that, C).

Beyond the purchases themselves, shopping here always proves to be an incredible experience. I'll never get sick of wandering off onto a tiny street to explore independent boutiques. If there is one reason Paris shopping trumps that of NYC, it is because of this small but important thrill. Here, shopping is always an adventure, where you learn many lessons and meet even more people. This time, I found a new concept store in le Marais, Surface2Air, met an adorable French bulldog who does a superb job of protecting his master's vintage and discovered that I will never fit into leather leggings, no matter how many times I climb my stairs.

And since that is a lost cause anyway, I like to take advantage of these outings to try new food. Breizh Café has generated so much buzz for its unconventional crêpes that I would have felt guilty not stopping. I had ginger caramel buerre salé with ginger ice cream. As the best things often are, it was familiar and surprising at the same time.

La Parade Humaine

A favorite image from the Fellini exhibit. From the Jeu de Paume


The risotto, topped with the most delicious blacks truffles I have ever had

This weekend was one of extremes. I was either finally succumbing to jet lag, or throwing myself into the unpredictable mosh pit that is Parisian nightlife. As much as I love to sleep (and really I am incredibly good at it), it felt absolutely magnificent to go out for the first time in a month. Mostly we kept to St. Germain entertaining our anglophone tendencies at pubs, later switching it up at the most genuinely French bar I know, Chez Georges. This visit turned out to be a great success, as they played Sacré Charlemagne, a children's tune I memorized in high school. However, it must be said that when I was learning this chanson in third period, I never expected to be headbanging to it years later in an underground wine cave. Somehow I doubt this was the use my teacher intended.

Our second evening turned out to be a bit less low key, as we headed to the ever-entertaining Truskel to dance off the past week's macarons. Though it's extremely spacious by Parisian standards, the room always inevitably turns into a churning sea of humanity, making it too easy to meet "friends." One of our new companions for the night included a man whose mustache somewhat resembled Hitler's. We spent a good hour inventing immature but hilarious (to us) WWII-related pick-up lines before he introduced himself as Italian and a huge fan of Fellini. This ruined our fun.

Incidentally, I happened to go to the Fellini exhibit at the Jeu de Paume. As any of you who know me are aware, I am absolutely rabid for his films, so I was thrilled to see such an incredible homage to him, especially as it focused on his images and aesthetics. The costume section that showed his sketches of coats and dresses from La Strada and Il Notti di Cabiria, as well as the accompanying notes about "tits and bums" was one of the best. As someone who is constantly paying attention to clothing and costume, I've always enjoyed the stylistic choices in Fellini films. But to see how carefully he noted how Giulietta's hair should be done to achieve character honestly touched me. The show also explained that script was entirely secondary to his films. Fellini would only allow his actors to add words after they had played out the emotions of their scenes accompanied by counting from ten. For him, it was all about expression.

My unconscious Italian theme continued with black truffle risotto at L'Enoteca. The restaurant was lively and quite loud— a change from most of the places I've been dining. Perhaps the best part was our waiter, who shoved plates of food under our noses so we could smell them and insisted, his face expressive, that we savor every bite of our meals. All in all, it was quite Felliniesque.

Comment dit-on food orgy?

The white truffle macaron, immortalized


Stuffed mushrooms de Paris


Mind-altering boeuf


Pineapple cake w/ basil gelato

Two things have been happening for the past couple days. One, I have been visiting the Parisian universities and meeting with advisors to pick courses and discuss my schedule. It looks like I will be studying some interesting topics with some wonderful people, but all has yet to be set in stone.

However, the second activity I have been doing is of MUCH more importance. I have been eating. Beaucoup. Actually, on my official school form when I was asked my interest for future activities, I wrote "food." I'm understanding how it was all Julia Child thought about, as my passion for this cuisine is the only thing that comes even close to my interest in style. Yes, I know. I see the irony.

