Editor’s note: While in Normandy last week I left my apartment in Paris to the artist Laura Barton and her husband Chris. On their return home to West Chester, Pennsylvania, Laura sent the following travel report, reproduced here with permission [with editor’s notes in brackets].

Bonsoir Gary,
We are both delighted to hear your trip went well! We thought about you often and were sending you good vibes.

Your apt was lovely and perfect. We are grateful that you let us use it! THANK YOU!!!

Sorry about the laundry. I thought I’d be nice and do your towels and sheets. Oh well. Next time I’ll get instructions! If I wrecked your sheets or your machine let me know and I’ll take care of it. [Editor’s note: No harm done.]

The food in the fridge should still be nice. I am still salivating over it and wishing I could get a nice charcuterie and fromage platter someplace in West Chester (though there are a couple Italian places that do their version of it).

So I want to tell you what we did and how we felt about it. Maybe it’ll help with recommendations in the future or maybe it’ll just be interesting for you. We had a terrifically awesome time… There is NO place like Paris!

Monday - Started with the Louvre. Then the Musée de L’Orangerie. LOVED IT!

Met you for dinner at the pizza place. [Editor’s note: The night before I left for Normandy.] Good za. I noticed you ate it with a fork and knife but I just couldn’t bring myself to do that… I’m old school American with my za.

Tuesday - Visited the Musée d’Orsay. They are doing construction / repairs on the Impressionist floor but they’ve set up a temporary Impressionist/Post Impressionist area on the Main Floor. It’s kind of nice because as you go in and out of the galleries you catch glimpses of the center where all the sculpture is. It is always easy for me to burn out on museums - odd. It just exhausts me; maybe it’s sensory overload.

We had a scrumptious baguette for lunch and then headed out to Versailles. Chris was - of course - wowed. So opulent and over the top! Took the tram to view the gardens because our feet were killing us. Had some wine at the Grand Canal and the whole experience was sublime.

For dinner we were just too spent to go our so we ended up ordering from the take-out place just visible from your living room window. It was decent though I probably wouldn’t do that again! [Editor’s note: Neither would I.]

Wednesday - Went to the Catacombs first thing. Stood in line for the opening. Interesting, though creepy and cold. At one point I just looked straight ahead and walked quickly through. From there we went to the Pompidou. Again, interesting. The best thing I saw was the view from the top. Not that the art wasn’t thought provoking, I just wasn’t in the right frame of mind for it, I guess.

For lunch we went to a crepe stand and got a jambon et fromage crepe and 2 Kronenbourgs [Editor’s note: A French beer, part of the Carlsberg group]. Ate at the reflecting pool… wonderful! Went “home” for a nap. Then took the metro to the Marché d’Aligre. Took a bit of walking around to find it, but worth it! Took our booty to Parc de Bercy for a feast and a game of scrabble. (Chris won) We headed home… He says it’s good you aren’t here or you’d think us lame for sitting on the couch reading at 9:45! [Editor’s note: That’s why I have a couch.]

Thursday - Used the bikes from Hotel du Nord [Editor’s note: An actual hotel, not the Hotel du Nord that’s now a restaurant nearby. Laura and Chris stayed there for two nights before moving to my place, hence the hotel’s willingness to let them use the bikes again.] VERY NICE people. Rode up to Monmartre. Traipsed around there. Visited the Erotic Museum. Had crepes and a beer in the Montmartre Cemetery… you know, the one where they built the highway a foot above the tombs! We cycled to the beautiful Parc des Buttes Chaumont. We went for a run there so we’d feel better about having a huge dinner.

We had the most wonderful gastronomic experience at La Robe et Le Palais! I started off by telling our waitress (who has to be up for the “Best Waitress in Paris” award) that our friend Gary Kraut is a travel writer and recommended this restaurant to us. Even though her English was perfect, I think she misunderstood as later on she said that I should write that Olivier [Schvirtz, the owner] had just opened a certain wonderful bottle of wine and that glasses we were about to drink were from it. By the way, it was an Ouvet from Provence – she said it was pricey but well worth having a glass. It was. We had a bottle of white Bordeaux – which was excellent! – called Chateau Couronneau 2009. Exceptional. The food was incredible too! Chris had the special (a rump steak) and I had the turbot. Delish. We had deserts: he a chocolate volcano desert and I a creamy custard with dried apricots. We adjourned to the outdoor patio and finished with a sparkling Cabernet. It was bubbly yet dry (and pink). VERY Tasty! This is my kind of restaurant: comfortable, unpretentious, great wine, scrumptious food and impeccable service.

