A Reflection on Bread

What is French cuisine?  When I arrived in Paris last January, I was unable to tell.  For my first three days, I ate nothing by Middle Eastern food.  Halal food galore, crepe not so much.  My first Parisian dinner was a halal kebab, from a Pakistani restaurant.  Then I had a sandwich cleverly named “sandwich chicken”, once again from a halal restaurant.  Then I had falafel.  Even in my second week, I didn’t have the time for anything French. 

This ended in Montmartre, where I had a Nutella crepe.  Still, aside from this, the only French food that is constantly a part of my life is baguette, both in France and stateside.  I should have seen it coming, the lack of diversity in my Parisian diet.  It’s what normally happens. 

Afore mentioned crepe

In France, bread is more than something you buy in a store, it has life.  The people appreciate every simple nuance.  Food is an enjoyment, not sustenance.  A boulangerie on every corner, pâtisseries more numerous than McDonald’s, this is where it’s at.

Bread has life.  It is made new each day.  Fresh butter, real butter.  Its scent reaches out into the street, inviting every passerby into the arms of the warm boulangerie.  Baguette in hand, the walk home is made enjoyable by bites off the top.  This should not be done in any manner, but delicately, with attention paid to the crumbs that are sure to fall into your scarf. 

It’s easy to forget in the US, that your bread had a life before it became yours.  Here, in Paris, that life consisted of organic flour and hours of growth.  Simple ingredients becoming superb.

Bread, the center of every meal

In France, bread is part of the history.  It tells of revolution and religion.  My fixation on bread began my first time in Paris, and continues now.  It inspired a poem:

"Our Daily Bread:"

 Crusty, hard on the outside,

The baguette sits—on the counter—

In the bread basket.

Yesterday’s crumbs still on the table.

A new loaf, the top nibbled

            Off—customarily—on the walk

Home from the boulangerie.

This culture revolves around pain

It was the cause of revolution

Now, a day cannot pass sans pain

Donne-nous chaque jour notre pain quotidien

Every day an eating of bread,

Mass— an eating of the Christ-body

Religion, like bread—

Hard to understand.  Inside comforting

But if forgotten for too long—

useless.

Penguins

I have a thing for zoos.  I’m not sure if it’s because I went to too few as a child, or too many.  Whichever the case, it expresses itself through a love of them.  Though I have yet to visit the zoo in Paris, I have visited Simba’s Safari in Sao Paulo, where an uppity emu tried to eat me.  After such an exciting previous visit to the zoo, I was ready in January, when I had a five hour layover in New York.  Within an hour of touch down I was in the Central Park Zoo, carry-on in tow.  I’d run across the park from the Natural History Museum, avoiding the frozen patches, skirting the perimeter of a police line, and finally skidding into line 20 minutes before the zoo closed. 

“You don’t get a discount if you enter now… and you don’t get a refund if you don’t get to see everything.”  The lady who said this wasn’t the nicest person I’d ever met.  She growled it.  And I handed her my money.  I skipped away.  Honestly.  Ticket in hand.

I wanted, no needed to see the penguins.  I hadn’t seen them.  The zoos I’d been to were focused more on giraffes and elephants.  But, I was immediately distracted by the sea lions.  They did tricks and looked for attention.  They would come up out of the water and wave.  They’d go under and twist.  They splashed us, asking for fish in their own way. 

Look at me!

Distraction passed, I ran to the penguin house.  It was dark.  It smelled bad.  But there were so many penguins.  They swarmed everywhere.  They stood frozen, it seemed.  They swam.  They preened and honked.  They were everything I had ever imagined, though separated by a disconcerting amount of glass.  

Miniature penguin!

I was the most excited child in the room, far surpassing the little French kids babbling away.  My “take a picture” cry was just as loud as any four year old's and my disappointment at not being to pet the dear creatures was just as strong.

The one where everything goes wrong

Two days in Miami, valet parking, good food, the beach, and my SO came to an abrupt end.  The morning of the change started with luck no worse than usual.  A stop at Starbucks turned complicated when his card was declined, both at the register and subsequently at two atms.  Our drinks were already made, my card was five blocks away at the hotel, so I ran back.  Everything resolved itself and the day could only get better.

We stopped at a Cuban walk through for a breakfast burrito, which was too hot to eat.  Waiting for it to cool, we walked back to the hotel, where we tried yet another ATM.  This one froze in horror at our audacity.

Pepe had a terribly long conversation with the only polite automated bank teller I've ever heard.  Granted, the conversation was in Portuguese and the auto man could have been spouting out the most horrid of curses, but I'd rather think he was pleasant.  The conversation ended with the realization that his card had been blocked, since Pepe was out of the country.  Apparently, the bank doesn't understand that an international card is supposed to work internationally.  The card would be activated, given time.

