La Patisserie des Reves

La Patisserie des Reves is the most recent patisserie that I hunted down. The little pink swirly toothpick is their logo. It is actually a cartoon representation of a religiouse, a particularly renown French speciality made from three balls of choux pastry, with lots of cream and icing also involved. Most patisseries do a fairly basic version, but this comes from La Patisserie des Reves, where only one of each pastry is on display (and I do mean, "on display". As if they are exhibits in an art gallery that displays the sculptures under glass domes.) You tell the madames your choices, and she tells the bakery out the back who arranges them delicately on a foam sheet, inside a watermelon-pink box. These toothpicks are used to help keep each pastry in place. When there the assitant who was folding our box shut noticed that the cream from a religiouse (which, ironically enough, had been deconstructed in the artistic sense of the word and reimagined as a rectangle...) was at risk of being touched by the lid as it tucked in down the side. So instead of just shimming the pastry over a few millimetres, the box was sent back to the baker for rearrangement. I shared a religiouse, a Paris-Brest, and an enormous madeleine with my lunch partner. The religious was marvellous, with the top balls of choux pastry filled with a coffee-cream and topped with crunchy, shiney toffee. Like creme-brulee balls. But the Paris-Brest was definitely my hero. I'll write about her in another post, and I promise to include pictures....

Eat Cake More Often

Here is a random assortment of things in my life that I would like to share with you:

Gloves.

Bought by my mother in Berlin, brought to Australia in her suitcase, given to me upon the eve of my departure, travelled back to Europe in my suitcase, and much admired around Paris.

Felt flower.


Bought at La Droguerie on Rue de Jour. La droguerie is actually a fairly generic term, used to describe anything from a fabric store, to a corner store. In this case, however, it is one of the most amazing spaces I've been in. All woodpanelled and just COVERED in spindles and spindles of ribbons, racks of buttons, drawers of charms, jars of flowers, shelves of material, skeins of wool....This particular flower is an auberginey purple, to be pinned upon my grey winter coat de temps a temps.

Mini-satchel.


I spent my latest Sunday afternoon wandering Montmartre and came across, of all things, a Mexican store. I'm not surprised it drew my eye, I can be somewhat of a butterfly at times and it was COLOURFUL. I have been searching for a toiletry bag, but often the options are naf, not made in a my-shampoo-leaked proof fabric, and have holes at the zip ends. This baby is none of those things, and I'm happy to have her on display and use her all the time (the dust in my apartment is astounding, so bagging things instead of leaving them shelf-side should help protect them.)

Paperbag.


While in Montmartre I also tripped past a favourite bakery and grabbed my first piece of Parisien quiche. I normally eat only the pastryless quiche that I cooked with E, so I had forgotten what a deliciously naughty indulgence it is to have a perfect pastry crust surrounding the rich cream, egg, cheese, bacon filling. This is the bag it came in (I ate it outside in the sunshine to save money) and it says "Eat cake more often." Here, here.

Zebra


Love the colours, the composition, everything about it. It's stuck up in a possie that I see all the time.

In a cloud of chemicals

What else but a hormone induced fug would convince me that it's a good idea to put my face DIRECTLY next to Little J's feverish, snotty, dirty little one? My brain knows that when another person is sick you're supposed to keep your breathing space separate to theirs, not inhale their exhales. My brain says snot smeared cheeks are gross. My brain begs me to put him in bed over there, and me in a room over here. And yet ... from somewhere else, some place that doesn't even have a voice, comes the urge to pick up the distressed little soul who's crying in his cot. To bring him into the darkened lounge room, to lay back on the couch and lay his stomach on mine, and cuddle him close. To snuggle his snuffles at my chin, to kiss his hot clammy forehead, to cradle his head and rub his back. To go cold and tingly laying in the same position, just so that Little J can get some much needed shut-eye.

I have heard that giving birth to children increases the amount of oxytocin floating around in the mother. But I am not his mother, he is not mine. Enter my new theory that cute little defenseless people (otherwise known as "babies" and "children") actually exude chemicals from their very pores. These chemicals convince other, bigger, more capable people (otherwise known as "adults", "nannies" or "suckers") to overcome all their normal self-preservation instincts and take care of the little defenseless ones.

