Avril à Paris Part Deux

Or, if one prefers, sous le ciel de Paris... 

Images recorded 22 April 2012 from the Square Nadar, Montmartre. Whether said Nadar Square is named after Gaspard-Félix Tournachon, aka Félix Nadar, the 19th Century pioneering balloonist, cartoonist, photographer and all around superhero, or some other lesser-known Nadar is a subject which requires further investigation.

Not radar but NADAR! : rotating 
balloonist and inventor of the
mobile crowd barrier. 
Image: Wikimedia Commons

More on Nadar later. Or sooner. Probably sooner.

Music: Gnossiennes °3 by Erik Satie grâce à La Pianista. 

Comme Belgitude

Comme Belgitude
Image: Ouestbrouq

On the Northern frontier of France lies Le Plat Pays. The Flat Country. A small yet enormously misunderstood country perennially derided as little more than a damp, featureless pasturage wherein herds of damp, featureless bureaucrats graze on frites-mayonnaise. The kind of place one invades without noticing when on one's way to invade somewhere worthwhile.

Well, it is a bit damp.

Alright, fine. It's one of the only places north of the Tropics where one might drown by looking up for too long.

And yes, it would seem they offer deep discounts on set-piece battlefield rental and campaign logistics.

But in spite and perhaps in part because of such geographic drawbacks, the locals have carved out a very distinct cultural identity for themselves: Pragmatic and comfortable, yet enterprising and endowed with a creative streak that often appears to border on the barking mad. Salient examples include the following link to a hotel in Durbuy* and the daily commute of surrealist painter René Magritte, who would dress for the office in a manner befitting the bourgeoisie, commute all the way around the block and then re-enter his own home to work.**

Briefly, Belgium.

Bounded by (clockwise) the Netherlands, Germany, Luxembourg***, France and the English Channel. The northern half of the country, Vlaanderen (Flanders), is Dutch speaking and the southern half, la Wallonie (Wallonia) speaks French. Brussels, the capital, although situated in the Dutch-speaking part, is bilingual. Oh, and there's a bit tucked away in the corner that speaks German, just to keep things interesting. The area that is now Belgium once was part of France, but then again, it was also once part of the Netherlands and before that was ruled by the Austrians, the Spanish, the Burgundians and the Romans, who named the place after the most recalcitrant of the local Celtic troublemakers, the Belgae. And incidentally, the Romans also decided that much of what is now Northern France was part of Belgica, so the area that is now France was once part of Belgium.

Ouais! Isn't this fun? Let's go round again. 

 

No, nauseous now, want off. 

Fine. Back to the Belgians, or more specifically, the Francophone Belgians. Ze Tao de France  will now reveal one of the best-kept French National Secrets (after which we may have to go into hiding in a cheese vault somewhere for a while):

Many of France's most admired artists are... (wait for it...) BELGIAN!

A brief and entirely inexhaustive roll call will suffice to call attention to the gravity of the situation (And this is but a list of the Francophone talent embraced by the French as their own. We imagine that the situation might be similar between Flanders and the Netherlands but, being Francocentric, nous ne sommes pas renseignés sur ce point.) :

• Hergé, the creator of Tintin
• Péyo, the creator of les Schtroumpfs (The Smurfs)
• André Franquin, creator of Gaston Lagaffe and Marsupilami
• Adolphe Sax, creator of the saxophone
• Jacques Brel, singer-songwriter
• Maurice Carême, poet
• Georges Simenon & Amélie Nothomb, prolific authors
• Actresses Marie Gillain, Émilie Dequenne, Cécile de France...

...And perhaps most gravement, Maurice Grevisse, author of Le Bon Usage, which is considered THE reference on French grammar.


Again, it's worthwhile to mention that this copious output emanates from a country that's only been around since 1830 and has a surface area only slightly exceeding the average American mega-mall parking lot. La France's acceptance of the fact that some of her favorite Frenchmen and women are actually Belgians has been slow to surface, mais enfin, la Belgitude is scheduled for inclusion in next year's Le Robert, a popular French dictionary, and will be defined as "[l'] ensemble des caractères culturels propres à la Belgique" (the ensemble of cultural characteristics native to Belgium).

This acceptance is part of a fairly recent cultural shift in France as she steers away from a centuries-old mythos of the monolithic and unicultural French state to an acceptance and even celebration of regional differences, as evinced in the runaway success of comedian-auteur Dany Boon's film about a collision between Southern and Northern French lifestyles, Bienvenue Chez les Ch'tis.**** Boon's follow-up, Rien à Déclarer, an odd-couple pairing of Belgian and French customs agents, did not fare as well with the public, but as another French film featuring Boon's Rien à Déclarer co-star Benoît Poelvoorde demonstrates; when casting for offbeat talent (such as required in a film about the trials and tribulations of a semi-professional Claude François impersonator), comme d'habitude, on fait appel aux Belges.

