Back to School/the Future

I have just returned from a lengthy seminar on molecular gastronomy, put on for free by Paris AgroTech and starring the indefatigable Hervé This.

My companions and I, over two days in a stuffy salle, produced copious doodles and counted the minutes before the next coffee break. All in all, there were sixteen hours of lecture. For a field that is supposedly dead, This sure found a lot to say about it.

My notes from the seminar include terms that would be more at home in an episode of House than in anything to be found on the Food Network. Is maceration d'enzymes proteolytiques a concept with delicious applications, or an auto-immune disorder?

For further "research," I will today visit les Magnolias, my first 1-star and a purported proponent of molecular cuisine. I don't know whether to look forward to or fear eating food that may have been mixed with sodium alginate and dunked in a bath of calcium chloride.

In any case, I will report back.

Unless my throat is burned out, or I have turned into a robot.

Paris: International Shopping Coffee Break Destination

Listen up all you cosmopolitan art farts: the city of Paris has a shopping plan for you.

"Artistic tourists and other adventurous creators," are the beneficiaries of a new creative circuit promising "alternative places, inventive concept stores, designer fashion workshops, old-time hangouts, fair trade stores...a subtle combination of pop culture and artistic expression."

Sounds good, right?

Upon closer examination, however, the plan begins to look a little troubling. The circuit, part of the Soldes By Paris stunt, is not so much a shopping agenda as a death march of twenty-two cups.

Beverage boot camp will begin with an 8am breakfast and continue with a coffee break at 10. Lunch is proposed at 11, an hour when not a single restaurant is actually serving. If you can eat and gulp down your after-lunch coffee quickly, you'll have at least three hours before your next coffee date. Any shopping must be finished before the three scheduled café visits between 3-7pm.

You'll be starving (you ate at 11, remember) and more than a little jittery by the time you arrive at 8pm at "Le" Spring. Beat those empty shopping bags against the glass all you like, but Daniel will not be opening up unless you booked back in October. Skip ahead to your next destination, le Divan du Monde, and hope for some peanuts set out on the bar. Or give up and stagger down the street to join the tourists at the Moulin Rouge.

The worst part about this shopping circuit, aside from the near-absence of shopping, is that the coffee being so shamelessly pimped is among the worst in the world.

More and earnest coverage of these important sales can be found on the site of every other Paris blogger.

Blogosphetiquette and the Salad

Rule #42 for the aspiring novice: If an established food writer is having difficulty with her camera, lay your head down upon the counter and offer yourself as a tripod.

Results will vary, but may include something like the promise of a recipe for homemade Cheez-Its.

This pictured salad is what I brought, in lieu of Velveeta, for last night's pot-luck.

It was very simple: tarragon leaves, seeded grapes, vinegared shallots, and citrus cured scallops - all mixed at the last moment with a smooch of olive oil.

The portions were small because there was plenty else to swallow from the fine food fiddlers in attendance.

I may have nodded along at times, pretending to know the well-known, but humility has never tasted so good.

A Potluck Requiring Both

I am up at 7:30 and have crossed the frozen floor three times before settling with coffee to work. Sleep was scarce as I spent the hours last night in a lost zone between dreams and anxiety.

There is a dinner party tonight.

Under normal circumstances, I am not a nervous cook [those who know me snort aloud and begin composing their corrections]. But tonight is a bit exceptional.

I am the only person attending this potluck, save for accompanying eaters, who has not or is not currently writing a cookbook.

"Why on earth," you ask, "are they letting her in?"

It's to make them look good, I assume. They must be counting on Kansas to bring the nacho cheese dip, the crock full of weenies, the Triscuits. I will provide the contrast by which their own plates/verrines will dazzle.

In writing this I have almost talked myself into bringing "a modern update on the cocktail weenie" or a deconstructed dip in which seperate piles of Velveeta and Ro*Tel are served in a millefeuille of Tostitos.

2008: Predictions

Last year at this time, things were not looking good for Le Meg.

My Chinese horoscope told me that I "should not expect to have any achievement in 2007." And The Onion, not one to mince words, predicted that I would shoot myself.

