Guy Martin at Grand Vefour. Photo Michel Langlot

Earlier this summer I investigated the culinary universe of Guy Martin, one of the most recognizable names of high gastronomy in Paris.

Chef of the irrepressibly romantic and stellar Grand Véfour by the garden of Palais Royal, the Guy Martin signature also appears on a number of other culinary offerings in Paris: the polished Sensing, the evocative Cristal Room Bacarrat, the cooking workshop Atelier Guy Martin, and the self-service sandwichie Miyou.

I lunched at all of these for the purposes of an article that will appear in France Revisited’s Food & Drink section in September. It isn’t that I’ve gone gaga over Guy—though I have indeed come to appreciate the smooth consistency of the man’s gastronomic reach—rather I wanted to examine his various signature offerings to see if I could find in this culinary branding some essential piece to the real Guy Martin.

Guy Martin is one of a handful of name-brand chefs that I could have selected for such an investigation, so before working on the final article I want to explain here why I chose him and introduce readers to various chefs encountered along the way who work within his universe.

Grand Vefour, interior

Selecting Guy Martin involved a combination of memory, editorial choice, and journalistic opportunism.

Memory. I’d eaten at Grand Véfour twice before this year, once about 15 years ago and once about 10 years ago. (Guy Martin has ruled the ovens there since 1993.) The sense of elegance and romance of those meals have stayed with me even though my dinner companions have been forgotten, or at least their elegance and romance have.

I don’t know why those two dining experiences have stayed with me in a way that other fine dining experiences have not. Perhaps it was simply the jewel-box setting of the late 18th-early 19th century—now timeless—restaurant that anchors the northern end of the garden of the Palais Royal. I can’t judge Le Grand Véfour critically now for what it was 10 years ago (it currently has 2 Michelin stars if that means anything to you), and 10 years ago I knew far less about gastronomy than I do now, so I’ll simply conclude that I remembered Le Grand Véfour because something about being there felt special.

Christian David, maitre d at Grand Vefour. Photo GLK

Editorial choice. Last year I contacted gastronomic portraitist Fabien Nègre about the possibility of my translating for readers of France Revisited one or more of his “Portaits de chef” appearing on the French site Restos.com. When he and Alain Newman, creator of Restos.com, agreed, I selected Guy Martin because of the vague memory of those long-ago meals. Fabien’s portrait, translated by me, can be read here.

Journalistic opportunism. Months later the chef learned of the text on this site in English and, though his contact with Fabien, invited the two of us to lunch. (More on that lunch in the upcoming article.) With that meal under my belt, I set on a series of lunchtime investigations to get to know Guy Martin’s other culinary businesses in Paris.

I ate at two of those—Sensing and Atelier Guy Martin—at a press lunch with a group of food bloggers. For the two others—Miyou and Cristal Room Baccarat—Fabien and I went on our own. I was invited to all of these by the establishments themselves. My intent in getting acquainted with these establishments was, as I’ve said, to gain a sense of the essential Guy Martin, not simply to take the critical snapshot for the purposes of a restaurant review.

The chefs. Enough has and will be said on this site about Guy Martin himself. For now I’d like to introduce you to other chefs, working under the Guy Martin banner, whom I interviewed along the way.

Remi Van Peteghem at Sensing. Photo GLK.

Sensing: Rémi Van Peteghem

Sensing is a peaceable and polished restaurant in the Montparnasse Quarter, it’s cuisine straightforward and refined. Since chefs tend to resemble their restaurants the way dogs resemble their owners, it was no surprise—nevertheless quite refreshing—to find that Rémi Van Peteghem, the 32-year-old chef of Sensing, came across as humble and gracious when he met with us after the meal.

If the strength (some say limitation) of French cuisine is its use of fresh seasonal products that reveal a taste of their essence, as well as of the earth, the sun, and the sea from they come, and that polished French cuisine is the culinary equivalent of the French garden—the graceful and geometric taming of nature—then Mr. Van Petegham’s work is a brilliant exemple of what such cooking is all about. His verbal and culinary articulation of polished French cuisine is clear, coolly passionate, and sincere. It’s like a pastel drawing that’s warm and skilled yet unpretentious. The same can be said for Sensing’s décor which aims for comfort rather than thrill. The atmosphere is all yours to create with your tablemates.

Decor and dish at Sensing. Photo GLK.

Sensing, 19 rue Bréa, 6th arrondissement. Metro Vavin or Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Tel. 01 43 27 08 80. Closed Sunday. Lunch menus: 2 courses, 25€, 3 courses 35€. The more expressive 55€ lunch menu and 75€ dinner menu includes drinks. Tasting menu of 95 euros (140 euros with wine pairing). Count 65-75€ à la carte + drinks.

Cristal Room Baccarat: David Angelot

David Angelot at Cristal Room Baccarat. Photo GLK.

Housed in a late-19th-century mansion that is now headquarters of the crystal-maker Baccarat, Cristal Room hit the gastro-touristic news big time when it opened several years ago. As a showplace (the building also houses the Baccarat showroom and museum), the restaurant gained a reputation as being more remarkable for the value of its Philippe Stark décor than the value of its cuisine.