*  Link to La Balade des Gnomes grâce à Rufus T. Quagmire of the Santa Cruz Quagmires.
**  The supporting evidence for this oft-repeated story has fled the files. Any sources? ...Quelqu'un?
***  Who, along with Lichtenstein and Andorra form the little-known yet menacing Axis of Weeble. 
****  See Ch'ti You, Chtimi.

Writer, Painter, Soldier, Spy : The Art of Louis François Lejeune

View of a Bivouac of the Emperor in the plains of Moravia on 

one of the days before the Battle of Austerlitz, in December 1805

1808 Salon, no 382 Oil on canvas. H. 1,80 m ; W. 2,20 m

Château de Versailles, MV 6858 EPV / © J.-M. Manaï

The exhibit at Versailles dedicated to the paintings of Napoleonic General Louis François Lejeune still has a few weeks to run and is an excellent excursionary excuse for those in the Paris area who have not yet visited the château or have been looking for an excuse to return. A true renaissance man in a turbulent time, le Baron Lejeune (1775-1848) could indeed claim all the titles noted in the above headline, but that’s not the reason to see his paintings. One might be a Napoleon enthusiast, or one of those less appreciative of large-scale let’s-all-go-kill-each-other, but again, neither is reason enough to go or abstain. 

What makes the exhibit worth the trip is Lejeune's superlative, nay capital, nay excelsior use of TERRAIN, LIGHT and PROPORTION.

The Battle of the Pyramids
Image: Wikimedia Commons

Although his style is un peu naïf and could never be mistaken for photorealism, Lejeune captures the attention by his ability to create a complete environment. Lejeune spent much of his life on campaign, and before that, he was trained as a painter. The result is large-scale tableaux depicting thousands of soldiers, many of whom have quite individual characteristics and all of whom are, for once, in proportion to the meticulously-observed natural world around them; Lejeune’s battles take place in the surrounding environment, not on it.

Lejeune also has a cinematographer’s eye for light; not the impressive, film-noir light of a Caravaggio nor the soft, near-omnidirectional flou of a Rubens, but natural light, which he uses to consistently illuminate and shade every cannon, tree, horse and rock. Combined with the sheer scale of some of the paintings, the effect is enough to transport the viewer, (or at least this viewer) to another place and time, as seen through the eyes of one who was trained to notice the details while never losing the flow of whole. 

Napoleon’s Wars. Louis François Lejeune, general and painter runs until the 13th May, 2012.

About Those Parisians...

"La Trénis" from Le Bon Genre, Paris, 1805
Image: Wikimedia Commons

"The thousand dance halls said to have been opened up in Paris immediately after the Terror could have kept going profitably only if most of the population of Paris wanted to dance most of the time. And in spite of Anglo-Saxon ideas to the contrary, Parisians are really not built that way."

- Crane Brinton
The Anatomy of Revolution (1965)

Further Adventures of the 3m2 French Kitchen (Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Poêle)

In a minuscule Parisian apartment, one must make do or perish. The wake-up scene from An American in Paris, although romanticized, dated, and most likely shot on location in a Culver City sound stage, still holds more or less true. (WARNING: Do not attempt to manage your Parisian living space in the manner depicted below unless you are a trained dancer, acrobat, martial artist or masochist.)

Donc.  We repeat. In a minuscule Parisian apartment, one must make do or perish. In a sub-minuscule Parisian KITCHEN, doubly so. There is no room for gizmos, gadgets and other assorted "labor-saving" devices and one must make do with the old-fashioned basics.

Err, attends.

Does one actually need any of these labor saving devices when one has the old-fashioned basics?

After all, these antique contraptions predating the age of Teflon and insta-presto-jiffymatic-just-for-you-the-superspecial-consumer items were, like Samurai swords and Parisian hubris, refined over the course of centuries, rather than cooked up in a Product Research Facility by someone who had to produce marketable results by next quarter (or perish).

So, from time to time ze Tao will recommend various basic and daresay essential Schtroumpf-Cuisine TESTED  utensils that we have found to actually improve quality of life. And if we can wield these things in our Hobbit-hole, they should do even better in homes where there's enough room to swing the proverbial cat (It is advisable in most cases to discuss such plans in advance with the cat, as most cats are partisan of the less flamboyant yet more precise "tape measure method" and take a narrow view of the "spontaneous windmill" approach). 

Alors, notre recommended super-truc* du jour :

Une poêle à crêpe par de Buyer
Image: Ouestbrouq 

On présente : La Poêle à Crêpe - Mineral B Element en Tole d'Acier par De Buyer 
( The DeBuyer Mineral B Element Iron Crepe Pan )

And here are Madame Ouestbrouq's enthusiastic observations:

Easy to use (Ergonomique !) & reliable design: This genre of frying pan has been used for hundreds of years, (thousands, if you count the wok in China and Japan, which functions in the same way; naturally anti-adhesive and washed using only rice water). And the low sides allow for easy utensil use (you can easily turn your galette or egg without breaking it). 