On the bright side, the Chinese advised that I "would enjoy much satisfaction and happiness from 2008 onwards." I had only to wait twelve months.

True to their word, 2007 was indeed full of shit challenges.

I was mugged. I had a two month-long root canal. My widowed landlord went a bit nuts and threatened that her "husband the Préfet" would be coming for me. My carte de sejour was not renewed and I was instructed to return to the U.S. And while I left in late '06, 2007 was the Year of the Divorce.

With decidedly wobbly knees, I consulted those same stars again today. It was no small relief to read that the naysayers are now singing a different tune:

Love: "You are blessed by Hong Luan, the most powerful star of positive relationships. With this star shining on you this year, your romantic future looks all set to flourish and bloom."

Work: "Are you a freelancing Rabbit or do you own your own business? If so, there’s good news for you. You may have to work hard but the rewards you reap will be phenomenal."

Paranoia: When choosing friends and business partners try and determine whether that person loves you or hates you."

Even The Onion seems, in its own special way, to be rooting for me:

"Love awaits you where you least expect it in 2008—anatomically speaking, that is."

And a french version tells me that "the stars support me in taking professional risks, but that I can expect to suffer from headaches."

Taking these three together, it's clear that The Year of the Rat will be good for me. I should be ready for love, success, and perhaps aural penetration. But not by anyone who hates me.

Bonne année!

Stalking Beirut and la Blogothèque (again)

The band Beirut and the french site la Blogothèque both have dedicated fans and a quasi-cult following. Recently, however, they have become twin fascinations for John Norris over at MTV.

Watching the video below, you might think to yourself, "damn, them kids is cool. I'd sure like to have a beer with them..."

It's not as hard as you might imagine. At the very least, you can stalk their favorite bars and watch them from across the room, waiting for the moment when they are drunk enough to consider letting you sit on their lap.

Not that I've tried...yet.

What I'm getting at is that Zach Condon from Beirut, along with Vincent Moon, Chryde, and several Blogothèque writers, have all revealed their favorite bars for indie rock drinking in Paris. It's all waiting for you in this article over at Gridskipper. So hit the trail and check out these spots where you're sure to feel comfortable in your hoodie and your love of home recording. And after you stumble home, treat yourself to a little un-sober surfing with la Blogothèque's Take-Away Shows video series.

And as pre-bar homework, watch this MTV news broadcast in which (a newly wig-topped?) John Norris manages to suck up to Zach Condon to a greater degree than even I have attempted in the past.

Wine, Wimmin' & Song

This weekend is the annual fête des vendanges in Montmartre, and I'll be making the rounds in the "village" of wine and regional products.

Coming from the States and a protestant background, there's something really great about being able to booze from wine stand to wine stand at the foot of a giant church.

For those interested in checking out the festival, which includes a parade, fireworks, and hundreds of music, literary, and even gastronomical events dedicated to the singer George Brassens, the official festival web page is here, and my Gridskipper article about it is here.

Coming Soon

..a real live blog post, I promise!

But until then, here's a Gridskipper post about all the Paris concerts that are happening through December.

November in particular is absurdly full. It's really almost too much. I remember complaining upon arrival that the Paris indie music scene was dead, and now I'm deciding between Cat Power, the Shins, Beirut/Andrew Bird, I'm From Barcelona, the National, Hot Hot Heat and about 15 other bands.

In any case, there's a whole lot of hoopla on that post, including video for my favorite bands playing in October, plus a Google calendar and a radio player that lets you listen to all the picks who are playing before January.

And I promise to write a real something soon. Just as soon as I finish my next Gridskipper article, which is tentatively titled "Famed Vagina Now Open in Paris."

Can anyone guess what show that is about?

The Vegetarian Problem

During my first year in Paris, seemingly everyone who came to visit was a f@*k#ng vegetarian.


I support this choice, honestly I do. But it makes (in Paris) for truly lousy eating.

Or at least it used to...