Now a new chef has taken the reins beneath Guy Martin’s signature. In March 2010 Mr Martin, who “orchestrates” (Baccarat’s word) the kitchen here, appointed David Angelot as onsite, more or less independent chef. In a brief conversation after lunch, Mr. Angelot came across as ambitious and confident, a study contrasts with the first impression of modesty and serenity given by Mr. Van Peteghem at Sensing. It’s as though Guy Martin had meditated on the décor of each dining room then selected the personality that best corresponded to it, and the preparations followed in line with both the personality and the décor.

Cristal Room Baccarat

At the top of an eye-catching stairwell, Crital Room’s décor presents a unified mix of historical chic, designer kitsch, and Baccarat show-pieces: gilt-framed brick walls, noble portrait medallions, crystal chandeliers, pale pink couches, prominent stemware and candleholders.

Echoing this from the kitchen, Mr. Angelot’s cuisine is handsome, showy, and frank. The culinary playing fields on which trendiness and gastronomy attempt to coexist are heavily mined, and service will inevitably suffer from lack of traction, but Mr. Angelot and the staff do a good job of trying to find the balance between the two.

Case in point is the appetizer below which may look like some kind of sea creature but it was actually an entertaining appetizer that was a delight to dissect and eat. It’s called tranche d’aubergine snackée, (snacked slice of eggplant), in which the eggplant is a base for dried tomatoes, squid, tapenade, parmesan compote, tomato sorbet, and a bourage flower. It was wonderfully modern, tasty, and kitsch, like a fancy, edible hat, and while it isn’t the type of appetizer for which one earns stars, it was in deliciously in keeping with both the showiness of the dining room.

If you allow yourself to get into the spirit of the place and don’t take it all too seriously, a meal here won’t be flawless but it will be part of a very romantic day, especially if you’re staying a fine hotel within walking distance.

Cristal Room Baccarat, 11 place des Etats-Unis, 16th arrondissement. Metro Boissière or Iéna. Tel 01 40 22 11 10. Closed Sunday. Priced about the same as Sensing, slightly more à la carte.

Miyou: Thierry Molinengo

Thierry Molinengo

Thierry Molinengo’s talents shouldn’t be reduced to those on display at Miyou, but that’s where I met him when I went for lunch at this sandwich shop/lunch/snack-room in the upscale Bon Marché department store. Mr. Molinengo was there that afternoon trying out various recipes for Miyou. He invited me to try an apricot dessert wrap that was in test phase—and for the sake of Miyou I gladly agreed that it was probably better with strawberries. He was also working on a salmon millefeuille whose colors, he said, he hadn’t yet gotten right. In any case, it was clear that Mr. Molinengo was not simply here to see that the smoked salmon was fresh.

Mr. Moleningo appears to be a kind of roving right-hand man to Guy Martin. In addition to testing recipes and keeping an eye on Miyou, he can be found sous-cheffing at Grand Véfour or giving cooking classes to English-speaking groups at Atelier Guy Martin. It’s rather reassuring to know that someone of Mr. Molinegno’s stature spends time in the kitchen at Mr. Martin’s department store eatery.

Calling itself a luxury sandwich shop, Miyou opened on the second floor of the main building of the Bon Marché department stores in March 2010. Miyou prides itself on offering great freshness and a mix of savors, whether in salads, soups, and sandwiches (baguettes, wraps, and clubs) pre-prepared throughout the day or in burgers and hot dishes made to order.

Self-service sandwich-salad display and seating at Miyou.

There’s naturally much competition for lunchtime and snacktime attention in this area, notably from the luxury grocery store and purveyor of freshly prepared food at the Grand Epicerie, in the building next door, as well as in the cafés and bakeries in the area. So Miyou cannot stand out on the basis of sandwiches and luxury mineral water alone. Nevertheless, the freshness and lightness of the offerings, the airy setting, and the amiable presence of manager Antoun Khater ensures an easy-going lunch or mid-afternoon snack stop for those looking to rest their weary shopping feet.

The more basic sandwiches here are priced only slightly higher than what one would find in a local bakery. When one adds a salad or dessert and something to drink the cost is in keeping with lunch at a local café, about 18€.

Miyou, 3rd level of the Bon Marché department store, 24 rue de Sèvres, 7th arrondissement. Metro Sèvres Babylone. Open 11am-7pm. Closed Sun. Wifi connection.

Atelier Guy Martin
The photo below was taken on the day I joined a dozen food bloggers for a lunchtime cooking class at the cooking workshop Atelier Guy Martin. Since I was one of the chefs of the day (I cut an onion and a tomato, stirred a sauces, and filled a soufflé cup), I’m proud to stand alongside the real chefs of the Atelier, left to right, Louis Tocheport, head pastry chef; Laurent Mosset, sous-chef of the Atelier; Antony Courteille, executive chef of the Atelier.

Chefs at Atelier Guy Martin. Photo T. Perois.