Friday - Needed to see more art! So we headed by Metro to the Musée Marmottan. WONDERFUL!!! Really great Monet show. [Editor’s note: Monet et l’Abstraction, until Sept. 26, 2010.] Then we WALKED to the Tour Eiffel. Saw it, got an ice cream to hold us off. Walked to the Arc de Triomphe. Our museum passes covered admittance so we walked to the top. Gotta tell you, it’s NOT an easy climb. Circular steps to just about the top. Side note, the Museum Pass is definitely worth it. Not only does it pay for itself, you don’t have to wait in the long lines!! How great is that? Spectacular views of Paris from the top. In my 4 previous visits to Paris I’d never been up the arch… Ended up walking to Franklin D. Roosevelt metro and taking the metro home. Stopped at the Franprix and got a cheap and yummy bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Took a nap. Then headed out for the evening. Decided to go to Willi’s Wine Bar [13 rue des Petits Champs, 1st]. Trendy, upscale, good vino. Nice bartender. The woman who was taking up 2 bar stools very clearly gave Chris a dirty “who the hell do YOU think you are?” look when he politely asked her if he could have the stool. Her escort knew she was a bitch and offered for them to move down so we could have 2 stools. It really was incredible… I’d NEVER seen someone so rude passively aggressively rude. Whew! Anyway, the wine and the bartender made up for her.

We decided to dine next door at Aux Bon Crus [7 rue des Petits Champs, 1st]. Wonderful experience through and through. You’re right - the complete opposite of WIlli’s. Homey, fairly inexpensive, delicious and sweet people. Even the other patrons were friendly and talkative! We started with a Sauvignon Blanc to accompany his “Small Caesar” (which was HUGE - the waiter told us it was huge and meant as a meal, but he said he’d ask the chef to make is small… ha!) and I had a Crotton de Chevre. OH MY GOD!  A meal in and of itself! I actually didn’t need dinner after that, but I’d already ordered so I might as well be a good girl and clean my plate (with help from my dining partner!) For the main course I had the pavé de saumon which was cooked to perfection and Chris had the onglet de veau which was the best thing he’s ever eaten. Had a pichet of white wine with dinner. The food here was great, the wine here was good. We had an excellent experience!

It was a full moon so we hoofed to the river via the Louvre. So very romantic. We then went back to La Robe et Le Palais! By now dinner was an hour + ago and we found room to split the chocolate volcano desert and a WHOLE BOTTLE of the sparkling cabernet. It’s THAT good! (We each started out with a glass and it turned in a bottle).

Took the metro back to République and took our time winding our way home to savor the last day in Paris.

Had a really nice and friendly taxi driver to the airport. I think it cost 51 euros – not too bad since we didn’t have to schlep our heavy cases on the train. No need telling you about the airport experience or the flight home. Why end on a sour note??

We are missing Paris!!! We keep looking at each other and saying “again, why do we live here???” So thank you for lending us your apt. and for letting us pick your brain. I hope we didn’t embarrass you!!

xoxo
Laura & Chris

Blue foot mushroom

Forty-two years ago, I was trying to select my courses for my freshman year at the University of Massachusetts when I found a Botany 101 class that nicely conformed to two imperatives: it fulfilled the school’s biological science requirement and it didn’t start before noon.

The course was held in a huge lecture hall and, surprisingly, was taught by the dean of the School of Arts and Sciences. He could draw a diagram of an orchid on the blackboard using different colored chalk that would not look out of place in a published biology textbook. He had the booming voice of a professional actor that could be heard clearly anywhere in the large lecture hall.

Shaggy mane

He would also invite other professors to give talks on their specialties. One day, we were treated to a talk by a bearded academician whose field of study was mycology but whose passion was the pursuit of edible wild mushrooms. His enthusiastic observations about giant puffballs, chicken mushrooms, inky caps and pig’s ears captured the imagination of at least one pimply freshman, and I have been a wild mushroom hunter ever since.

Four decades later, wild mushroom hunting is finally starting to catch on in the United States. In Europe, on the other hand, wild mushrooms have been a common part of the cuisine for centuries. The best known varieties are cepes, girolles, morels, and of course, truffles. All of these can be found in the markets of Paris during their harvest time. There is a commercial market for the above varieties because they can survive a good deal of handling and stay fresh for a few days. However, there are lots of other edible species that have just as much culinary value but that are too fragile or ephemeral to be marketed commercially. The only way you can obtain these other delicacies is to lace up your boots and head out to the woods.