In the olden days of 2004-2006, choosing a restrautant with a (non-fish-eating) vegetarian in mind meant that somebody was not gonna be happy. And most often, that body was me.

My insanely bulleted and hyper-linked list of Restauarants To Try was usually set aside because the places specialized in game, offered no choices, or were otherwise unlikely to have anything my friends could eat.

Recently, however, a new list has taken shape. I call it Places Where I Can Take My Vegetarian Friends Without Wanting to Kill Them.

Or, more formally, Fine Eatin' with Fleshless Options.

This new list features six restaurants where I would gladly eat, with or without a vegetarian in the mix. Beyond these, there is a world of casual street eats and ethnic joints that also get the job done. But for those who are looking to have a special (and not cheap) night out, with a focus on French rather than Cambodian, these are my top picks:

1. Arpège
2. Maceo
3. Mon Vieil Ami
4. Les Allobroges
5. Transversal
6. Maison Blanche
   

The map, and full descriptions of each, are published here on Gridskipper.

Go forth, friends, and eat without passive aggression.

You Will Miss Me When I'm Gone

This morning a young woman sat down next to me on the Métro, an SMS already in progress.

The furious tapping of her manicured nails prompted me to look up periodically from the pages of my book, in which a conceptual fish was stalking our already-dead (or not?) hero.

"You will miss me when I'm gone..." began her text. I hated myself a little bit for reading over her shoulder.

"...but I understand your reasons,"
[deleted, then...]

"...and you're an asshole,"
[deleted, then...]

"...and you should call me when you change your mind..."
[deleted]

There were ten or so of these.

And during the seventh one (approximately) she farted.

Paris Coffee Tastes Like Ass

Tourists are often too distracted by the ambiance to notice that brew between their fingers tastes funny -- but connoisseurs abhor the sludge that's on offer in the everyday Paris café.

It sucks for many reasons, including the frequent use of robusta (not arabica) beans, chalky water, sterilized milk, dirty machines with low pressure and temperature, and untrained baristas who almost never tamp their shots.

And while French drinkers don't seem to know what they're missing, many 'Mericans - even those from Kansas - certainly do. For those of you in search of a jolt without the dirty mouth, I made a list for Gridskipper of the top places in Paris where you can find a decent cup of coffee.

>and here it is...

Calenderlicious

Pssssst....

I've started a new feature at Gridskipper to track the local music finery.

Being slightly compulsive, I also added video links for all the upcoming bands and built a radio player to let you listen to everything.

Go and have a look, hey?

Paris: City of Naked

Dear friends,

Please excuse me for being late last night for margaritas at La Perla. Something happened while I was riding my bike along the canal.

I was watching him lift his penis so that friends could remove the bits of floating trash that had adhered to his testicles and I got a little dizzy - had a mild stroke, perhaps - and after that had to ride my bike slowly.

In any case, sorry.

Your pal,
Meg

The Swing Set

I have just returned from a vacation in the Loire and will soon tell you all about it.

But first, and more importantly, I must tell you about the Sex Clubs.

Gridskipper, you see, offers a bonus each month for the correspondant who draws the most readers. Being competitive by nature and poor by tax bill, I am going for the throat and compiling a list of clubs échangistes.

This endeavor means that I've been rolling around for hours in the webworld of the swinger. And let me tell you, it is...hysterical.

This post shall not knock or otherwise comment on the practice of having sex with strangers. What I would like to share is this collection of absurdity that I discovered during the course of my research.

Five Reasons Why Sex Clubs Are Hilarious

1) Soundtracks!
Le Quai 17 website provides a continuous stream of music, presumably the sort of sounds one might encounter at the club. I tuned into "Radio Libertine" and laughed to the point of tears when I heard 4 Non Blondes bleating out the chorus of "What's Up." This was followed by (what else?) "Boys Don't Cry."

Don't get me wrong, I'm really quite fond of both these songs. But I could not be expected, while balancing in heels at some quai-side swapmeet, to keep a straight face while Linda sang about her great big hill of hope.