Atelier Guy Martin, 35 rue Miromesnil, 8th arrondissement. Metro Miromesnil. Tel. 01 42 66 33 33.

So how do these five establishes—Grand Véfour, Sensing, Cristal Room Baccarat, Miyou, and Atelier Guy Martin—fit together? What’s their essence? Give me another month to digest these investigations and stay tuned for the full article in September.

The U.S. Embassy in Paris holds a Fourth of July garden party every year but most of those on the guest list are French. I was relieved to learn that last week while on a private tour of the U.S. Ambassador’s Residence—relieved because I no longer feel snubbed for not being invited; I simply feel American. So when someone asked me this morning if I was going to the embassy event I proudly replied, “No, I’m American!”

There were various other Fourth of July parties in Paris, of course, but I didn’t get invited to any of them either. I could have gone to the Franco-American Fourth of July ceremony at Lafayette’s tomb, but I’d been there last year (if you missed the article I wrote about that last year you can read it by clicking here or watch my audio slide-show of the event by clicking here.)

Still, I was feeling a bit red-white-and-bluish (not to be confused with the colors of the French flag which is blue, white, and red) today, so I accepted an invitation to Cupcake Camp.

Cupcake Camp was organized in Bistrot Vivienne, an otherwise pleasant bistro in the 2nd arrondissement that had been cleared of its pleasantness for the occasion, by Cat Beurnier, a cupcake baker who operates Sugar Daze, and Bryan Pirolli, a master’s student and part-time cook (photo left).

I’d hoped to learn more about Cat and Bryan during Cupcake Camp but they were quite the busy camp leaders since the bistro was a-swarm with people trying to make the best out of the 10-euro entrance fee which allowed for all the cupcakes you can eat plus one drink.

From the looks of things this afternoon it appears that if you give a couple hundred Americans (and assorted French friends) a choice of any beverage with their cupcake the majority will pick Diet Coke—or Coke Light as it’s called in France where no one will ever admit that she’s on a diet but where everyone wants to feel light.

“Proceeds from the event,” to quote Cat and Bryan’s press release, “will support a group spearheaded by friends of Cupcake Camp Paris, Rebuilding Haiti Now.” I’m not sure what the group actually does but I must say that only Americans are capable of using cupcakes to raise funds for earthquake victims, just one more thing we can be proud of.

The press release also states that “Cupcake Camp is a tradition that hails from California, created by Ariel Waldman” and that “the cupcake can be considered the US’ defining culinary contribution to the world.”

I know nothing about Ariel Waldman and won’t bother Googling the name because as far as I could tell Cupcake Camp Paris was simply an occasion to bake and eat cupcakes with proceeds going to charity. It didn’t feel like something that would “hail” from anywhere, let alone California, or need to be “created,” let alone by someone named Ariel Waldman!

Nevertheless, today’s Cupcake Camp was a rousing success to judge by the donations/entrance fees, the crowds, the general good cheer, and the quantity of cupcakes and Coke Light consumed.

Still, I’m a bit concerned about that “defining culinary contribution to the world” line. I only tried three cupcakes of the 30 or so varieties that I saw in the boxes, and there may have been many more that I didn’t see, so I can’t judge overall quality from my small sampling; I nevertheless came away with a vision of a dozen young women baking through the night while getting slaphappy on sugar and going heavy on the icing. Some things just weren’t meant to define us abroad.

Even as out-of-the-loop as I am regarding American baking trends, I have naturally been aware for a number of years now of the cupcake fad back home. When in the U.S. I can’t visit anyone with children under 25 without being offered a cupcake. At one party in New Jersey last year, ostensibly a Thanksgiving gathering, the oohs and ahs came not with the presentation of the turkey but with that of the cupcakes. A half-dozen tweens and teens stood around the dessert table waiting to see whose creations the guests would choose, each one smudging the icing of the competition so that hers would stand out as the prettiest. They were so disappointed when I didn’t pick one that I nearly felt unpatriotic for going for the pumpkin pie.

Oddly enough, going to Cupcake Camp on the Fourth of July didn’t make me feel any more patriotic. In fact, I was surprised to see how little effort was made to make the connection between our “defining culinary contribution” and Independence Day.

Entries to the “Most Patriotic Cupcake” competition (above) were so scant that I wondered if Cupcake Camp founder Ariel Waldman might have disallowed the combination of red, white, and blue icing in the camp rules. Either that or blue icing is hard to come by in Paris and no one realized that blueberry season has just begun.

Anyway, as you can see from the photos above, the entries to the various competitions did look quite good, and I’m sure there were some true winners among them.

The judges also looked quite good, as you can see below.

On the right is travel writer Heather Stimmler-Hall. Click here to read an interview with her on France Revisited following the release of her book “Naughty Paris: A Ladies Guide to a Sexy City.”

In the middle is Synie Georgulas, a professional baker, owner of the bakery-tea room Synie’s Cupcakes, whom I’ll be interviewing later this month in further explorations into cupcakes.

On the left is Lindsey Tramuta, whose cupcake credentials include her musings on the blog Lost In Cheeseland.