Magpie inky cap, not edible

What we call a mushroom is really only the spore-producing body of an organism (a fungus) that is mostly hidden from view. The largest portion of the organism is under the surface in the moist leaves and decaying limbs of the forest floor. When you turn over a rotting log and see cottony patches or silvery filaments on the moist underside, what you are seeing is most likely mushroom matter. When the moisture and temperature conditions are just right, these mushroom filaments form a dense mass that eventually pushes its way up through the forest floor to become what we think of as a mushroom.

As everyone knows, certain varieties of wild mushrooms are toxic, so when gathering wild mushrooms, you should only gather the varieties that you know, WITH ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY, are edible. Leave all the others—unless you want to bring home the occasional specimen just for identification purposes. But don’t mix them up with the edible ones. Many mushrooms are poisonous and can cause sickness, even death. Never pick and eat any species of fungus that you cannot positively recognize or are unsure about.

Inky caps

In my experience, the ideal conditions for the formation of mushrooms consist of a long dry period followed by several days of rain. It just so happens that this summer was one of the driest ones on record here in northern France, so I had been hoping for a nice period of wet weather to cause the fall mushrooms to bloom. We finally had several days in a row of soaking rain over the last couple of weeks, and the mushroom crop has been abundant.

There are lots of public forests around the City of Paris that can be reached by train. Some of them, like the Bois de Boulogne and the Bois de Vincennes are just outside the city limits. Others like Saint-Germain-en-Laye or Chantilly can be reached by train or by car in less than an hour.

I started seeing mushrooms almost immediately. Just a few paces from the sign showing the map of the park, I came across a patch of blue foot mushrooms which are known to be edible. Further on into the woods, I started seeing many other varieties. I recognized some of them, but others were new to me. I took photographs of anything I wasn’t sure of so I could compare them to the identification charts in my mushroom book and search for them on the internet.

Parasol mushroom

Before long, I spotted my first parasol mushroom (coulemelle). This mushroom is considered a prime edible; I have harvested it in the past in both France and the United States. It is a large, light brown mushroom with a slender stalk surrounded by a very pronounced, cottony ring. The cap of the parasol mushroom develops what look like soft scales as the cap matures and there is always a smooth bump (mamelon) in the center. As I moved through the woods, I started seeing more and more of them, and to my delight, many of them were at the perfect stage for harvesting. I didn’t bring my mushroom basket with me to France, so I used a paper shopping bag to transport my treasures.

You never see parasol mushrooms in commercial markets because they are rather fragile and they don’t keep for more than a day, so I only gathered enough specimens to put in a single dish that evening. We have a favorite recipe that we call “gnocchi schlocky” which is basically tuna and mushrooms in a white sauce flavored with nutmeg and served over fresh gnocchi. That is where my parasol mushrooms ended up that evening. Most wild mushrooms can be used in place of the cultivated varieties in any recipe that calls for fresh mushrooms, but most mushroom books I have read do not recommend eating wild mushrooms raw.

Harvested parasol mushrooms

Something that I did not realize until I lived in France is that pharmacists here receive extensive training in the identification of wild mushrooms.  Therefore, if you have gathered a few specimens based on your own preliminary identification, you can take the mushrooms into a pharmacy and ask the pharmacist to confirm your identification.

So I took a couple of specimens into a pharmacy in the little town adjacent to the public forest where I had been mushroom hunting and asked the pharmacist if she could confirm my identification of the mushroom. She went into the back of the store and returned with her well-worn mushroom notebook. She briefly thumbed through it until she came to the page she wanted. After turning the mushroom over a few times and comparing it to her notes, she placed the specimen back on the counter, looked up at me and said, “Bon appétit, monsieur.”

- Text and photos by Joe Wilkins

I love Sunday luncheons chez Peyret, my host family. Yesterday was perhaps the best one yet. Damien, my host father, made one of his specialties, moules (mussels), while I was responsible for the oh-so-complicated task of preparing the tomatoes and mozzarella. And there was a bottle of 1976 Bordeaux red wine on the table.

I piled the poorly cut tomatoes high with thick chunks of mozzarella in between.

“Mozzarella hamburgers!” Damien exclaimed. He appreciates my Americanisms.

Once everything was ready, Damien, my host brother Paul, a 17-year-old artist named Nina, and I sat down to eat.

But first we drink.

We began the ritual of swirling the red wine in the glass and then sniffing it to explore the different facets of the beverage. I awkwardly spilled mid-swirl—a habit I’m trying to break.

We each took a sip.