I'm also working on another theory, that says men have managed to bottle this into "L'eau de defenseless", and wear it at random. Some of the above symptoms seem all too familiar....

Coeur de Pirate

Coeur de Pirate, par Comme des Enfants

(Still from the video clip> Click on the link below to watch)

So one of life's advantages when living in Paris is French television, and plenty of it. Much of it is rubbish, but I am a big fan of all the music channels. Living alone it can be nice not only to have the sound babbling away in the background, but also the image. This little ditty has me completely obsessed, and also OUTRAGED that it is not available for purchase in the Australian's itunes store.

What is the point, I ask, of having an international, digital store such as itunes if I, an inhabitant of Paris who happens to have an "Australian" itunes account can't purchase French music comme je voulais?? Are they planning a special release party for the Australian market??? Is it embargoed until Comme des Enfants tour?? Or maybe the next SO Frenchy, SO Chic CD has bought the exclusive Australian rights to it?? It is, in my little Franco-Australian opinion, RIDICULOUS!

Risk of rain

Today I learnt that a 10% risk of rain is no guarantee that it won't rain. Is it likely? No. Possible? Entirely. Will your soft, cream, ballet flats get rain slushed? Absolutely.

How long does it take to fall in love?

Six weeks. It takes exactly six weeks for a baby to fall in love. I have been here for six weeks now, and seen Little J's affections grow and blossom towards me. He was always fairly comfortable around me. But then things started to get serious. He gently head butts me as I lean towards him to get him out of his cot after nap time. He gives me eskimo nose-kisses when we snuggle at the high chair. He gave me a love-bite on my shoulder after bath time, when he was all swaddled in his towel. He shared his banana with me on Friday. I tore off pieces to give to him to hold, he would take a mouthful, then put it at my mouth for me to also have a mouthful. And thus we shared two bananas together. But here's how I know for sure. For the first time, when I was leaving the house in the evening, he wanted to leave his dad's arms and come with me instead. xo

Two and a half ways

I have so far discovered two and half ways to get free coffee in Paris.
(If it's from a friend it's not really free, because you take turn about and next time you're out having coffee and a tete-a-tete together, it will be your turn to pay for BOTH coffees.)

Halfly: the shop assistant forgets to charge you for it. But because you should (and my kind friend did) inform them of their error, you end up paying for it anyway. And even if you do not, you probably get a naughty karma mark chalked up to your name somewhere. That's why this is only half a way to get free coffee.

Firstly: A complimentary Nespresso from one (or both) of the big department stores.

Nespresso are currently pushing their machines in a big way, and given that all coffee in Paris comes out of a machine not unlike an Nespresso machine, why not? (i.e At the push of a button. Coffee grinders are not part of the Paris soundtrack.) It really doesn't taste much...strike that....any different. And it comes with a chocolate square. What more could a girl want as she browses deluxe French homewares?


Secondly: Have one bought for you by a stranger.

I had just finished browsing an open-air photography exhibition on the left bank that was hosted by the Quai Branly Museum and was hanging out for an coffee and some people watching. Given my tourist-heavy location, however, I decided to check the prices on the outdoor menu. While scanning it for 'espresso' two guys sitting nearby admired my outfit. (Vocally. With full sentences. They didn't just leer.) One of them had a stroller with a sleeping child, and the other looked like a Ralph Lauren cut-out, so I figured how bad could they be? We continued chatting, they invited me to join them. Which, given my time-killing status, seemed like a logical enough thing to do.

Monsieur Dad had an accent that made me doubt my French speaking abilities, I had so much difficultly understanding his questions. (At the time, I felt silly having to always ask him to repeat himself. In retrospect, however, it's highly possible he also came away feeling silly, seeing as the blonde Australian girl seemed to only be capable of speaking to his friend.) Le other one, however, was cute, with square white teeth, sandy blonde hair AND easy to understand. When the waiter came over with the bill, I had a laugh that it was Monsieur Dad who footed the afternoon's entertainment for his friend. And with that, my phone buzzed, I bid my adieus to Monsieur Ralph Lauren and Monsieur Dad and dashed off into my waiting chariot, Le Metro.