Can't be bent by heat & cooks wonderfully because it spreads the heat optimally. Ideal if you want to quickly fry eggs, bacon, hamburger meat (and meat en général), pancakes, galettes, crêpes... And being iron, this skillet provides a little, well, IRON to the vegetarian and others who may need it. 

Ecological: No waste, no detergent required. Just a little hot water, you scrape it a bit, then dry it and spread a bit of oil so that it can't rust. 

Naturally anti-adhesive, has no carcinogenic anti-stick coating alors it matters not if the poêle gets scratched by metal tools (go ahead, go nuts; stir with a fork). And the more it's used, the more anti-adhesive it becomes - the blacker, the better (This also has the net result of reducing the amount of cooking oil you'll use over time). 

The seller gives a solid "garantie à vie": This sort of hardware counts as Patrimoine Familial in France (if you give it minimal care, you can transmit to your grandkids and they to theirs) and the price is astoundingly reasonable for something that's designed to last.

Lastly, this line of poêle is used by many Grands Chefs de Cuisine in France, so it probably works well in spaces larger than 3 square meters, but we couldn't say for sure.

Anyway, we kinda like it. Gene Kelly not included.



* Truc = thing. Super Truc, donc = cool thing. Not to be confused with truck. Although a truck is a truc a truc is not necessarily a truck. Ask your doctor if flinging cats is right for you.

M is for (la) Mauvaise Réputation

Mauvaise réputation, la (noun, fem. sing): Bad reputation. A song so reflecting the Gaulish side of the French ideal that it counts in some quarters as a second national anthem.

If the Sainted Cloclo provides an excellent rallying point for one certaine idée de la France, Georges Brassens (1921-1981) provides quite another. Whereas Cloclo makes for easy analogy with Elvis, from the sparkle and bling right down to leaving behind his own Graceland, visited to this day by throngs of the faithful, Brassens lived for over 20 years in a small 14th arrondissement maisonnette without electricity or running water, and this by choice. And whereas Claude François was the consummate high-octane showman, Brassen’s live performances are marked by calm concentration, as if his only goal as custodian of the song was to be sure that every word and note landed in just the right place. And his concentration paid off, as Brassen's at times playful, at times wistful, often vulgar and always idiosyncratic poetry still resonates with the French today.

Alors, bref. We'll save The Life and Times of Saint Georges for another day. For now, an introduction to Brassens in his own words. N.B.: The below translation has been made strictly for comprehension and takes such liberties as are strictly required. No attempt has been made to retain the rhyme or poetry of the original as such an endeavor (at least by this author) would be (a) futile and (b) possibly blasphemous.

In the village, with no pretension

I have a bad reputation

If I take part or keep to myself

I pass for an I-don’t-know-what 

I do not however do anyone wrong

In following my humble road

But the good folks don’t like it when 

One follows another road than them

No, the good folks don’t like it when 

One follows another road than them

Everyone slanders me

Excepting the dumb

That goes without saying

The day of the Fourteenth July*

I stay in my cozy bed

The music that marches by

All that doesn’t concern me

I do not however do anyone wrong

In not listening to the call of the clarion

But the good folks don’t like it when 

One follows another road than them

No, the good folks don’t like it when 

One follows another road than them

Everyone points the finger at me

Except those without arms

That goes without saying

When I cross an unlucky thief

Being chased by a country oaf
I throw out my paw and why not admit it

The country oaf finds himself on the ground

I do not however do anyone wrong

By allowing apple thieves to run

But the good folks don’t like it when 

One follows another road than them

No, the good folks don’t like it when 

One follows another road than them

Everyone leaps violently at me

Except those without legs

That goes without saying

No need to be Jeremiah

To predict what sort of fate I’m promised

If they could find a rope to their taste

They’d pass it around my neck

I do not however do anyone wrong

By following the roads that don’t lead to Rome

But the good folks don’t like it when 

One follows another road than them

No, the good folks don’t like it when 

One follows another road than them

Everyone wants to see me hanged

Except the blind

Obviously

°

* Le Quatorze Juillet. The French National Holiday; referred to in English literature (but not by the French) as Bastille Day.

Ch’ti You, Chtimi...

On va à l'pec ?
Image: Amazon.fr

No, it’s not you. No amount of blinking will turn the above album cover into French, Spanish, or any other UN-recognized Latin language, so best to stop now. 

Les Adventures de Tintin: Le Trésor de Rackham le Rouge is here presented in The Nord-Pas-de-Calais variation of the larger Picard dialect, which is widely spoken from the French région of Picardie through the Belgian province of Hainaut, otherwise known as Ch’ti.

Hein?

Actually, it’s misleading to say dialect, in that it gives the impression that Ch’ti is a form of French. It’s not. Modern French, Ch’ti, Normand and any of the other languages spoken in France north of the Loire are all variants of La Langue d’oïl, a Gallo-Roman language group. Had succeeding dynasties decided to set up their power base in say, Boulogne-sur-Mer instead of Paris, Ch’ti could well have become the dominant language of France, with Francilien French seen as provincial and therefore incomprehensible. 