“Bessie,” Damien said. “Give me a word about this wine, in good French.”

I felt up to the challenge. The wine had several notes—three big ones—but what struck me the most was the last. It was tingly, bright, and full. So I said the first word that popped in my head.

“Lumière,” I said, meaning light.

“Lumineuse,” Damien corrected me, meaning luminous. He said it was a very good word.

I was glad to have passed the test.

Damien then described the wine itself—speaking mostly about the void before the final note.

“Le vide,” he exclaimed passionately.

The French love their wine.

When I first started dining with my host family, I used to sit on the sidelines—completely lost—as they discussed the colors, origins, and scents of this sacred beverage as though it were…. But I think I’m starting to get it.

We finished the bottle, the five of us, savoring every last sip.

By Stephanie Sommer

Concurrent with Nice’s great Carnival that I’ve been blogging about, Menton, the pretty French town sitting between the Italian border and Monaco, has been holding its annual Lemon Festival. If, like me, you have visited the Cote d’Azur many times but for some reason never thought to go to Menton (known as the City of Lemons), allow me to twist your arm a bit. 

Menton distinguishes itself from the rest of the pack by having a subtropical climate that allows it to grow citrus fruits (particularly the lemon) and holds many French awards for being the top ‘floral’ town in France. According to the Tourist Office, botanists have been coming here since the 1800s to plant rare species of flowers and plants because they can thrive in this climate. About 115 acres (46 hectares) of park space surround the town, with contemporary gardens created in the very heart of the city, which is where I was last Friday evening, viewing the “jardins illuminés” (illuminated gardens).

A citrus mosaic welcomev visitors to the Menton Lemon Festival. Photo Gabriela Seglias

I spent an afternoon checking out Menton last week, and what strikes me as most special about the town is that although it’s on the coast and therefore should be loaded with tourists and little old ladies with tiny dogs, it isn’t, so you can walk through the pedestrian area without having to watch your step.

Menton isn’t quaint per se, but it has an elegant feel that is sometimes lacking in Nice. It is one of the few towns in France where the population is actually getting younger, and it also has a clean feel to the downtown area.

Country house made of citrus fruit. Photo G. Seglias

 This year is the 76th Lemon Festival. It runs about three weeks and ends on March 4. The theme this year is “Menton celebrates the Music of the World.” And indeed the night we went everything from African tribal to American country music was being played in different venues in the gardens. My friends and I were delighted; a town that actually encourages music and dancing is a town that we can love. 

You should know that my army of friends marches on its stomach and that my friend Gabriela in particular can’t pass a tarte au citron (lemon meringue pie) without wanting a taste.

We stopped at an Italian restaurant across the street from the beach and promenade. This restaurant, called La Tagliatelle, was absolutely fantastic and came complete with two huge Italian waiters. They’re brothers and they look like Mama breast-fed them pasta from the day they were born. Jolly as they were it was the clientele who spoke volumes: La Tagliatelle must be a badly kept secret amongst the Italians as I heard no French, only Italian spoken at all the tables. (Remember, Italy is only a few miles away.) We each had a different pasta and left nothing behind. The tarte au citron was fabulous, but fellow student Andre and I went for Le Colonel, a lemon sorbet topped with lemon vodka topped with a tiny bit of whipped cream. Did I mention that this is why I will never be skinny?

Stephanie dancing with a clown. Photo G. Seglias

With renewed energy we attacked the night garden event, and five minutes later a big stuffed clown thing (see the picture—your guess is as good as mine) was flirting and dancing with me. “Vous êtes mechant, vous. Arrete!” I said, shaking my finger at him when he tried to touch my bum while we were dancing. Only in France.

Swiftly moving on, we came upon a quite good mariachi band which had us shaking our booties once more. Through the evening we visited (more like frolicked) amongst several other musical venues: country, disco, tango, rock-‘n-roll, etc. The venues themselves were each shaped a bit differently—there was a house, a chateau, a boat, a car, even a ‘moulin rouge’—but they were all composed of lemons and oranges! I must ask the tourist office later this week just how many citrus fruits are actually used in the fabrication of this tiny village-cum-garden.

Open for dégustation throughout were small stands selling some of the best limoncello (sweet digestive liqueur made of lemons) I have ever tasted, and at the far end of the gardens Grand Marnier (makers of the superb orange liqueur) had set up a creperie that was serving warm Grand Marnier and coffee. By this time it was late and we were tired, so we all had a glass of Grand Marnier, tipped it in admiration to the magical music village, and caught the last train back to Nice.