Not that “obvious” had stopped her from buying a dozen Eiffel Tower keyrings from a Senegalese tchotchke seller at Trocadero. At least she then had something for everyone on the field hockey team. But she still needed gifts for her three best friends. Larger Eiffel Towers? That was my immediate suggestion. Her response was beyond “obvious.” She lifted her eyes, heavy as bowling balls, and rolled them my way to convey the message “How could you possibly understand my life?”

I understood her life well enough to know that well-timed pastry stops would keep the souvenir conundrum at bay for a time. It had been easy enough on day one to say that she’d surely find something in the next neighborhood we’d visit but first she just had to try a spectacular chocolate éclair. But the Latin Quarter, the Saint Germain Quarter, Montmartre, the gift shop at the Louvre, Rue Saint-Honoré, and the Champs-Elysées had all come and gone, and the sweet distraction of pastries, crepes, chocolates and macaroons now barely lasted beyond the final bite.

Here we were on day three, their last day in Paris, and the need to find the perfect Paris memento for her friends had reached fever pitch. She would never go anywhere with her mother again. If her mother had any friends of her own, she’d understand. Her mother, Paris, the entire world had all conspired to make her miserable. She spared me in her diatribe other than to sigh loudly every time I spoke.

The woman was doing everything in her power to stay calm, mixing reprimand with sighs of her own with ignoring the girl, and confiding in me that her daughter had had a “monthly visitor” the other day. A few times that morning we’d stepped into boutiques so that the mother could soothe herself by caressing the sleeves of high fashion, only to be pulled from her fantasy by the sound of her daughter declaring, “That’s ugly.”

Finally, I said aloud what I’d been thinking all along. Actually, I’d already said it on day one, when neither mother nor daughter was ready to hear me then. When I’d said it again on day two, during our visit to Galeries Lafayette, the mother had paid attention and said, “Listen to Gary, he knows.” To that, the girl spat back, “He doesn’t know my friends.”

I was now about to give it one final try. I’d been biding my time for the past 30 minutes of misery until we were just several steps from the shop I had in mind. I consider good timing one of my best qualities as a guide and I was prepared put that to a test. We turned onto Rue Vieille du Temple. I stopped in front of the Labonal shop, positioning myself so that she would see the shop window. I steeled myself against an eventual rebuff. And I said it again, in a gentle, inquiring tone: “How about socks? French socks.”

“Everyone has socks,” she said. There were tears in her eyes.

“But not everyone has French socks,” I said. “I bet your friends don’t, and they’d love them. See all those chic women and girls walking around?” Good timing again, three cheerful young women were strolling past us on the sidewalk. “They’re all wearing French socks and tights.”

I pointed at a colorful pair in the window. “Look at those. They have a little French logo on them. You and your friends will be the only girls at school with French socks. It’ll be like your own private club.”

She actually looked. She wiped her tears. She raised her chin to a sock on display and said, “That one’s cute.”

We went in. We came out, bearing gifts, happy. I knew the perfect place nearby for ice cream.

10 French Sock Brands

Nothing says “I strolled through Paris” like tri-color socks (blue, white, red) or a discreet French logo above the ankle or on the toe, or much more that you’ll find in the ten Made-in-France brands that I’ve selected here.

While so much textile manufacturing has moved overseas in the past 40 years, France continues to produce a surprising amount fun, funky, chic, sports and workaday socks and hosiery.

I’ve selected a mix of well-known, lesser-known and little-known sock and hosiery brands that will add a hop to your step, or a loved one’s, when you get back home. Some of these brands also extend to underwear and other knitwear. Several have their own shops in Paris and elsewhere. Those and the more widely distributed brands can also be found in department stores and sock shops. Still others are largely only available through the brand’s website. Orders from overseas are likely to be cost-prohibitive, so order them to be delivered to you in Paris. In all cases, be sure to look for Made in France or Fabriqué en France on the label.

You’ll find your French socks and underpants vocabulary at the end of this list.