Emperors and kings, did not, however, succumb to the charms of the Nord-Pas-de-Calais region, likely reasons being bone-chilling Atlantic gales and the sheets of rain that emanate like clockwork from the unichromatic fluffy carpet parked three meters over one’s head. It’s green in Ch’ti land, and the countryside is bieau*, but it takes a certain kind of costaud** to call it home. And tough they are: Currently suffering from low opportunity and high unemployment, the region was previously a major hub for fishing, maritime transport and coal mining, back when there were fish to be fished and coal was the thing (all of the above occupations requiring une certaine fortitude).

Ah, and then there’s the wars. Whether considering the Hundred Years' War, World War I, ou bien World War II, the region has been a preferred campground for conflict for as long as memory serves, World War II being the most irreversibly destructive; even the most casual observer can not fail to note the abundance of concrete neighborhoods acting as tombstones for ancient costal villages bombed into oblivion. 

But it was the Grande Guerre that gave us a name for the dialect; a period when tens of thousands of Poilus*** from all over France converged on the front to find they sometimes couldn’t quite  understand the locals they were defending. Alors, the soldiers named the dialect after two flagrant characteristics:

The pronoun “je” (I) is replaced with “ch" 

And “tu” (you, fam.) is replaced with “ti”. 

Thus “Je te connais, moi” (I know you) becomes “Ch’ti conno, mi”.

Or “on va à la pêche” (we’re going fishing) becomes “on va à l’pec”.

Or, as observed by the popular Ch’ti-Algerian (the world is wonderfully complicated) comedian-auteur Dany Boon, whereas a Parisian would say-

“Pardonnez-moi, je n'ai pas bien saisi le sens de votre question.” (Excuse me, but I haven’t quite grasped the meaning of your question.)

A Chtimi would say-

“HEIN ?”  (Huh?)

And indeed, one speaks plainly in ch’Nord. Though deeply religious, as is often the case in communities that match wits with the open sea, les Chtimis have retained a certain unpretentious earthiness, as evinced by the most popular form of amical address, Biloute, or the folk wisdom of such local proverbs as: 

"Chti qu'i piche conte el vint, cha li rkét toudi su sin néz."
"Celui qui pisse contre le vent, ça lui retombe toujours dessus." (lit. He who pisses against the wind, it will always fall back on him.)

Brief introduction to a broad subject concluded. For more Chtimitude we recommend to those with a smattering of French this glossary at Ch’ti.org  and this list of expressions at Wikipedia. And we at Ze Tao would like to reassure the reader zat we know our stuff (on l’conno), or at least Madame Ouestbrouq does; as whenever we call the grandparents up in ch’Nord, Madame may struggle with the odd word or phrase, but generally does quite well. Monsieur, less accustomed,  has yet to resort to “HEIN ?”, but he may. 

Ah ouais, min fieu, he may.

* Bieau = Beau

** Costaud = Tough / toughness / tough guy.

*** Poilu = Literally "hairy one"; a French WWI infantryman.

Dany Boon’s delightful Bienvenue Chez Les Ch'tis is available from Amazon, as are a few Tintin albums in Ch’ti (for those who’d like to antagonize their linguist friends).

Lionel Richie was not harmed in the making of this post.

I selected this post to be featured on my blog’s page at Culture Blogs.

Avril à Paris...

Voici donc 60 seconds of April in Paris.

More precisely, this April.

Even more precisely, Wednesday the 11th of April, 2012, in the actual French metropolitan agglomeration, as opposed to 60 seconds of the song "April in Paris", the lyrics of which can easily lead one to believe the songwriter never actually visited Paris in April, when usually it rains cats, dogs, wild boar and giant Alsatian kangaroos.

Metaphorically speaking, bien entendu.

And not on Wednesday the 11th, évidemment.

QUESTION: Does anyone know, par hasard, exactly what sort of blossom we're admiring in the above clip? 

Cherry? 

Plum? 

Kipper?

Music: Gnossiennes °4 by Erik Satie grâce à La Pianista

The Vegetarian Variations : Lentilles à l'Auvergnate

[ We continue our ongoing series of culinary adventures adapted from Madame Ouestbrouq's French-language blog Laurier Vert, featuring low-cost and nutritionally balanced traditional French recipes as well as some rather experimental organic and vegetarian variations on the same. Feedback, suggestions and sharing your own results are warmly encouraged. ]

Lentilles à l'Auvergnate
Image: Ouestbrouq

Today we present a French classic, dubbed in Vegetarianese with no loss of flavor or comprehension, and facile à faire as well - this dish requires no special Chef-jutsu. The portions below are intended for two solid evening appetites with leftovers for tomorrow's lunch. N.B.: These are FRENCH portions, and the size of a standard portion in France does indeed contribute to the legendary French ability to frequently consume bread, cheese, sauces & etc. (not to mention the wine) while still retaining the frame and weight of your average whippet. While the legend is largely still true (although the wonders of fast food and catchpenny tongue-bling supermarket fare are doing their best to erode the French diet), the myth is not. Quel myth? Yeth. The myth that the French can consume all they want of the above substances without eventually making Monsieur Depardieu look ascetic by comparison.

