A Taste of France
Discovering the joys of food and friendship in Paris
By Jennifer Crystal
This article was published in Abroad View Magazine Spring 2007
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Illustration by Farah Mohd Alkaf |
Though I’ve been in Paris since January, I don’t meet my landlady, Madame Boudreaux, until Groundhog’s Day. Except, there aren’t any groundhogs in France, so February 2 is instead marked by a national celebration of crêpes. Crêperies throughout Paris offer free samples; the buzz is similar to that of Free Cone Day at American ice cream shops.
Madame has invited me to dinner at 7:30 p.m. At 7:28 I descend the creaky stairwell that leads from my studio to her apartment. After several rings of the bell, the door is flung open by a plump, gray-haired woman wearing a fuzzy blue bathrobe and pink curlers in her hair.
“Pardon,” I stammer in embarrassment. “Do I have the wrong time?”
Madame ceremoniously flaps her right bathrobe sleeve and looks at her watch. “7:30!” she announces.
“You said 7:30, non?” I want to fall through the floor or run back up the stairs.
“Oui, 7:30.” Madame stares at me matter-of-factly. There’s a pregnant pause. I wonder what I’m missing here. As it turns out, I’m missing French politesse. It’s common knowledge among the French that an affair does not start until at least half an hour past the designated time; to show up any less than 15 minutes late is a faux pas.
I tell Madame that I’ll come back later, tripping over myself with apologies.
“Ça va, ça va!” In a rush of curlers and cold cream, she offers me the traditional bisous on each cheek, then opens the door all the way, revealing an exquisite apartment. “Entrez.”
I walk in sheepishly and Madame leads me to the living room. The couches are deep blue, so plush that I’m afraid to sit down. Mahogany bookcases frame the room and everything, from the curtains to the coffee table, seems to be plated in gold.
“C’est magnifique,” I say, perching gingerly on the edge of a loveseat. Madame waves off my compliment and asks what I’d like to drink. Before I can answer she says, “We will have port.” Port? I’ve never had this thick, dark wine, but I know it is strong and I thought it was an after-dinner drink. Apparently I’m wrong about the latter, but correct about the former; I almost choke on my first sip. Madame tells me to drink up while she finishes getting ready. She leaves me alone on the fancy couch with my glass of cough syrup, singing to herself as she toddles off to her bedroom. I stare at the glass, not sure what to do.
“You don’t like it?” Madame asks when she reappears in a librarian’s skirt and sweater set. She peers in to my glass with alarm.
“Oh, c’est délicieux!” I lie. Madame nods, pours herself a healthy glass, and drinks half of it in one gulp. She looks over at me expectantly. Not wanting to make another social gaffe, I decide the only thing to do is to follow suit. The alcohol stings my throat and settles in my chest like a glob of mucus. Within minutes I can feel my cheeks flush, and I relax back against the velvet pillows.
Gregarious and warm, Madame asks me lots of questions about life in America and how I’m faring thus far in France. The one good thing about the port is that it seems to have improved my French skills two-fold. With my inhibitions down, I speak quickly and accurately, thinking more in French than in English.
At precisely 8:00, Madame’s daughter Pauline and grandson Philippe burst into the apartment. “Bonsoir, bonsoir!” they cry, kissing Madame on both cheeks. Pauline turns and does the same to me, as if I am part of the family. Four-year-old Philippe stares wide-eyed from behind his mother’s legs.
“Bon, shall we eat?” Madame shuffles us into the dining room, where a beautiful mahogany table is set with ivory china and matching candlesticks. She pours all four of us equal amounts of red wine. I can’t help but stare at little Philippe’s glass, waiting for one of the adults to say, “Zut alors! What have we done? Someone go get this child some grape juice!” But no one says a word.
We begin with baguette and butter, followed by a delicious entrée of roasted eggplant covered in goat cheese. We eat slowly, relishing every bite, and Madame waits several minutes after we’ve finished before clearing the plates. I’m stuffed and am alarmed when Madame returns from the kitchen with a heaping platter of crêpes. I should have known something was up; after all, it is crêpe day. I soon find out that entrée means “appetizer” in French; the eggplant was simply meant to whet our palates.