I should note that the photo above was taking prior to the start of their judging duties, which may explain why they look so happy to be there.

Just kidding, Cat. It was a great event, just lacked a bit of Fourth of July spirit.

Speaking of cats: the Fourth of July, also known as July 4, is also my cat’s birthday. He’s now 11. Happy birthday, Moumoon!

Massai Mara, 19th arrondissement, Paris

Cameroonian cuisine is inspired by both the sea and the land, and Massaï Mara widens the palate to the cuisines of African neighbors, some of which will be familiar to those who know Creole cooking.

Not knowing where to start I was happy to try the chef’s assortment as an appetizer: beef samosa, crayfish and banana beignets, shrimp acras (fritters), plantain bananas.

Plaintains, firmer and more starch-like than the fruity bananas we mostly consume, often accompanies dishes in central Africa, as well as in South America and the West Indies.

As main course there are brochettes (beef or prawns) and fish (e.g. tilapia), but I went for unfamiliar Cameroonian territory with beef ndolé. Ndolé is a long-simmered dish with a spinach-like leaf and a peanut-based sauce. It’s served here with golden-brown plaintains and rice. Shrip ndolé or beef and shrimp ndolé are also available.

The food was pleasant, I especially enjoyed the variety of appetizers, but what would lead me to return is the warm atmosphere of Massaï Mara, a gathering place for the Cameroonian (and wider central African) community in Paris, led by the bright and joyful smile of owner Alice Abeng.

Alice Abeng, owner of Massai Mara, and Victor Sosso, chef. Photo GLK

Cameroon was a German colony from 1884 to 1919 and a mostly French (partly British) territory after WWI, French Cameroun (with a u) became independent in 1960, and British Cameroon in 1961, leading to the birth of the Republic of Cameroon, now with a population of about 20 million. Its 20th-century ties with France mean that the Cameroon community in Paris well established. Encounter the community and the cuisine at Massaï Mara.

Massaï Mara, 66 rue Armand Carrel, 19th arrondissement, Paris. Tel. 01 42 08 00 65. Metro Jaurès. www.massaimara.fr. Closed Saturday lunch and Sunday. Open late. Massaï Mara often has live African music on Thursday, when there’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.

See where Massaï Mara is in Paris by clicking here.

See where the Republic of Cameroon is in Africa by clicking here.

North African: Chez Omar is among the most well-known Moroccan restaurants in Paris. It’s only a 15-minute walk from my apartment but until yesterday I’d been there only once. For couscous I’ve preferred for the past ten years Dar Tunis, a Tunisian restaurant in my neighborhood where the couscous is made with love and where I’ve always been welcomed as though I’m member of the family. For years the owners thought I was Tunisian, and even when they finally understood that I wasn’t they assumed that I must have Tunisian ancestors, like most everyone else who frequented the restaurant. Unfortunately, that restaurant has been shuttered for the past few weeks with no indication as to whether permanently or for vacation.

Yesterday, then, I went with three Brazilian friends to Omar’s. Chez Omar (address below) has plenty of choices on the menu but we didn’t even pretend to consider anything but the couscous and its vegetables and broth, accompanied by beef, lamb, chicken, sausage, or, in the case of the vegetarian in our group, nothing.

Though there’s nothing extraordinary about the dishes or décor or service, Chez Omar is always crowded. It’s both a restaurant and a scene. Chez Omar is easy-going, relatively inexpensive (nevertheless overpriced), amiably orchestrated by Omar, and it/he occasionally hosts recognizable faces and often attracts people with clean shirt and nice shoes.

None of the latter was at my table, especially after Ana’s high heel broke on the sidewalk and some sauce splashed onto Humberto’s shirt, and then some more. Erica simply looks like she should be famous. Perhaps that, along with good timing, was why, after a 10-minute wait, we had the luxury of a corner table where no one could overhear our accents except for the waiter and Omar when he came to say hello.

Omar asked Erica, Ana, and Humberto, the three with black hair (actually any hair) at the table where they were from and, after they told him, he mentioned several famous Brazilians who had come to his restaurant.

As a joke, he then also asked me where I was from. I say “as a joke” because to him it was obvious that I was either North African or some French-North African mix. Not from my accent, mind you, but because North Africans in Paris often initially see me as kin, as at my neighborhood Tunisian restaurant. (He may also have figured only some French and/or North African would accompany three Brazilians to his restaurant.) After so many years in France a vague aura of North Africania is actually now also a part of my personal heritage.

French: Ana Jabur (in the middle in the photo above) is the chef at another well-known restaurant in eastern Paris, Hotel du Nord. Hotel du Nord is the former hotel by Canal Saint Martin that lent its name to the famous French film of the same name from 1938. It’s now a decent, classic yet mildly hip restaurant, café, and bar with an international clientele. There, Ana prepares classic, mildly hip French dishes. I’ll say no more about Ana’s talents there, however, because she’s leaving for the restaurant at the end of April to become chef of possibly hip and happening and currently hush-hush restaurant that will be opening in late May. More on that when it happens.