But what could possibly be more beautiful than the white truffle/hazelnut macarons at Pierre Hermé with their silvery little shells? They taste like the earth in the best way possible. Before, I never even thought of using truffle in dessert— now I can't live without it. Since I've been making a macaron run several days in a row, I'm not sure if the shop people are amused or horrified. I do think I detect an empathetic gleam in their eyes though, as if to say, "Yes, we know that you belong to them now and cannot live without it." As if to make our love affair even more poetic, the white truffle flavor is being discontinued in a week. So this is what it is to be broken.

Tonight, some friends and I had a dinner at la Ferrandaise. Totally convivial, we enjoyed a great bottle of 2006 Bordeaux, which we picked out with help and our combined (re: limited) wine knowledge. I had local mushrooms stuffed with pork, chestnuts and prunes, then wrapped in bacon and glazed. Then we shared a huge pot of boeuf bourguignon and mashed potatoes. Only one thing can be said: the rich, meaty wine sauce basically changed my life. Dessert, pineapple cake with fruit and basil gelato, was probably the most beautiful, but left me unsatisfied next to my entree. What I really wanted was to drink the rest of the beef's cooking liquid.

Ah, l'amour!

The lovebirds


Monet: Before I was chastised for les photos


Le chocolat chaud: Note that it comes with additional and entirely gratuitous sugar.

We all imagine the perfect couple, but I finally found them: Anca and Charlie. Both are art professors at my program who have been leading us on "field trips" around the city to various museums and restaurants to take our afternoon snack à la kindergarten. Apparently, Charlie, who formally taught at UPenn, met Anca here in Paris and decided to stay with her because they are "soul mates." They constantly bicker— not over money, children, or politics— but over da Vinci and Bernini. Anca became particularly upset the other day when at le Louvre, Charlie mixed up explanation of the harmony of lines in a painting. Silly Charlie! I think we infuriate them, because when they wait for questions, we don't inquire about elucidation of theories, but about how they fell in love. This is Paris, after all. Certain things remain on the mind.

It's refreshing to be around two people whose passion for each other extends to a passion for life. Between one and too many museum trips, I've admittedly tired of Monet. But Anca's enthusiasm for him today, especially his later period, forced me to take a step back and appreciate him all over again. As she explained it, in true Anca fashion, Monet is about, "just painting. He doesn't require the pretense of a subject." And it wasn't hard to appreciate something so real in front of me— the paint, the color literally coming off of the canvas it was so thick. The Monet I dislike is the Monet of giftshops, reduced to a stiff postcard that doesn't at all express what he did best: animation.

Of course, such vigorous living requires sustenance. Anca heartily believes in enjoying a good dessert after our parcours, so we went to a lovely spot in the 16th to have treats like rhum baba, crêpes, mille-feuille and LOTS of thick, dark chocolat chaud. Before, I never really cared for hot chocolate. Paris freezing my face off on a daily basis is changing my stance on this matter. Besides, if Anca and Charlie drink it, why not? They must be doing something right.

Qui êtes-vous, Polly Maggoo?

Pictorial representation of a French professor's heart

Parisians start their days so early. The bakers are up to prepare the morning's batch of bread, the sanitation crew sweeps the streets long before commuters are out... and men start prowling before they're even out the door. Like it wasn't bad enough when we're trying to go out at night. On my morning walk to orientation, a gentleman only just descending his steps greeted me with a cheerful but solemn, "Vous êtes magnifique, mademoiselle." What do you say to that? Certainly not, "Fuck you." I'm not yet sure what the etiquette is for formal flirting. Do you have to use "vous" pre-coffee? This appears to be yet another skill I must acquire.

I sense that I will be grateful for this unsolicited friendliness from random strangers next week when I begin classes at French universities. According to the program advisors, French professors are not at all like chez nous at Columbia. Orientation was in French, but if you will allow me to translate and briefly sum up what was said on the subject: "The professors you will have are civil servants and do not care about you at all. You are nothing to them. Nothing. Do not talk to them. Do not make spelling mistakes, because it will be an insult and they will refuse to read your papers and then burn them unceremoniously. We know you are all incapable of meeting these expectations and are inferior in every way, so we will make the F's you will surely receive B's on your official transcript. Pitiful creatures."

Then they hugged us and gave us hot chocolate.