My friend Judy, a high school French teacher from Santa Cruz, is able to join me for a couple of days in Paris. As soon as I confirm the dates, I email Andrea Nims, who has a new people-to-people agency called In Touch Travel. Andrea puts me in contact with a diminutive blonde Parisian dynamo named Andrée Chalm.
We end up spending two days in her company, a whirlwind of visits as she checks in with her myriad contacts around Paris and opens her home to us.
Some excerpts from my notebook:
Canal St. Martin
Andrée was born into a military family and raised in Brittany. She earned a PhD in American literature at the Sorbonne and probably knows more about Carson McCullers, Flannery O’Connor and Eudora Welty than all but the most fervent readers and professional critics. (Somewhere along the way, she also learned Italian, Spanish and Portuguese.)
The first morning, we meet at Chez Prune, a lively café with yellow walls and mosaic-covered tables overlooking the Canal St. Martin. “This has become a very trendy neighborhood,” Andrée tells us. “Full of artists and actors and writers, the new Bourgeois Bohemians, if you will.”
Stylishly dressed in a fur jacket, a short skirt and high heels, Andrée is a real Parisienne. We make our way along the canal, the setting for the almost-mythical 1938 French melodrama, Hôtel du Nord. The building is still standing. “The man who shot the film bought the property to save it from demolition.” Andrée tells us. “It’s no longer a hotel but a bar. We could come back for a drink later.”
From time to time, Andrée is recruited by the City of Paris to escort visiting journalists (from Asia, from Africa, from America); they all want to see “the latest thing,” whatever that may be. She admires the vitality and idealism of America’s revolution and followed the 2004 elections with intense passion. She’s better informed about American politics than most journalists, but doesn’t volunteer any personal opinions until she’s heard Judy and me express unabashedly liberal sentiments. Then we’re happy to discover a political soul mate.
We continue to a bakery whose address Andrée only reveals to her friends. “Monsieur Jean at La Bonne Fournée sells one of the best baguettes in Paris,” Andrée promises. Judy points at the ceiling: it’s painted like a sky, dotted with little angels. Monsieur Jean emerges from the back to greet us, dusting flour off his apron. “I sell about a thousand baguettes a day, along with the Bavière and the faggot.” These are, respectively, a rye with sunflower seeds and a whole-wheat loaf with linseed. “Next year, I will be ready to sell my special oyster bread, a rye with lemon zest. And to match foie gras, a bread with chestnuts and honey.”
The Marais
From the Arts et Métiers metro stop, we make our way along the narrow streets of the Marais, lined with rather severe, four-story stone buildings that house all manner of retail shops, showrooms and wholesalers behind streetfront windows. We venture through arched doorways and find endless ateliers and studios for artists, designers, photographers and sculptors sharing courtyards with fabricators, builders, repairmen, welders and carpenters.
“It’s noisy, isn’t it?” asks Andrée, trying to be heard over all the hammering, buzzing, flashing and sawing. “But this is the kind of activity that keeps Paris humming. I dread the day it picks up and moves to some Zone d’Activité—or industrial park—in the suburbs.”
We meet an elegant gent named Olivier Gaube du Gers at his workshop, Lapparra, in the rue du Temple. The scene could be a page from a novel by Zola or Dickens: nothing seems to have changed in 200 years. An ancient forge, an antique hydraulic press, moulds stacked on dusty shelves, artisans in blue or tan smocks hammering individual pieces of flatware. Olivier designs many of the pieces himself. His hands are black from working with metal. Yet he is dapper, in a tight vest, immaculate white shirt and striped blue bow tie. He kisses Andrée on both cheeks, makes a slight bow and kisses Judy’s hand, shakes mine.
“The Sultan of Dubai has ordered a solid gold service for 200,” says Olivier with a gesture to the back of the room. Then, motioning toward a gray-haired employee polishing the bowl of a large spoon, “Here, Alphonse is working on silver serving pieces. Last week, we had 48 hours to make a ‘baby ensemble’ for the King of Morocco. We didn’t know who it was for until we read the announcement of the royal birth.”
Bellville
The next day, we’re sitting at a café on the place Gambetta in Belleville. This was once a rundown neighborhood, now quite chic. It’s not exactly Amélie’s romantic Montmartre, but a cousin. Belleville and Montmartre didn’t become part of Paris until the 1870s, the last villages to be annexed. They both had reputations for being rebellious. Now they’re just “arrondissements,” districts, but they retain their neighborhood individuality and feistiness. But if Montmartre is all color; Belleville is a black and white photograph by Doisneau.
Andrée spots a friend whom she introduces as Moussa. He knew Edith Piaf, Andrée says. Over there, she says, is Pierre, whose workshop makes the buttons for Hermès. And that’s Isabelle, a painter.
We order drinks. Citron pressé for Andrée and Judy, a Météor for me. Nothing’s as refreshing as a cool, bitter, hoppy Alsatian beer.
Batignolles Market
Time to think about dinner, so we head back to the Batignolles neighborhood where Andrée lives and troll the market in the rue de Levis. It’s the road Joan of Arc took with her troops to meet with Charles VII, but this afternoon, it’s lined with market stalls. We acquire carrots, asparagus, onions, leeks, tomatoes, cucumbers, white potatoes from Noirmoutier, purple potatoes from Vitelotte, a lettuce, some raspberries, some apples.