Last Friday I had late lunch Humberto and Erica at Hotel du Nord (address below), then Ana joined us when she finished in the kitchen. I asked Ana if she had any suggestions for what I could make for a dinner party the following day. (They were all polite enough not to notice that none of them was on the guest list.) Ana had a question first: Do you know how to cook? My response: It depends what you mean by cook. Her comment: I’ll keep it simple then.

This image above is of the recipes she dictated and explained to me on the paper table cover at the Hotel du Nord, spread on the traditional French tablecloth in my kitchen. I would make a velouté (a thick creamy vegetable soup), a leg of lamb and potato something-or-other, and sauce for the lamb. Together we decided that the best recipe for dessert was a bakery nearby. I got the tail end of the sauce wrong, which happens to be the most part of the important sauce, but served it nonetheless—at the very least it expressed leeks, onions, wine, and effort.

Royal: There were four of us, three French friends with clean shirts and nice shoes and me, with an Iron Chef apron that someone once gave me. I served a bottle of Joseph Perrier Cuvée Royale Brut 1999 Champagne with the hors d’oeuvres. Since one guest was reliably late and another reliably brought Champagne, when the former arrived I also opened the latter’s bottle, which we finished with the velouté.

With the lamb (or on the lamb, as the French would say) I served a confidential red wine called Royal Heritage. Royal Heritage is made by two sisters, Isabelle and Catherine Orliac, who are heirs to a vineyard in southwest France that once provided wine to the Court of Louis XVI. Their ancestor Jean Orliac received permission from the king to supply the Court with his wine in 1780, thus the date on the bottle. The contents were from the harvest of 2005. The wine comes from the little-known Côtes du Brulhois, 100 miles southeast of Bordeaux, 60 miles northwest of Toulouse.

The wine is available in only a handful of restaurants (see Orliac website below) and is otherwise obtained by “sponsoring” a vine. For 140 euros (currently $190) one “sponsors” the vine and, 18 months later, a bottle of its fermented fruit awaits you at the Orliac family’s Chateau la Bastide. You can then drive over to pick up your bottle with its wax-sealed cork and its handsome black box, or, more likely, have sent to you at additional cost. Your bottle will actually have the fruit of more than just your vine alone since the wine is a mix of four grapes: tannat, cabernet franc, merlot, and abouriou. The result is an excellent, hefty, full-bodied, dark fruity, mildly spicy wine that, as Isabelle Orliac had told me, goes well on lamb.

One hundred forty euros plus postage is quite pricey for a Côtes du Brulhois, albeit a big Côtes du Brulhois. Sponsors are in part paying for a piece of history, for the sense of exclusiveness (there are only 10 hectares / 25 acres of vines), and for the possibility to one day visit their vine. Sponsor six and you’re invited for lunch. I’m looking forward to one day visiting my own vine.

I must note, however, that am not an actual sponsor but rather a journalist who broke out a free bottle to impress his friends with his generosity. My friends in turn impressed me with their own generosity by telling me how accomplished I’ve become with French cuisine, without once mentioning the sauce. They also complimented me on my choice of Champagne, cheese, and dessert. It was indeed a rather good meal. Nevertheless I’m aware that the French like to compliment a foreigner’s appreciation of things French as a way of complimenting themselves and their own heritage, now partly mine.

Royal Heritage produced by 2 Soeurs en Aquitaine at Chateau la Bastide, 47270 Clermont Soubiran. Tel. 05 53 87 41 02. www.royal-heritage.eu. I’ll be revisiting my encounters with Isabelle Orliac on France Revisited in the coming month.

Hôtel du Nord. 102 quai de Jemmapes, 10th arrondissement. Tel. 01 40 40 78 78. www.hoteldunord.org. Metro Jacques Bonsergent.

Chez Omar. 47 rue de Bretagne, 3rd arrondissement. Tel. 01 42 72 36 26. Metro Temple, Arts-et-Métiers, or Filles du Calvaire. Credit cards not accepted.

If I were a traveler who’d been to Paris say two or three times before and it were a sunny day, any season, and I felt like taking a walk in a neighborhood where I’d never been, just an old-fashion neighborhood circumscribed by boulevards and avenues and train tracks, a neighborhood without much traffic or hubbub, where I could spend a few hours following my nose…

and allowing myself to be surprised by details without feeling that I had to learn or appreciate or buy anything in particular,…

a real neighborhood, with a locksmith-shoemaker…

and a restorer of old plumbing…

and shops that don’t scream “deposit your tourist money here!,”…

the kind of neighborhood where I’d go without lunch plans and instead check menus and decor as I walked around before settling on, say, a good Indian restaurant (Maharaja), or a bistro/wine bar (Oh Bigre), or something contemporary (La Family),…

or perhaps be tempted by the food shops to create a picnic…

and head past the little church (Sainte Marie des Batignolles) that I’d feel no tourist obligation to visit…

to the neighborhood park, where I might stroll the paths of the city’s most charming English-style garden…

then sit on a bench enjoying my picnic while observing various species of ducks and geese at play or at sleep and contemplating an ominous, pigeon-dropped statue of turkey vultures (or eagles?)…

before leaving the park to sit in a café, where I’d think, “Now this looks like a nice quarter to live in, how come I’ve never read about it?,”…

then I’d probably take the metro to Rome or Place de Clichy…

and visit the Batignolles quarter in the 17th arrondissement.