Pulling out of valet for the last time, there was a horrid crunching sound.  I ignored it.  Once in the car, traffic began immediately and the grinding we had noticed only got worse.  Before leaving Miami proper, we were reminded by hideous yellow signs that there was a toll ahead.  A toll that only took the cash we didn’t have.  Toll one, we were able to find change for, change that included a Canadian quarter and a quarter-sized dirham coin from the UAE, but change nevertheless.

On the turnpike, we got off at the first travel plaza, where we fueled up, and both atms were out of order.  With $8 dollars of tolls in our future, we were told to continue until the next travel plaza, where the atms would hopefully work.

Before merging onto the interstate, while still in the parking lot with windows down, I noticed an odd sign, offering windshield cleaning.  This was not optional.  As we drove past, water cascaded into the car. 

But that was funny.  Enjoyable.  Unlike the next travel plaza, where Pepe’s card was declined (still not activated, give it 24 hours) and mine had a balance of $3.87.  Not exactly enough for tolls.  At this, I called my father, who didn't answer and Pepe started walking around, looking for fellow Brazilians.  I called my mother, who offered to transfer money in, once she found internet.  Pepe, on the other hand, had managed to find Brazilians.  A group of them proudly sporting some Brazilian soccer paraphernalia I didn't understand.

He explained our situation.  They gave him looks.  He asked if they could trade reais for dollars.  The agreed and we left.  One the road again, this time winding up the windows for the windshield cleaning, my father called.  After explaining the situation, he transferred my latest paycheck into checking and we were set.

The Disney music was blaring.  The traffic had disappeared.  Then, the car stopped.  Completely.  Looking back, there were signs.  The radio had stopped working ten miles outside the travel plaza.  Lights had been flashing on the dash.  My poor little Beetle stopped, miles from I-95 on the Florida turnpike.

Every bad thought ran through my mind.  In the two hours it took for roadside assistance to show up, I sat desolately on the ground.  Finally, Pepe convinced me to get back in the car, where I sulked, and he, starving (remember, no breakfast) ate Nutella out of the jar, with his tongue.

Looking sheepish

We started to see the humor in everything and sat back, watching The Middle on the iPad until the tow truck showed up.

Lightening up, despite the circumstances.

Deliverance, after hours in the suffocating and unairconditioned heat of southern Florida.

Sven the Pocket Squirrel

In lieu of studying during my two hour break last Thursday I ate with Sigma Tau Delta, talked with a friend, and chased a squirrel.  This small pitiful fellow laying in the sun next to Old Main.  Something was wrong.  As I approached, he threw a baleful glance my way.  As I drew closer, he stood and scurried off, slowly.  Around and around we went.  I would corner him, he would hiss.  I would follow (read chase) him, he would confuse me by circling a pot, or climbing the stairs.

I finally gave up.

After fifteen minutes, I finally gave up.  Class called.  Hours later, after finishing half of a rather horrific paper regarding duality, I walked up the pathway, bouncing a tennis ball nervously.  To my surprise, as I rounded the corner to Old Main, there he was.  My squirrel from before.  He hadn't moved.

I walked up to him.  He walked away.  Now though, he didn't have the energy to run, or climb the stairs.  I threw my jacket over him.  Terribly surprised, I picked up the little guy.

Equally shocked at the turn of events.

Squirrel slept in my coat the entire ride home.  He slept in a box in my closet all night.  He tried to escape in the morning.  Finally, he settled into life on the sun porch.  He had a water fall and a box and a towel and a t-shirt.  Still though, he wouldn't eat.  He was a sick puppy, with a face full of blood and snot.

Day One, or was it Two, ended with my father hand feeding the squirrel walnuts, which the latter quickly tried to bury into the bricks and towel for later.

Friday morning, squirrel became Sven the Pocket Squirrel, as he gleefully slept in my pocket.

The little guy loved it.

Sven slept all of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, before finally rallying yesterday morning.  He darted to and fro in the sun porch, ignoring the intrinsic property of glass' solidity, in favor of ramming it with his nose.  Recuperated, it was time for Sven to go.  He did, this morning.  We let him out at home, hoping that he will come back in to sleep.

At first, he ran right past the open glass door, darting behind a box and onto the dog bed.  He missed it again round two, but finally exited, slowly at first, then with building excitement.  He ran to the ferns.  He jumped up the steps to the pool.  Smelled a bush, stood on his back legs to look around, before finally beginning to dig up the strawberry patch.

Checking out...

Everyone is currently checked out.  Students and professors alike.  Instead of focusing on the horrors of The Painted Bird or adequately discussing multi-modal projects, all my attention is invested in thinking about the drive to Florida tomorrow.

It has parts.  From home to Columbia, from Columbia to I-95, from I-95 in South Carolina to Georgia, through Georgia, into Florida and I'm almost home.

I have the plan organized.  Yesterday, I went to Autozone to get fuses for my outlet that and a bulb for my headlight that has been out for weeks.  Then, I changed the fuse, something I'm rather proud of.  Later today, I need to go back and get oil, which I have no great amount of.  But this is logistics.