Bref. The French cannot and do not eat all they want. Which means they can mostly eat what they want.


Digression concluded, on continue. We will need:

• 500g of green lentils (the original recipe calls for Lentilles vertes du Puy, if possible)
• 4 smoked tofu sausages
• a few nuggets of soy protein
• 1 carrot
• 1 large yellow onion
• 1 or 2 large garlic cloves
• 1 large bay leaf
• 1 sage leaf
• 1 small sprig of thyme
• 1 clove
• 1 tablespoon of oil (olive or sesame)
• Salt and pepper

And we proceed thusly:

• In a Dutch oven, if possible, or if not, in a large cast-iron pot, fry the chopped onion and garlic in oil.
• Separately; immerse the lentils in cold water, remove the ones that float to the surface, then rinse and drain.
• When the onion is lightly browned, add the lentils and carrot (cut into small pieces), and cover said ingredients with cold water. N.B.: The ratio of water to lentils should be 2 or 3 to 1 (enough water for the lentils to properly swell during cooking, but not so much that the lentils become waterlogged and lose flavor, alors the recette* may take some experimentation to get just right).
• When the water boils, reduce heat and add the herbs and spices.
• Simmer slowly (actually, the original says mijoter tranquillement, so simmer with tranquility). Cooking time may take between 25 and 45 minutes. Trust your taste more than your timer. 
• 5 minutes before the end, add the sliced ​​sausage and pieces of soy protein. Stir well so that the flavors become well mixed. Serve when ready.

Note: Lentils possess the excellent quality of improving when reheated. And slow cooking dramatically reduces the amount of digestive perturbations associated with lentils and other pulses. Alors, do not hesitate to create in quantity; you will have less cooking to do for the next few days.

...In all, a dish well adapted for winter or colder climes where Spring has not yet sprung. Madame also notes that she's undecided as to whether the soy protein is strictly necessary in the recette, so you may want to try with and without, according to taste and protein requirements.




* recette = recipe

C is for Cloclomania

Winter has fled, the trees are in bloom and France is once more in the throes of Cloclomania, some 34 years after the demise of the genuine article. Or at least the French media is in the throes of Cloclomania. Whether or not the rest of France is playing along will only be known once the receipts are in. À savoir:  Cloclo is the appellation d'origine contrôlée* of singer-songwriter Claude François, who successfully seduced and serenaded la République throughout the 60's and '70's. And continuing the recent spate of biographical films on popular singers such as Edith Piaf, Serge Gainsbourg and Marie Antoinette, Cloclo now has his very own biopic out, cleverly entitled, well, Cloclo.

[ Correction : Apparently Marie Antoinette was not a pouty & wan girl-rocker but a tragically decapitated queen of France. Hobbies included big hair, boredom in the midst of inescapable groupies, dressing up like the richest shepherdess on earth and being misquoted about cake. ] 

[ ... Correction to correction : Marie Antoinette may have been a rock star. ]

Toutefois, the discomaniacal gyrations of Monsieur François and his Claudettes (we are not making this up) held sway over a generation. And in many ways he was a pioneer of the media machine driving the current cult of Peoplisation, publishing his own fan magazine, entitled Podium, and deftly reinventing himself at the crest of each new wave long before the name Madonna meant anything to anyone other than an Italian and/or Roman Catholic (oddly enough, Cloclo's middle name was Marie, or Madonna by another name). A workaholic innovator with a growing international audience, François's career was suddenly cut short in 1978 when, with typical kinetic impatience, the 39 year old showman attempted to fix a faulty light fixture while standing in a full bathtub (again, we are not making this up).

Ici à Paris, it would be difficult to see Cloclo's current "resurgent" popularity as anything other than a media creation, as Cloclo never really went away to begin with. La France is loath to throw away her past, especially if it once provided comfort or enjoyment. La France, plutôt, holds on to her cherished memories and those who created them like a dog-eared doudou**, and is proud of it. And pourquoi pas? A sense of self is built largely on memory, and a large part of France's exceptional sense of self lies in the fact that she throws away neither the aged nor the departed. In fact, all that's required to assure a string of interviews, TV talk show appearances, round-table debates and sundry event openings in one's golden years is to have been a celebrity for the proverbial 15 minutes in one's youth. To wit: The Legion d'Honneur was awarded in January to Stone et Charden, an obscure singing duet from the 70's (We invite those without vertigo to imagine Captain and Tennille accepting the Presidential Medal of Freedom).