As a follow-up to my last post about how the person behind the counter in Paris is quickly disturbed by a client who fails to follow his or her script or rules, here’s another recent experience.

On Sunday I walked into a bakery with a friend visiting from Denmark. Everything looked delicious to him, and to me, so we were slow to choose and let several people go ahead of us. Finally the friend told me what he wanted and I ordered for the two of us since I was treating and I spoke French.

I told the seller that we wanted a pistachio crumble (in the case to the left, and so the seller immediately went left) and a brownie (in the case to the right, and so the seller went right). When I ordered the first pastry the seller was already standing behind the case with the brownies, so ordering it the way I did made him go one way then return the other.

In the scheme of things that mattered little since cash register was in the middle. Still the seller remarked, “Next time order the brownie first. It’ll be more efficient that way because I was standing right there.”

Perhaps he was trying to be funny, but if so he could have been a lot funnier. No, I think he was actually telling me that I should follow his script for seller-customer “correctness.” I was in fact being admonished for ordering in a way that he saw as inefficient.

I responded, “Sorry, but I thought it more polite to order my guest’s pastry before mine.” In other words, I have my own script for “correctness” that had nothing to do with the seller. For me, the customer, my guest trumped his efficiency.

The seller looked at me with a smile and with a slight nod and said, “C’est tout à votre honneur, Monsieur” (“That’s very honorable of you, Sir” or “It does you credit”).

He may have still thought that I’d wrong him with an inefficient order, but it was nonetheless a gracious response.

Today is Crepe Day in France as well as in other countries with crepe traditions, such as Belgium and Switzerland. Americans think of it as Groundhog Day. Crepes and groundhogs both mark the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. The day’s Catholic name is la Chandeleur in France, in recognition of the candles (chandelles) that are/were brought to the church in remembrance of the day when baby Jesus was first brought to the Temple. Whatever you call it, Feb. 2 is the way the northern hemisphere acknowledges that winter is still here but that we’re all now ready for the countdown to spring.

No, those aren’t crepes in the picture—they’re tourtisseaux, which are traditional Mardi Gras beignets or fritters and so also in the spirit of the season. Tourtisseaux come in different shapes: square, rectangular, diamond-shaped. They’re basically cheap, greasy donuts. They go by other names in other regions, but Vendée and Poitou, the area just south of the westernmost portion of the Loire Valley, call them tourtisseaux.

I took that picture yesterday while in a village in Vendée, a few miles from the coast. Tourtisseaux may have been replaced by crepes in the bakery today, but more likely the bakery has both crepes and tourtisseaux. I’m not sure that the crepes are big sellers though since everyone in Vendée knows how to make a crepe at home but not everyone knows how to make a tourtisseau. Actually, they probably do know (it’s basically the same recipe just fried) but would rather flip a crepe at home than fritter a tourtisseau.

I don’t know what’s in that bakery today because I’m now back in Paris, a town that isn’t big on tourtisseaux and their brother beignets. Parisians prefer more sophisticated sweets. Anyway, there’s better mark-up for the more convivial galette des Rois, the falky pastry tart with a frangipane filling (and a little token or effigy inside), that’s traditionally associated with Epiphany (Jan. 6).

The “growing” season for the galette des Rois traditionally ends by mid-January, but with global warming and the Church’s absence of influence in the pastry industry of late, the season now extends throughout the month of January.

When I returned from Vendée last night I found an envelope in front of my door, which could only mean that my neighbor was planning a party. He’s very nice about warning us neighbors about his parties so that in case we feel like going to sleep before 3am we have time to reserve a room at a hotel for the night. He even includes his phone number just in case we feel like giving it to the police so that they don’t have to drive over.

This time his letter announced “une petite soirée pour fêter la chandeleur,” a little party to celebrate crepe day. I figured that had to be a euphemism for something because I couldn’t understand why someone would have a petite soirée to fete Groundhog Day on a Tuesday and if so why we would need to be warned about it. But I’ve been home all evening and I’ve barely heard a sound, so I imagine that they actually did spend the evening next door flipping crepes.

My friend Didier, whom I was visiting in Vendée, made crepes for his family today. Years ago I asked him for his recipe because before then I was the only person in France who’d never made them. Here it is in French and in English.

Didier’s crêpe recipe

Mélanger :
½ kilo de farine
4 oeufs
1 petite boite de lait concentré non sucré
1 litre de lait frais
Extrait de concentré de vanille
Un peu de huile (2 cuillères à soupe)
1 verre de bière

Laisser reposer 2-3 heures en dehors du frigo. Il est ensuite possible de mettre le mélange au frigo.

Faire les crêpes.