I woke up early this morning and decided to pack, discovering too late that morning packing doesn't work.  It was less of a packing experience, than an all out frenzy to grab every piece of clothing that smacked even the slightest of summer.  My new cutoffs, dresses, tank tops, a sarong.  My one bag quickly became two, this without including my yoga clothes.  This is unlike me, the person who went to Brazil for two weeks with only a carry on.  But I'm embracing it.

On the drive down, I'll listen to a book and to music, until it gets too hot to drive with my windows up, then I'll be left to my thoughts, which will most likely revolve around food.  I have all sorts of food adventures planned, from the authentic Italian restaurant in Orange Park to my oh-so-favorite Columbia in St. Augustine.  I really cannot wait.

The Italian place, where the espresso is thick and the chef sings opera in the kitchen.

Add to the normal excitement of going home my quick jaunt down to Miami, where I'll pick up the boyfriend and get to spend a day in South Beach, and the next dozen or so days are complete. 

A didgeridoo player on the streets of St. Augustine.

Crema

Over a year ago, perhaps it’s been two by now, I went to “Fall for Greenville”—a local food festival with my friend.  There, I feasted on mussels and lobster mac and cheese, fried green tomatoes and bacon brownies, but these, I’d had before.  It wasn’t these things that stuck with me, well no more than good food normally does.  Here I was first introduced to gelato and this was memorable. The flavor was birthday cake and it was profound.  A perfectly frigid representation of the treat. 

The next time I had it was in Torino, in the closing days of summer.  All previous memories disappeared in the delight.  Pepe and I found the storefront close to Porta Nuove, underneath the covered walkways.  Instead of a piazza, there was a park with a fountain.  Walking through there later, we would see children playing by the water, old men reading the paper on benches, a young man and dog drinking from the bull’s head (see below), and one particularly amourous couple laying together in the shade.

Bull's head, Torino's symbol.  More importantly, a water fountain!

But this was before the gelato.  Crema.  Cream.  It’s a flavor we don’t have here, at least to my knowledge.  Even if we did, it wouldn’t compare.  There were undertones of butter, the good, saltless kind.  Neither of us was expecting to be so overwhelmed by a simple ice cream cone.  I had pure crema.  Pepe soon admitted his error in wasting a single spoonful on chocolate.  That was the taste, better than Italian chocolate. 

My gelato and me, such love.

The day after, we thought that the beauty was in crema itself.  We were wrong.  We tried gelato from another store front, throwing it away in disgust.  One can do this in Torino, where gelato goes for a mere 2 € and the servers’ stinginess is non-existent.  We changed path, favoring an extra walk for the superb gelato of the day before.

The day he left, we went for gelato again.  In October, in the cold, we had gelato.  In November, when I was in Torino sans Pepe, I had gelato.  It was a problem, but an inexpensive one that didn’t need any help.

Now, sitting in the second winter of South Carolina’s impossible weather, I want crema gelato from that little store in Torino, almost as much as I want to be in Europe again.

Chez André

Enough good things cannot be said about Chez André, an unassuming restaurant in Paris.  It's expensive, but it's off of George V so that is to be expected.

I first went in January 2012, with my not-yet-SOs family.  For me, this was awkward.  I hadn't exactly been invited to dinner, but brought along, after staying late at the apartment.  We arrived, to be met by uncle and uncle's friend, cousin and boyfriend, then there was mother (and maybe father?) and Pepe, and me.  I was on the end, deploring the hole I now realized was in my shirt.  My Goodwill shirt.  Next to me, were Chanel purses and Rolex watches.

Conversation turned from pleasantries to (uncomfortable) stories about cousin's time in Mexico.  Pepe and I weren't allowed to order.  Cousin insisted on the burger and fries.  This, my one expensive meal in Paris.  I wasn't thrilled, but the food spoke for itself.

Later that night, the friend drove us home, my first time in a car in weeks.  First time ever in Paris.  What can I say, taxis are expensive, walking more useful.

Chez André is now a necessity.  In October, Pepe and I went back.  This time, I scorned burgers, for a Chateaubriand steak.  I… I just can't give that steak justice.  The steak, with the perfect fries and bernaise and Bordeaux.

I need a steak.  Just a little one.  Just the one from Paris.

Round 2 at Chez André, we sat next to Portuguese speakers, which tickled Pepe to no end.  We ended the night walking blocks, singing until we were complemented.

In December, we sat next to a couple, speaking in a spatter of English and French.  Neither was their first language.  Beyond them, were an American couple.  Insufferable really.  They started talking to the old couple next to them, for no reason at all.  The American man, spoke to them in French, saying he had worked in Paris for five years, that they were trying to get their son EU citizenship, that he loved the city… and on.

Apparently, I've misplaced all photos of the actual food...

The accent was so horrific, even the dog, sitting under the old woman's chair three tables away sighed in confusion.  It was so crowded, the man talking so loud, that trying to ignore it was impossible.

But then, my steak arrived with my wine.  Everything became pleasant again.