2) Message Boards!
The very same cyber-wizards at le Quai 17 have also introduced the message board, allowing users to publicly register for soirées and chat with eachother in advance. In this way, "cplbi3446" (at left) and "Michelx74" can break the ice a bit before meeting at Thursday's Gang Bang Buffet.

and speaking of...

3) Buffets!
Nearly all the clubs offer a buffet or some other form of pre-game dinner. I'm trying hard to imagine (and help me out here if you know) what on earth is the etiquette for warm-up supping? Does a lady retain her skirt while tossing back her plate of moules? Does she chit-chat with the man in the mask about the delicious moelleux? I think Buñuel may have made a film about this...

4) Special Nights!
This city's love for theme-parties knows no bounds. In the most remote backrooms and cuddle corners, one can still find people dressed for "Carnival." Le Nautilus, for example, recently hosted a "Las Vegas-style Casino Night" complete with blackjack, poker, and prizes. Au Pluriel will soon be celebrating its anniversary with "surprises, gifts, and onion soup." I might mistake this for the local Rotary Club if I didn't know about the Saint-André cross in their basement.

5) Mind-Blowing Translation!
There is so much to choose from, but here's my favorite from Le Nautilus:

This club is appreciated by loose couples which appreciate to meet themselves in a felted frame, wish to make more ample knowledge with new couples which share certain art of living and to make the "holiday."

I will leave you now to reflect upon your readiness for the felted frame. This video from Stereo Total, to say nothing of Radio Libertine, should aid in your considerations...

Update: the article is now up (here) at Gridskipper. Needless to say, the onion soup is not mentioned...

Making Love to Zach Condon

No more marching down the boulevard and singing along with the iPod - my love for the band Beirut has finally found an appropriate outlet.

The Blogothèque asked me to write a text in English to accompany the release of their latest video. Taken from the magical Soirée à Emporter, it features two amazing songs and one Go-Go dancing blogger.

Below is the video and my text from the Blogothèque. Many other delights, including the other eight videos from this concert, are available on their site.

#60.9 - 60.10 - Zach Condon feat. Kocani Orkestar
envoyé par lablogotheque

When Zach Condon introduces his last song, denial rings throughout the Flèche d’Or. "But after," he continues, "I will play with Kocani Orkestar. It’s a dream for me."

This news about a Balkan band elicits very little reaction from the crowd. Most of those crammed into the venue, not to mention the hundreds who are waiting on the sidewalk, have arrived to see Beirut. The announcement of their last song seems to signal the end of a very special soirée.

The opening tump-thumps of "Sunday Smile" see the crowd start to turn around, swaying and beaming with pleasure of discovery. Zach’s attention is initially focused on the job of filling his microphone. When he raises his head for the chorus, looks around and sees what’s happening, a manic grin threatens to wipe out his ability for words.

He is 22 years old, this kid. He has spent the summer in Paris, mere steps away from the stage that now holds him with his musical heroes. Their brass envelops him and sends this unreleased song into the sky. His new neighbors are all around, waving their arms and asking for more.

How did he get here ?

It was only a few weeks ago that Chryde broke the news in a Paris café. Upon learning that the Blogothèque was bringing Kocani to come and play with him, Zach was stunned into silence. He lit a cigarette. He said "thank you." He then retreated into the fear that comes with getting what you want.

That initial astonishment infuses this song with Kocani Orkestar. "Sunday Smile" is taut with anxiety and joy. It is bursting with Zach’s gratitude for the beauty of this moment. By the end of the song he is nearly bowing down before his guests from Macedonia.

When the call for "Siki Siki Baba" is sounded, Zach raises himself up and promptly jumps into the fray. "Watching me listen to this song," he wrote last year for Said the Gramophone, "is like watching a hyperactive four-year-old without his Ritalin. Pure excitement." Watching him not only listen but play along to this song is doubly exciting.

The crowd that only an hour ago was held spellbound by delicate sounds is now erupting, their energy in each chorus threatening to break out the windows of this former train station. Zach gushes along with the rest of them, waving his arms like some deranged conductor. His eyes are often closed or fixed upon the distant ceiling as if the sight of this swell is just a little too much. When he opens them and looks around, he can barely contain his laughter.