Mix together:
1 lb of flour
4 eggs
1 small can of (unsweetened) evaporated milk
1 quart of whole milk
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
2 tablespoons of vegetable oil
1 cup of beer

Allow to rest for 2-3 hours out of the refrigerator. Mixture may then be placed in the refrigerator or used immediately.

Make crepes. (Circumflex optional if you don’t have one handy)

An article of mine about Champagne appears as the Jan/Feb cover story in Travelworld Magazine. Click on the image below to see it on the full screen and then flip through the magazine pages as you wish. Cheers!

On our way from Paris to Brittany Henri and I had talked a lot about what we should bring as a gift for the women who as putting us up for the weekend. We’d never met her. She was the neighbor of the friends who was having the party on Saturday and she had told them that she had extra room if any of the guests were reluctant to spring for a hotel. She didn’t actually say that last part but our friends immediately thought of me and Henri. We’d considered bringing chocolates, Champagne, or flowers as a house gift, finally deciding on flowers, but we arrived too late to buy them so we greeted her empty handed.

That wasn’t such a problem for me since I immediately complemented our host on her tchotchkes and her red Louis Vuitton handbag so as to reassure her that she was hosting a man of good taste. But for Henri, who is the kind of Frenchman for whom etiquette, grammar, and knowing all about Madame de Pompadour are all that is left to distinguish those you would accept in your home from those you would only accept in your bed, arriving empty handed was akin to slap in the face—his own, that is, for he immediately turned red. Our hostess then further displayed excellent etiquette by opening a bottle of Champagne to welcome us.

If there was one thing I’d learned about Henri after 24 hours on the road it was that you can tell him to pose anywhere and he’ll do it. So here is Henri on his bed in the cheery room we’d been given.

Henri and I had never spent the night in the same room, so I took the bed by the door in case it turned out that Henri snores or has other uncontrollable and unpleasant nighttime habits that would require me shifting to the couch in the living room. Turns out he refrained from doing any such thing that night. We both slept well.

Brittany is famous for its ever-changing weather, whereby you’re told to run outside as soon as the sun shines because it may not last long. So immediately upon waking up and eating the breakfast that our hostess had prepared for us (further embarrassing Henri for not having a brought a gift) we got in the car and drove off, planning to find a gift along the way.

Our good fortune with the weather is also the reason that we bypassed Saint-Malo. It was far too nice out to spend our time on and within the granite ramparts of that famous rebuilt town that was once made wealthy from the workings of privateers and merchant ship owners and once made rubble in August 1944 by the workings of war.

So we leap-frogged Saint-Malo proper and headed to its suburban the coast by way of the Lemoëlou Manor, which once belonged to Jacques Cartier (1491-1557).

Cartier, you may remember from history class (particularly if you’re Canadian), left from Saint-Malo in 1534 to find a northern route to Asia and instead discovered Canada, which he claimed in the name of King Francis I. I’m writing this on Columbus Day and am aware that it is politically incorrect to say that Europeans discovered the Americas since there were already people here, but all traveling, I think, can be considered as discovery—or rediscovery—no matter how many people have been there before, so let’s all take a break with the anti-discovery crusade.

Not that that thought made me particularly anxious to visit Jacques Cartier’s house, now a museum that reveals manor life in these parts in the 16th century. We couldn’t have visited even if we wanted to because they were closing for lunch shortly after 11am even though the sign out front says that they close for lunch at 11:30. Still, an employee let us enter into the courtyard to take the above picture before she closed the gate and drove off for a 3-hour lunch.

The manor is located less than a mile inland from Rothéneuf. We followed the signs to Rochers Sculptés to see rocks along the cliff that had been sculpted into 300 characters by a priest named Abbé Adolphe Fouré (1839-1910). At age 55 he had a stroke, which left him deaf and mute yet able to wield a pick and hammer. He then withdrew to this windy corner of Brittany (actually, all corners of Brittany are windy) and set about sculpting the rock over an area of 5000 square feet into characters inspired by local legend.

Henri and I nearly turned back when we discovered that we had to pay 3€ each to climb on the rocks when nearly the entire coast of Brittany is full of rocks to climb on for free. But I felt a sense of investigative duty to see it since we were right there, so I sported up the 6€ and off we traipsed on the rocks. And I’m glad we did because now I can tell you that it isn’t worth driving out of your way to visit the Rochers Sculptés, however, if you ever do come this way and there aren’t more than a few other cars in the lot you might was well fork over the few euros and behold the monk’s work and have a climb on the rocks—at your own risk of breaking an ankle or being blown off the cliff in the wind, I might add.

Afterwards we continued along the coast and stopped to admire some beautiful seascapes after that. Such as this:

and this

and this, where you’ll see why this is called the Emerald Coast.

We then drove to the Point de Grouin, which is the northeastern most point of the peninsula and in fact of all of Brittany considering that when you look out you see Normandy.

After parking our car, we couldn’t agree on which path to take out to the point. Henri wanted to take the high road out and I wanted to take the low road, which pretty much sums up the difference between us, and unwilling to fathom a compromise in which one of us would have to give in and the other one smirk, we separated, which was just as well because after a couple of hours with Henri a little break is always welcome.