And indeed, even more valuable than the average bygone artist is anyone dating from, and therefore harkening to Les Trente Glorieuses; "the thirty glorious" years between the end of World War II and the mid-70's (and with measurable spillover well into the '80's), when the French economy was in full flower, the Concorde was in flight, the Citroën DS and 2CV prowled the routes, cigarettes and existentialism were good for your health, or at least your sex appeal, and Club Med was churning out an annual conga line of bronzés stretching to the far horizon. En bref, it was the party that was, and the now-aging invités are not the only wistful ones; France is now also home to newer generations who arrived as the clean-up crew were dragging the convertible out of the pool. And for these, the children of the hangover, the zombie after-party where exuberance is tempered by lack of funds, lack of employ, an awareness of environmental consequences and a creeping but perhaps inexorable influx of the humorless moralizing and political correctness already so popular elsewhere, the carefree, absurdly ringard*** calisthenics of Cloclo and the Claudettes may appeal now more than ever.


Au fait... Did we mention that he wrote "My Way"?

* Appellation d'origine contrôlée (AOC) =  An assurance that a given French product actually comes from the region indicated on the label, i.e. Camembert or Champagne.

** Doudou = Can be a teddy bear or baby blanket, or an object that provides the emotional reassurance of a teddy bear or baby blanket.

*** Ringard = Hokey


La Môme, Gainsbourg (Vie héroïque) and Marie Antoinette are available from Amazon. 

Rhymes with Francilien

Francilien.

It's not a monastic order.

Not a French Sicilian.

Nor a Frenchman loaded with penicillin.

C'est quoi donc ?

La region de l'Île de France is the wealthiest, most populated and most urbanized region of France, constituting the 7 départements surrounding (Surprise!) Paris, and Paris itself (which is also its own département). And, as Paris has it's Parisiennes and Parisiens, the Île de France is inhabited by Franciliennes and Franciliens.

This Island France

Image: Wikimedia Commons

A major transport hub and global center of industry, finance, and all those things that send the stock market on its bipolar way, The Île also boasts considerable woodland, cropland and more than its fair share of historical sites, some UNESCO grade, including the fortified Medieval town of Provins and the châteaux of Versailles and Fontainebleau.* And although its current incarnation as an official administrative region is of relatively recent vintage (1976), the Île de France is the ancient feudal nucleus around which the body politic of the French nation was constructed, bit by bit, century by century.

The Name of the Rose

Err. Not so much a rose as a Fleur de Lys.

Three Fleur de Lys actually.

Pfft. 


Eh, bien, on recommence.


The Name of the Flower that is not a Rose ** 

Three lilies, Frankly.

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Voilà. Ecco.***


The Île de France, whose official symbol is the aforementioned and above-depicted 3 lys (lilies) on a blue background, may have stated life as "Liddle Franke" or Little France (it must be remembered that the Franks, from whence France derives its name, were a Germanic tribe). Whether one prefers this theory or the more geographic version asserting that the name indicated the island-like nature of a small kindgom bounded by 3 rivers (la Seine, l'Oise & la Marne) the name has stuck now for about, oh, the last 1,000 years, give or take. From Viking raids (they indeed travelled the Seine, and even sacked Paris) to the creation of the "dormitory cities" of the banlieue (an event architecturally more destructive than the 856 and/or 861 AD sack of Paris and apparently more permanent), from the construction of Versailles to the landing of the first non-stop transatlantic flight, the Franciliens have just about seen it all. And of course, before the Franciliens were the Gallo-Roman residents of the region, but that part's mostly in street Latin and phlegm-inducing Celtic dialects and we haven't sorted out the dubbing yet.

As for the origins and meaning of the famed Fleur de Lys, that's a grand story rife with bees, toads, battles and people with excitingly paleolithic names like Clovis and Dagobert, so naturally, we'll leave it for another time.

... And no, nothing really rhymes with Francilien, except the rather cloyingly forced Transilien. Albigensian doesn't count.


So remember,  while it may be true that no man is an island, some France is an island. Please however refrain from wearing flotation devices when roaming the countryside as you may be mistaken for a marauding Norseman, or at least an inebriated Scandinavian.****

Either will cause locals to bring in the washing.



* A permanent link to the numerous French UNESCO World Heritage Sites may be found in the left sidebar.

** Jean-Jacques Annaud has not actually announced any plans to film the story of Île de France. Besides, Sir Sean Connery, having retired, is not available for the role. More's the pity. "I am the region surrounding Parish. Yesh..."

*** A horrible Italian pun for which we apologize, both deeply and insincerely.

**** Inebriated Scandinavians may disregard the above conseil. We recommend water wings or anything shaped like a happy duck. Skål.

G is for Gribouilleur

On gribouille bien ici.

Image: Ouestbrouq

Gribouilleur, un (noun. masc. sing): One who scribbles. A doodler. A hack.

From the verb Gribouiller: To gribouille is to scribble. Not to be confused with GRENOUILLE, meaning FROG. Therefore, to grenouille would be to frog, an action which poses certain linguistic and logistical difficulties.