We are so thoroughly whipped into musical fervor that the end of the song is not an option. The crowd continues to bleat out its ecstasy in chorus after unscripted chorus. Our consolation, when the last note falls, is that this song is only the beginning of our night with Kocani Orkestar.

Let’s hope this is also only the beginning of these Soirées à Emporter.

Men Like to Hunt: the Cachet of Hidden Kitchen

A brief mention in a post three weeks ago that I had been to Hidden Kitchen garnered ten or so hungry emails:

How was it?
Can you get me in?
Oh my oh my oh my god! (etc.)

The panty-throwing reaction prompted me to write about it for Gridskipper. Not only about the food (here), but also the chefs' favorite places to shop around the city (here).

There were more undies in my in-box this morning, and a whole pile of them waiting on the electronic doorstep of Hidden Kitchen.

And every wet knicker reminds me of one of the cardinal rules of dating: RUN AWAY.

When I moved out of my marriage bed and into a shared apartment, my roommate Kate had a bookshelf stacked with (plenty of high-quality literature and some) classic dating tomes. And so I spent those first nights, when I wasn't hyper-ventilating, turning the pages of He's Just Not That Into You.

This of course brought on more hyper-ventilating.

Surely, I thought to myself, I have more to offer than "not answering the phone."

"Utter rubbish," declared Catherine, who read the book as soon as I'd finished it. Along with Kate, we decided that while some girls might need gimmicks - hiding themselves and cultivating mystery - we were interesting enough to be exempt from the rules.

Months later I sat across from a man who told me "Men like to hunt."

He then advised me to be "more like a gazelle."


I stopped inviting him to free concerts after that.

Who among you will wager on whether he's booked at Hidden Kitchen?

Biking Bliss in the Fôret de Sevran

I have been an active biker for over a year.

By "active," I of course mean occassional, and only in near-perfect sunny conditions.

Such biking activity has rarely, however, extended outside of the city. Only once last year did I bike out of bounds, on a lovely trip near the Royaumont Abbey. Last Sunday I tried again - a rematch country ride to the Fôret de Sevran.

The morning started with a trip to the market. A loaf of bread, fixings for a green bean salad, some drippy Reine Claudes and a nice Brie de Meaux - we bought everything we needed for a little country picnic.

Setting out from the Parc de la Villette, we followed the Canal de l'Ourcq (the northern extension of the Canal Saint-Martin) in the direction of Meaux.

For the first five minutes, the view was post-industrial. The falling-down Grands Moulins de Pantin towered before us and we breezed past buildings with broken windows and graffiti.

Emerging from a massive SNCF repair complex, we found ourselves in the middle of a Bobigny block-party. Balloons, each one with a message attached, filled the air above our heads. I smiled at them memory of doing the same twenty years ago in Kansas.

Next up along our route we spied some rough necks letting off jet ski steam. All bike traffic stopped to watch them as they skidded across the stank and murky waters.

Thirty minutes into the ride, the view became more picturesque. Wooden fences replaced grafitti-covered walls and flowers bloomed from suburban patios.

Time flew and soon enough the view had become fully forested. The heat of the day was held at bay by the canopy of trees. Light filtered between the branches to cast a serene glow on all who were picnicking (or reading, sleeping, drinking, entangling in various states of undress...).

We found a shaded spot within the Fôret de Sevran. We dropped like sacks after the sixty-minute ride and spread ourselves out for a sigh. A nap in the grass followed a leisurely lunch and then we found the buvette and a revitalizing beer.

Our party turned back around 4pm to attend to some pétanque around the Bassin de la Villette. The return trip took just over an hour, with some delay from weary legs and the of number joyriding Vélib'ers.

This trip was part of my training for an upcoming cycling holiday. I have been persuaded to pedal through the countryside between the châteaux de la Loire. Considering the number of very good vineyards along the way, it is certain to be a fiasco.

Woo Tube (p. 3)

I started this blog about a year ago.

The intention, as I described in my first post, was to tell stories about France to people back home.