From the dairyman we buy Isigny butter, creme fraiche, and a selection of cheeses: a log of fresh goat cheese rolled in ashes, mild Pont l’Eveque, a ripe and stinky Epoisses, and a hauntingly aromatic Bleu d’Auvergne. From the butcher, a small veal roast, along with some knuckle bone to flavor the sauce. From the pasty shop, a selection of éclairs, petit fours and tartelettes.
Between the butcher and the vegetable stall, a crowded café. Andrée’s heels click on the tile floor as we march up to the bar, covered with ornate pressed zinc, and stand alongside the rest of the locals. “In most bars, one drinks an apéritif at this hour. But here, it’s coffee, coffee, coffee!” She turns to the barman. “Trois petits noirs, s’il-te-plaît, Pierre,” Andrée says, using the familiar address that confirms her status as a denizen of the neighborhood.
Finally, on the way to Andrée’s apartment, a quick stop for wine. Few apartments in Paris have wine cellars, but every neighborhood has cellar-masters who operate wine shops. Andrée explains our menu to Laurent le Moigne, the caviste at the Le Vin en Tête, known for promoting “natural” wines. He suggests a Saint Aubin 1er cru from Domaine Derain. “Nothing pretentious, excellent value.” he reassures us. Less than 20 euros. A comparable Burgundy in the US might run $50.
Chez Andree
In the early evening light, we walk another block or two along a street lined with examples of the typically Parisian “Immeuble Haussmann,” 7- or 8-story apartment buildings of the late 1800s built of chiseled stone with ornately carved doorways and elaborate balconies. The sidewalk is crowded with residents returning home, bearing baguettes or bouquets. At Andrée’s, Judy and I push the heavy iron wrought doorway, we crowd into the tiny elevator and ride upwards. Andrée unlocks the door to her flat.
“Ahhh,” sighs Judy. “this is exactly how I imagined it.” High ceilings, moldings, marble chimney mantelpieces, mirrors, 18th century furniture, antiques. But it’s not a museum, it’s where Andrée and her daughters (and their dog) live, it’s where they cook, and this is what she is sharing with us: “At Home with the French.”
The next two hours are a blur of chopping, sautéing, poaching, braising and baking. Meantime, Andrée finds time to give us a lesson in the art of “laying” the table in the traditional French manner. Imagine that there was a man-in-arms called the Cup Chief who watched the Salt Box. Imagine that there wasn’t even such a thing as a Dining Room until the 19th century.
Andrée sets out three different glasses above each plate. “It all makes sense when you realize that French gastronomy rests on the notion of a perfect match of food and wine,” she explains. “Each course has its wine, each wine has its glass.”
The first is for champagne, an apéritif to set us right after the rigors of the kitchen. No fuss with the bubbly. “As you can see, it’s not a fancy label.” Andrée says. “The vineyard owner sells some of his grapes to a big producer like Mumm or Moët. Then he keeps the best for himself and it sells to Laurent at the wine shop on the corner. There are almost ten thousand growers in Champagne who do business like that.”
Before long, we sit down. Two of Andree’s three college-age daughters have made it home from classes and internships and join us at the table. The oldest, Domitille, is spending a year in the Maldives working for Club Med. So it’s Camille who brings out the silver serving platter of carrot and asparagus terrine with a bowl of red pepper coulis.
We pour the Burgundy. Saint Aubin is just over the hill from its more famous neighbor, Meursault. The wines cost half as much. “This vintage retains some of its youth,” Andrée observes, “and it’s beginning to evolve. Bright red fruit, with just a hint of cedar and tobacco. Can you smell it?” Since she loves antiques, we’re drinking from the former Begum’s Baccarat glasses, and sitting on chairs once owned by Marcel Proust.
In the kitchen, Camille uncovers the earthenware cocotte in which the roast veal with olives has been baking, and transfers the meat to a serving dish. She’s been trained to do things right and wouldn’t dream of putting ceramics on the dinner table. Andrée arrives to stir in a last dash of capers and basil into a stew already perfumed with orange and lemon peel.
Monsieur Jean’s bread from La Bonne Fournee makes its appearance so we can mop up the last of the sauce and finish the red wine.
“Just a few leaves, quelques feuilles,” Andrée announces, bringing a salad of tomatoes and cucumber slices dressed with olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. “No wine,” she explains. “We want to cleanse the palate.”
Now Flavie fetches the cheese platter. “We’re going to taste from mild to strong,” Andrée tells us. “We start with the goat cheese. The ash cover is edible,” she reassures Judy. “Then the Pont l’Eveque, which is a cow’s milk cheese from Normandy. The Epoisses comes from Burgundy, and the rind has been washed with marc, which is like a grappa. It’s quite strong.”
“Finally, the blue. Made from ewe’s milk. The color comes from a mold, like penicillin, that’s injected into the cheese. Good thing that the wine has enough flavor, enough sweetness.”
Dessert? Andrée’s daughters shake their heads. Judy and I split one of the lemon tarts. Andrée eats a raspberry. “Normally, I make a tarte tatin with apples and butter.”
We’re sated with food and drink, so the conversation turns to George Bush and John Kerry. Andrée tells us about her pen pal friend DiAnne in Seattle, who ran one of the Kerry blogs during the campaign. They’ve never met, just corresponded online.
“Why don’t Americans have a broader world view?” Judy wonders out loud. “Is it because we don’t meet people from other countries and learn about other people’s cultures? Because we’re afraid of differences?”
She doesn’t really expect an answer, but Andrée has anticipated the question. I get the sense she’s heard it before.
Her response is to quote the quintessential American writer, Mark Twain: “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness.”
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