"The Marquis de ______, however,  claimed that the Comte de Montmirail had once frogged in full view of the public, including several members of the clergy, an accusation that the Comte would deny, at first with vigor and later with a dictionary and comfortable chair. The matter was eventually brought to the attention of the King, who presented the Marquis with the option of explaining his accusation in writing using only the subjunctive tense or fighting a duel of honor with the royal chickens. Unenamored of his options, the Comte fled to England, where his favorable reception at court led to widespread and pejorative use of the term "frog" to refer to any French noble the Comte didn't like, which by then, was all of them. The term eventually devolved to include the entirety of the French populace, including the vast majority of the unlettered third estate who, needless to say, had never met the Marquis or the Comte de Montmirail. The chickens went on to serve the King in several matters of state with various sauces."

...A fine example of gribouillery, excerpted from The Memoirs of Mme de Commérage and her Pomeranian, Hervé,  Published 1793, Paris.

Mussels South of Brussels

Les pêcheuses de moules à Berneval by Auguste Renoir

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Ze Tao de France’s very own Madame Ouestbrouq also writes a French language blog on the organic applications of Système D* at Laurier Vert. And here at ze Tao, we do our best to translate her culinary adventure reports from la langue de Molière to at least the language of George S. Kaufman.

But to clarify our title; deftly avoiding any and all Van Dammery (Van Dammnibility?) we move on posthaste to the rugged Breton and Norman coasts, home to the Great White Mussel Hunters, daily  risking life, beard and parrot testing their mettle against raging leviathan shoals of undulating mollusks...

Mollusks. Hard to say.

 Molluxks.

Mollusqzz.

Bref. While Belgium has gained international renown as the pays des moules frites, France nevertheless produces and consumes many an annual ton and indeed creates her own recipes. N.B.: The Flemish-Wallonian mussel ascendency is a rare case of France NOT overshadowing the Belgian cultural spotlight. More on this topic later, but for now, COOKERY:


Saltwater Mussels with Sauteed Potatoes
(Moules marinières et pommes de terre sautées)

[ For unit conversions apply to the handy WIDGET parked in the LEFT-HAND SIDEBAR ]

This personal variation on a Ch’ti (Northern French) variation of the Belgian standard is a meal at once healthy, cheap and facile à faire for those given to the pleasures of fruits de mer. To begin with, let’s replace the typical frites (french fries) with sauteed potatoes, which are slightly healthier and just as tasty. And in terms of quantity, the potatoes should accompany the mussels, not the other way around; make sure the ratio of mussels to potatoes is about 2 to 1. Lastly, jettison the butter in favor of olive oil.


Choose your mussels...

Prefer mussels raised on a mussel bed (bouchot) or, when possible, the little blue mussels from the North Atlantic. N.B.: At the market, shellfish should never sit directly on a bed of ice. Should you find this be the case, decamp tout de suite to a professional fishmonger. Count on about 1 liter of mussels per person, and if you’re cooking for 4 or more, add another liter for good measure (plus on est nombreux, plus on mange n’est-ce pas ?**). If the mussels are sold in a plastic bag, they should be removed as soon as you get home (suffocated mussels add nothing desirable) and be sure to sort and remove the opened and broken ones. The remainder should be placed in a large container covered by a slightly damp cloth, and then placed in the refrigerator.

Voilà, you now have a batch of mussels ALMOST ready to be cooked (today or tomorrow at latest).

Allez. On to the good part. We will need:

    1 liter of mussels per person, as stated
    2 yellow onions
    3 cloves of garlic
    1 or 2 small shallots
    1 small sprig of celery
    2 laurel leaves
    1 twig of thyme
    1 small glass of dry white wine (optional)
    a bit of flat-leaved parsley
    1 soup spoon of olive oil
    & the potatoes

Since the potatoes are less demanding but take longer to cook, we begin by sautéing them in a frying pan. And while they cook, it’s time to clean the mussels: Scrape with a knife to remove the encrustations and filaments, then place in a basin of cold water to rinse. Dispose of the ones that float to the surface and then drain.

In a large (preferably stainless steel) pot, fry garlic, onions and shallots (peeled and chopped, bien sûr) in a little oil; and if you care to add the white wine, now's the time. Add water, but only to the halfway mark, since the mussels will double in volume.

Now bring to boil and add the herbs and chopped celery. At this point you may want to pepper the mussels; it’s best done before cooking. When the potatoes are almost ready, place the mussels in the boiling water, cover and let sit à grand feu. Make sure the water returns to a boil quickly once the mussels are launched, otherwise the extra cooking time will create a slightly rubbery result. (And if you're cooking a lot of mussels, don’t put them all in at once; make multiple batches using the same water.)

After one minute, stir with a skimmer so that the mussels at the top find their way to the bottom. And when the mussels open, they’re ready (usually after 3 to 5 minutes of cooking).

Serve mussels and potatoes separately. You can add a little mussel juice to the mussels, not forgetting to garnish with the onions and shallots. Chopped parsley may be sprinkled over the mussels and potatoes according to taste.

Et voilà... Bon appétit!



N.B.: The herbs are not just in the recipe for flavor! They help purify the mussels and also aid the digestion. This recipe is also particularly interesting for anyone trying to lose the habit of eating too fast; just try that with a mussel and see how far you get! 