But most of these friends were not internet fiends. And they were swiftly outnumbered by strangers on my site.

Just one month into this electronic endeavor, some website listed me as one of its favorite blogs. This brought the Brits and a bunch of other unknowns to my door.

And they started leaving comments. It was weird.

"Who are these people?" I would shout across the room to where my husband was sitting with his own laptop. He would roll his eyes, rightly so, and then return to Googling himself.

Our courtship long ago had been conducted over the wires. Eight years and another continent later, we were still susceptible to those screen-based shivers.

Only not so much from eachother.

However odd the sensation, it didn't take long for me to adapt to writing for the invisible. It didn't matter that my readers had no faces and were prone to over-punctuation.

What mattered was that they loved me, insofar as that could be deduced from comments like " :-) " and "woo!!"

I found myself rushing to check the computer like I'd done back in the old days. They weren't romantic, these exchanges, but they held the same thrill of discovery.

Not all of these readers remained strangers. My first friends of blog origin were two Canadians who introduced themselves at a concert. They recognized me as "Le Meg," much to the amusement of my visiting friends. They later posted about the night as bloggers (I now know) are prone to do.

I began to spend more time online and outside the apartment. Things weren't going well at home, and this new universe (which had expanded into writing for Expatica and Parisist) was wonderfully distracting.

Eventually it became large enough to climb into.

It's odd to look back upon one year of blogging and think about everything that's happened. My marriage ended, I stayed in Paris and decided (after a brief pause) to stick with the blog.

To all of you who I've met in some way or other through this site...

(LadyK, Tin Foiled, Lauren, Eloïse, Sing Sing, Benjamin, Catherine, Clair, Bookpacker, Adrian, Mike, Rion, Garrincha, Anna, Bridget, Nabékor, David, Jussura, Bennett, Sophie, Nardac, Kirsty, Frog with a Blog, Suzanne, Kasia, Matthew, Kermit, Petite Americaine, Hugo, Kate, Phyllis, Daniel, Clotilde, Florian, Joanna, Elisabeth, Edvard, Katia, Kylie, Lisa, Always Ace, Negrito, Stuart, Chryde, Anna Boat, Amy, Braden and Laura, David, Dorie)

...and to all you unlinkables, invisibles and old dears - it's been lovely to have you around in this year of new beginnings.

My Secret Garden(s)

Need a quiet spot away from the horde for feeling up your summer fling?

I just posted an article on Gridskipper about some of my favorite hidden terraces.


You can read about them here, and tell me in the comments what I've forgotten.

Woo Tube (p. 2)

It was 1998 when I had my first and only internet fling.

Back then, the only way that people seemed to interact on the web was in "chat rooms." These were dark and awful places which, according to the local news, were full of sweaty old men trying to pick unripe peaches.

I didn't want any audience for our "how did you meet?" story to think we had sullied ourselves in some virtual disco. Our first encounter was respectable - in the flesh and broad daylight.

Yet any courtship that involves the frantic refreshing of a browser is bound to breed suspicion among the Luddites.

My exclamations about email failed to conjure for my friends any of the old-fashioned romance of letters. To the contrary, they spurred tense smiles and the worry that perhaps I was projecting.

"She's headed for a fall," some of the eyebrows seemed to say. "I give it six months."

As anyone who's made the transition can tell you, the road from email to real life is fraught with shameful inarticulation. Because as anyone who knows me in person can tell you, I am much more clever in post-production.

Whatever bounce my words have on-screen is padded in reality by a lot of "buhhhh?"

And when sitting across from a new flame, one who's been lured by fancy typing, every spot of faltering speech feels like a flare. Every "ummmm..." is another shot into the sky, a distress signal to illuminate the disappointing reality.

Case in Point: I just searched for and found another word for "inarticulate."

Exhibit B: I then typed "point in case."

The only solution is to drink. And to find other outlets and ways to impress.

Like learning to cook, for example. Or playing the banjo. Or perfecting one's already impressive range of monkey sounds.

Because once you're living with the boy, there's really no point in writing anymore.