I eventually found Henri back near the car (I had the keys). I could tell by the way he asked what had taken me so long that he had either missed me or had taken the less interesting path. When I asked him if he’d seen Le Mont Saint Michel in the distance he nodded “Mm” in such a way that I knew he was lying. Here’s Le Mont Saint Michel beyond the rocks:

We then stopped at Cancale. I’d been here briefly on a weekday in early June this year when there wasn’t a tourist in sight and found it a wonderfully charming little port town where I wish I’d been able to spend more than an hour. Now, on a sunny September weekend it was quite crowded, and even though I didn’t feel the need to stay for long I was very glad that I did have another hour here.

Cancale, which faces the bay of Le Mont Saint Michel and finally afforded Henri a distant glimpse of the Mount, is famous for its oysters, which enjoy the refreshing current of some of the strongest tides in the world. The Cancale is a firm, salty everyman’s oyster that makes its way onto tables throughout France, especially during the Christmas-New Year season.

To best appreciate Cancale oysters in Cancale you should go directly to the oystermongers at the northern end of the port and ask them to open up a dozen that you can then down (with a spritz of lemon) on the ledge with a view out to the oyster farms and, on a bright day, Le Mont Saint Michel in the distance.

Henri and I would have done just that if we’d known the stands were there before we took a seat in a creperie. No regrets, though. We enjoyed the crepes, which are also very much a part of Brittany. Henri was feeling particularly Breton by the time we left.

We were so happy with our little excursion that it wasn’t until we got back to the house in Dinard that we realized that we’d yet to get a thank-you gift for our hostess. We didn’t have time go back out though as we had a party to dress for.

My favorite little shop in Paris, Plaques & Pots, one of the last living vestiges of the historical belly of Paris that was the Les Halles Quarter, will be closing at the end of July.

Been a long time coming–rather, going. It isn’t easy making a living selling enamel plaques, enamel street numbers, butcher’s paper, and pottery handmade upstairs in an quarter otherwise devoted to cafés, clubs, restaurants, and mass fashion. Owner Josette Samuel, in photo, is now ready to move on.

If you live in Paris or will be visiting in July, take advantage of a last chance to visit this authentic remnant of Les Halles, even if only for a vision of the passing of time in the quarter as it pursues its drive to urban uniformity.

The wholesale and retail food industry left this area for modern installations in Rungis, south of Paris, in 1969, so Josette’s goods long ago lost their place at Les Halles. Still, I’ve to got applaud her stubborn gumption in taking over (five years ago) the shop formerly called Papeterie Moderne and trying to make a go of selling old-fashion practical-cum-decorative products in a space that’s probably smaller than your kitchen. For more about the shop, read the article I wrote soon after Josette purchased the shop.

While at Plaques & Pots, 12 rue de la Ferronerie (tel. 01 42 36 21 72), you might pick up an antique street number for yourself or for friends.

Or a street sign (left) or even some old butcher’s paper (right) that she inherited from the previous owners.

By the time you get here there may not be any clay pots left, such as this one (photo right). Knowing that I’ve always been a fan of this shop, even before she took it over, Josette gave me one of the last pots as a farewell-to-the-boutique gift. Handmade in the Les Halles Quarter.

Several other vestiges of Les Halles from its by-gone centuries as the center of the food trade in Paris continue to hold their own. Among them:
- E. Dehillerin, a family-operated store for kitchen and pastry utensils and cookware, 18-20 rue Coquillière.
- La Poule au Pot, a bistro with a décor dated 1935, serving traditional rustic fare including one of the best onion soup’s in Paris, 9 rue Vauvilliers.

- Julien Aurouze, a family-run pest exterminator that was trapping rats around Les Halles as early as 1872, 8 rue des Halles. Those are sewer rats caught in the quarter in 1925 hanging in the window on the right below.

The oldest and most lasting of the remnant of historical Les Halles is the Church of Saint Eustache, 1532-1640, which may well be the most under-visited, touristically speaking, of the major churches of Paris. It’s a Renaissance church within a Gothic body with great accoustics for its famous organ.

The enormous proportions of its interior are worth a look, but I’ve come here today to photograph one of the most endearing church sculptures in Paris, “Departure of the Fruits and Vegetables from the Heart of Paris 28 February 1969” by Raymond Mason.

“Departure” (completed in 1971) is so fitting at Saint-Eustache not only because the central food market that had existed since the Middle Ages was the raison d’être for the church but because this is a wonderful sculptural retelling of Paradise Lost, the departure from the Garden of Eden. (Having recently written an article about musicals in Paris, I note that it is also reminiscent of the departure from Anatevka in Fiddler on the Roof.) Or, as the sculptor has written of that departure 40 years ago, “It’s the man of the Middle Ages that’s leaving.”

Plaques & Pots, formerly Papeterie Moderne, now joins the procession in the departure of signs and numbers from the heart of Paris July 2009.

Wishing Josette all the best in her future endeavors.