The crêpes are filled with egg, ham, and cheese; when we’re stuffed absolutely silly on these, we move on to crêpes sucrés, filled with everything from Nutella to blueberry jam. Each stack is served with yet another glass of wine. Philippe, to my relief, gets cut off after two, but Madame and Pauline continue to drink as if they have a tip on a drought. Again, I follow suit. My voice is growing giddy, and I’m having a hard time aiming my fork at my mouth.
Madame clears the table and motions for Pauline to refill our glasses once more. I cover mine with my right palm. “Non, merci.” Pauline shrugs as if to say, “Your loss!” and moves on to her mother’s glass. Neither woman seems the slightest bit intoxicated, and Philippe doesn’t seem tired at all, even though a stealthy glance at my watch tells me it’s pushing 10:00 p.m. I’m sure the night must be drawing to a close.
How wrong I am. Madame reappears from the kitchen carrying a large bowl of salad and four plates. Now I know I am drunk. Didn’t we already have a first course? In fact, didn’t we just eat dinner? We had—and now we were going to follow up with salad, as all good French meals do. The lettuce tastes bitter after the sweet crêpes, but I’m happy to fill my stomach with anything other than alcohol.
Between bites, sips, and cigarettes, Madame and Pauline continue to ask me questions about America. “Do you know Bill Clinton?” “Have you been to Hollywood?” My French flows like the wine, and it is a good half hour before the conversation dwindles and Philippe stifles a yawn. I’m right there with him, ready to thank Madame for a lovely evening and head upstairs. But alas, salade must be followed by fromage; Madame pulls a plastic container from the refrigerator, filled with bits and pieces of every kind of cheese imaginable: some hard, some soft, some white, some blue, some so pungent that it’s an effort not to wrinkle my nose. More baguette is passed around, and Madame encourages me to try several different flavors of cheese.
Finally, when I’m so full I’m afraid the button will pop off my pants, Madame opens a box of truffles. I know we are finally on the last course. Nothing can possibly follow dessert.
“Have you been to the Arc de Triomphe?” Madame asks, as caramel dribbles down her chin. I wonder if she means literally or metaphorically; have I been to the monument or have I finally triumphed over this meal? Either way the answer is yes.
“And have you walked down the Champs-Elysée?”
I nod, proud to be able to say I’ve seen some of the more famous sites in the city.
“At night?”
I shake my head.
“Quel horreur!” Madame’s eyes grow round. “You must walk down it at night! How have you not done this yet?”
My pride pops like a balloon.
“Well then, we will go tonight,” Madame says with a decisive nod. She stands and heads to the front hall closet to get her coat.
I steal another glance at my watch. “But it’s nearly 11:00.”
“Bon,” Madame calls from the hallway. “It’s still early. The metros don’t close until 1:00 a.m. Run upstairs and get your coat.”
I’d rather run upstairs and collapse into my bed, but I get the sense that won’t be an option. When I return with my coat and metro card, I find Philippe throwing a fit on the floor.
“I want to go with them!” he cries, pounding his fists on the hardwood tiles.
Pauline sighs with exasperation as she tries, rather unsuccessfully, to pull her son to his feet. “It’s late, Philippe. You need to get to bed.”
“It is not late!” Philippe hollers. “She said so!” He points to his grandmother.
“Philippe!” scolds Pauline. “We have a big day tomorrow. You need to rest up.”
“Where are you going tomorrow?” I break in, hoping to help calm Philippe.
“On va chez McDo!” he exclaims with a huge grin, suddenly forgetting his tears.
It is impossible for me to believe that with such decadent meals at their disposal, French children still equate a trip to McDonald’s with a trip to the carnival. But it’s true; the lines at the McDo on our street are always out the door. I don’t know what to say.
“Bon, on y va,” Madame breaks the awkward silence. She shoos me out the door, leaving Pauline to deal with Philippe and to lock up.
The Champs-Elysée by night is just as beautiful as Madame described, and well worth a few missed hours of sleep. The long, wide boulevard is lined with trees covered in tiny white lights, all leading up to a glowing Arc de Triomphe. Arm in arm, Madame and I amble towards it, taking in the night and celebrating this jour ferié right up until the last possible minute.
At the time this article was published, Jennifer Crystal was the editorial assistant for "Transitions Abroad" magazine. She is a 2000 graduate of Middlebury College, where she majored in English and French. This story is excerpted from her upcoming memoir, Et Voila!, which chronicles her experiences studying in Paris in spring 1999.