As the leaves turn in Paris

Paris is a gorgeous city, and she brings out the amateur photographer in everyone. (Which is, of course, annoying as you're trying to go about your daily business of getting places and doing things. Camera dodging is a sport in some parts of Paris.) The sky is large, the buildings are old, and right now the leaves are turning from cool greens into golden yellows and browns. Paris does herself every favour, and it must surely be difficult to catch her from a bad angle. Here are a few of my shots from the end of September. I offer them to you only as tokens of my Parisienne affections; for I am no photographer and I am sure I don't do her justice.












P.S If you click on the images they become larger and sometimes clearer, especially this last one.

Paris fashion week

So for the first time since about high school I knew a guy who knew a guy....which got me a ticket to this show during Paris fashion week. I can't remember the name of the label, and the clothes were frankly some of the ugliest I've ever seen. All patterned, fluro, gold lame, flowers, plastic.....very 'student fashion', as my friend described it. Definitely trying too hard. However, I was most excited to be there and here are some of my shots from the night.

Cooking lesson 1: Cucumber skin is NOT FOR EATING!

We return home, victorious, with everything. Little J was running minorly behind schedule for his nap, and between being overtired and his bubbly, snotty, blocked nose, decided that sleep wasn't on the cards. So, the entire time E and I were in the kitchen, he railed and cried from his crib. There were some pauses, but none longer than a few mins.

Back in the kitchen....most of the ingredients for the quiche just required grating- the carrots, zuccini, cheese. I thought E would be capable of this, which she was, but under pretty keen supervision.

And then I chopped up the onion with their fabulous pink chef's knife. (I'm not joking, it's a gorgeous pale pink Japanese number, gloriously sharp.)

"You're not allowed to use that knife."

"Yes I can, I'm a big girl."

"No, Dad said that no one except him is allowed to touch it. Not me and not even you. He told me the other day."

"Ah, but he doesn't know what a good cook I am. I'm used to using dangerous knives."

E pouts in the corner for a moment, and then decides to get up close because she wants the onion to make her cry. It does, and then she pouts some more because her eyes are stinging.

With the quiche finished, next comes the salad. (Little J is still railing away next door). I pulled out the red capsicum and E said she adores them. That's great, so do I. After doing to pre-chopping, I got her to chop it into little pieces. She tried one, and then declared she hates it. I put some aoili in a bowl (she loves it on her chips) so she could try it with that. "But that's for CHIPS" she said, wide-eyed that I would even consider putting it with anything else. "I know, I know, just try."

Blurgh, no success. "What about with mayonnaise?" (a similar reaction on all fronts: MAYONNAISE?! and more blurgh faces.)

She was so good at trying the capsicum that I decided next she should try the cucumber with the skin on it. She adores cucumber, it didn't seem like such a leap.

I may as well have suggested she eat her shoe. "WITH THE SKIN?????!!!!!"

"Yes, just try it."

She pulled the skin off and went to eat it separately.

"No no, together. They'll taste better together."

WELL, the biggest pout for the day came out to play, she clamped her mouth shut and wouldn't say another word.

"But you're a big girl, you can try it."

Extremely emphatic head shake. Whimpering.

"Why not? I don't understand, you're not saying anything. Only babies don't speak, and you're not a baby."

And with that she whimpered and ran from the room. I conceded, and peeled the cucumber and finished the salad, thinking I was giving E time to cool off. Nope. She came in on her little white mobile phone, and passed it to me so I could speak with her mother.

In English:

"Um, so what is the story about the cucumber?

I shared

"Ah, well, in France we never eat the skin, so she has never seen someone eat the skin. But that's it?"

"Yes"

"Oh, so it is not at all serious then?

"No, it's really not.

"haha, ok then, well, I'll be home for lunch like we planned. Bye"

I think E was disappointed that I didn't look at all scared or told-off when speaking with Mrs.

The pouting continued into lunch, with E barely touching her quiche or salad. Mr and Mrs cracked a joke about Australia being full of rabbits (which I mis-heard as full of bread. I seriously explained that no, normally we wouldn't eat bread with the quiche, until I realised Mr had said 'lapin', not 'le pain'. He's not a vegie fan, so my voracious appetite for fruit and vegetables has thrown him for a loop.)