... Actually, don’t.

Encore une petite note: If you have any leftover cooking juice, don’t throw it away, but save to enjoy the next day: Once sieved to remove the shell debris, you can use the broth in a soup, mix into a sauce for another dish or even mix into cooking water to make a risotto.




* A term to be defined / explored in the near future
** "The more of us there are, the more we eat, no?"

C is for Cornichon

Cornichons, les (noun, masc. pl.) : The pickles.

 

Should one doubt that, for the French, la nourriture* is a sacred animal, we might invite the skeptic to consider the following; a blog dedicated entirely to the concept of people (or elephants, or a dog named Voltaire) sharing the details of their favorite goûter, or mid-afternoon snack.
 

...Or one might consider Proust, and the madeleine that launched four thousand pages.


Or one might simply partake of the following ode to the art of déjeuner al fresco as performed by Nino Ferrer. A full translation of the lyrics follows; resigning oneself to sub-Proustian literary content is strongly advised, but as another Voltaire once observed, "En fait de goût, chacun doit être le maître chez soi."**

We left on Saturday, in a big car
To go on a a big picnic together in the country
We brought picnic baskets, bottles and packed food
And the radio!

Some pickles
Some mustard
Some bread and butter
Some little onions
Some preserves
And some hard boiled eggs
Some pickles


Some corned beef
And some biscuits
Some macaroons
A bottle-opener
Some crackers
And some beer
Some pickles


We didn't forget a thing, Mom made it all
She worked for three days without stopping
To prepare the baskets, the bottles, the packed food
And the radio!


The Cold chicken
The mayonnaise
The chocolate
The mushrooms
The can openers
And the tomatoes
The pickles


But when we got there it started to rain
And what we forgot was the umbrellas
We packed up the baskets, the bottles and packages
And the radio!


We went home
To eat at the house
The cheese and the cans
The preserves and the pickles
The mustard and the butter
The mayonnaise and the pickles
The chicken, the biscuits
The hard boiled eggs and then the pickles

* food
** "In matters of taste, each must be master of his own house."


Further Ferrerery is available to the undaunted ici & le Pavé de Proust may be obtained ici. Picnic basket and talking bear not included.

Poisson d’Avril : F for Fish

Canular, un (noun, masc. sing.) : A hoax.

The origins of the April Fish may be traced to the 1564 Edict of Roussillon, when the French King Charles IX decided to move the official start of the year from its then-current April beginning to the now-familiar January début. Apparently April already had too much going for it  (Spring, for example), whereas January was languishing along with November as one of those months that sits on its own in the corner moping over a cervoise. The king's subjects, however, not sharing the Royal concern for January's morale, continued to exchange New Year's gifts as before, possibly in mockery of the new edict or perhaps simply as an expression of the innate French gift for argument. At any rate, what was once a real New Year's offering now became a mock gift.


Why a Fish?

Experts appear divided between multiple theories involving Christian symbolism (the ichthys), Christian interdictions (Lent), the pagan zodiac (Pisces) and secular fishing laws. What is more certain is that since at least the early Renaissance, gifts of fake fish were exchanged on the first of April, a tradition that continued at least into the turn of the last century, as seen below.

Wish Fishes

Although French literature on the subject generally asserts that April 1st as universal hoax day is a fête of French origin (the motif of fish having been generally exchanged for fools during export, probably something to do with pre-Schengen tariffs), an alternate explanation (and one that would take into account pre-1564 sightings) is that, like the wheel and TV talent shows, the Fishy Fool’s Day was an invention with multiple authors and a possible common ancestor, in this case Greco-Roman. The jury however, is still out, and having ordered a very nice Saint-Émilion with the meal, may be some time.

Perhaps the most successful example of a canular in the Anglophone world is still the 1938 broadcast of H.G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds, in which our pre-Apollo Program and rather more credulous Earth is invaded by Martians. Performed by a radio theatre troupe as a series of news reports with a then unheard-of level of dramatic realism, the program panicked the East Coast of the United States into hiding under the Midwest and launched (after an admirably earnest pantomime of contrition) the film career of a young Orson Welles. Oddly enough, Welles’s final completed film, some 35 years later, would also be a canular of sorts: a fake documentary about forgery, shot and produced in collusion with French documentarian François Reichenbach. 

And, as coda, this fish story comes full circle (ou bien, hexagone) by adding yet another French documentarian, William Karel, to the mix with his 2002 film Opération Lune*: A sort of F for Fake 2.0 in which political pashas such as Henry Kissinger and Donald Rumsfeld appear to confirm that the 1969 Apollo 11 moon landing was a hoax directed by ...Stanley Kubrick. 

Allez ! Send your own Fish Wishes via Colombes Philatelie.



* Opération Lune recommendation grâce à filmmaker & editor Claudio Hughes.

 The War of the Worlds, F for Fake and Opération Lune are available from Amazon.