But, the next day, Mrs thanked me again very much for lunch and said how much she had enjoyed it. She loves vegetables (I had noticed her second helping of salad, and her keeness over the red capsicum.) She loves eating vegetables, and loved eating something that was fresh, not fried, not too much butter. A nice change.

After all of that, who would have thought that the person most enamoured with my cooking adventures would be her??

Bringing home the bacon

This week I finally decided to put my cooking skills on display, and at the same time create an activity for E on her schooless wednesday (Worst invention ever. well, ok, maybe not. It does mean I get a day that I'm not tied to the school pick up schedule. there are also lots of activities around paris for children on Wednesdays. I would like to have a trip to the doll museum planned for one wednesday soon, with a special storytelling activity. Such a shame the Barbie exhibit has just closed....)

I had tried to do all the necessary grocery shopping on the Tuesday, to avoid the joyous experience of taking E, her trotinette, and Little J in his stroller for the hour long round trip it takes to get to 'the' green grocer, followed by a supermarket stop off. But alas, I forgot the green salad ingredients, the onion, the bacon and the cheese. All of these things were annoyingly crucial to la recette. (Luckily my quiche recette is pastryless and very forgiving.)

Finding bacon proved to be my biggest challenge, having neglected to learn the french word before hand. I cruised around one butcher, trying to see it in the rows of pink flesh, but i just couldnt see it, or anything that looked like any form of bacon i had ever seen. streaky bacon, rindless bacon, long rashers, short rashers....none. So i marched my troupe off to the nice looking meat and meal providors to have a discussion with the commercants (shop keepers). In French, my description of bacon went something like this:

"I have a little problem, perhaps you can help me. im looking for a pork product, but not ham. In english the word is bacon (with my australian accent on bacon). Unfortunately i dont know the french word for it."

"So you're looking for ham?"

"Ah, no, I dont think im looking for ham, unless you call bacon ham, in which case yes im looking for ham." This comment puzzles him immensly, and that's not really surprising. I only said it because I'm aware the European definition of Jambon is broader than the Australian version.

"This?" (points to shoulder of pork)

"No..."

"This? (points to pork roll)

"No..."

"Wait, I'll get the other madame to help us.

Quick discussion ensues between them, and he gives her a speedy run down of our non-progress so far

"Bonjour madame. So you are looking for pork meat?"

"Yes...."

"What are you going to do with it?

"Put it in a quiche."

"Ahhhh. Like a quiche Lorraine?"

Me, thinking furiously about whether all quiches are alike enough to say yes...

"Yes."

"Ah, voila, then you are looking for poitrine fumée. (She holds up something that looks like it might vaguely resemble heavily smoked streaky bacon). You dice it up and fry it quickly on the stove before putting it in the quiche."

The mention of cooking it before it goes into the quiche oncerned me a little, because I never cook my bacon first, but i decided that surely an hour in the oven would cook the pointrine fumée.

"Ah yesss, that's exactly what I'm after."

She gives it to the man to slice up for me. I, stupidly, decide that it should be cut into fine slices the way I'm familiar with. So he holds up his knife to the chunk of pointrine fumée to indicate how wide I would like my slices. I'm trying to say and indicate narrower ("plus fine") and he wasn't really getting it. So I had resigned myself to fat slices until the madame took the meat and the knife from the man and said

"No no no, I understand what she wants. She wants it like this (indicates a slice the same thickness as one i had already refused) and then you will dice them up nice and small for her."

"Yes! That would be perfect!" (Poor man)

Anyway, I then entered the shop to pay (this all took place at their little street cart in front of the shop), and was looking around at all the yummy potential. Then, I discovered bacon! In its most familiar form, short rindless rashers. (uncut).

"But you've got bacon over here!"

"Of course we have bakon. You can mix the two if you like. But what you have is much better for a quiche." (What's a girl to say?)

"Ok, then I am happy."

*All translations are approximate, and what I intended to say and what I understood them to have said. Whether I actually achieved this is another matter.