Labonal

The brand of the shop of my happy tale above makes good quality socks for men, women and children with a mix of lively designs and solid colors and a variety of fabrics. Labonal Pulse is their brand of sports socks while La Frenchie by Labonal is a lower quality range.

They have a number of branded boutiques and reseller displays throughout France. In Paris, the Labonal shop in the Marais is located at 11 rue Vieille du Temple. That shop also sells Garçon Francais briefs, described below, along with other French-made knitwear. Labonal is one of a handful of shops selling made-in-France products in the area. On the nearby street Rue du Bourg-Tibourg, L’Appartement Français sells sock brands Broussaud, Bonpied (1 pair purchase = 1 pair given to the homeless) and Royalties, along with other French textiles and footwear. Labonal, based in Alsace, celebrated its 100th anniversary in 2024. Their factory, which can be visited, is just off the picturesque Alsace Wine Route in Dambach-la-Ville, midway between Strasbourg and Colmar.

Bleuforêt

Bleuforêt is a major brand of French-made socks and tights made by Tricotage des Vosges on the opposite side of the Vosges Mountains from Labonal.

Though not luxury products, the Bleuforêt range includes some excellent quality socks using pure and blended fabrics, including cashmere, silk and alpaca, known for comfort rather than fantasy, with many solid colors. The Vosges area of northeast France is historic home for the knitwear industry that began to dry up in the 1970s before this and other companies rekindled the knitwear flame in the 1990s. The company also produces some underwear. The brand is sold in many stores including their own. Among their Paris locations, there’s a tiny shop at 20 rue des Francs Bourgeois in the Marais, and another at 101 rue de Rennes in the Saint Germain Quarter.

La Chaussette de France (LCF)

Troyes, the former hosiery capital of France, 95 miles southeast of Paris, once employed up to 25,000 people in the knitwear industry. The town’s Musée de la Maille, Mode et Industrie tells its rich hosiery history. Despite the decline of textile production throughout France, Troyes has managed to hold out with about 3,500 employed in the industry. (Troyes is also known for its factory outlets.) LCF is especially noteworthy for its sporting socks—running, hiking, skating, cycling and mountaineering, and most particularly skiing, with a variety of graphics and colors. LCF is the sock brand of the Manufacture Tismail group, which has been knitting in Troyes since 1961. Among other places, some LCF products can be found in Paris at Au Vieux Campeur, a mountain and hiking specialist with shops concentrated in the Latin Quarter.

KlaK 

KlaK used to be call Sorry or Not Sorry, which derived that playful name from its message socks with half of the text above the heel to the left and the other half to the right. The messaging, mostly in English, continues under the catchier brand name KlaK. For example, Just + Married (perfect for the Paris honeymooner), Girl + Power, I ♥ + Apéro (for those who celebrate wine o’clock), Best + Friend, Need + Love, Sexy + Runner, Champagne + Please and Need + Coffee, among others. Founder Alice de Guyenro says that she launched her products in 2019 in her own image, as a shy gal daring to draw attention to herself, or at least her feet. Her products are most in black and white. The full range of KlaK socks can be read and purchased on her online shop, which also indicates the locations of physical shops that carry KlaK.

Label Chaussettes

Xavier Sauzay and Guillaume Deniau date their interest in entering into the sock trade to a semester abroad in Asia, where they discovered the popularity of socks as fashion in Shanghai, Seoul and Taipei. Returning to France, they also noticed that the Made in France textile trend was then underway. At the age of 26, they launched Label Chaussettes in 2019. Their brand has two major elements: on the one foot, cheery and colorful socks designed by artists, and on the other, logo socks for which they partner with such brands as La Vache Qui Rit (Laughing Cow processed cheese), France Rugby, Asterisk, Monsieur Madame (Mr. Men), and the French Navy. Their socks are made in the Limousin region of France, specifically in the factories of Broussard Textiles, a major player in Made-in-France socks. Broussard also produces for Slip Français and Klak, among others, including their own namesake brand.

Garçon Français

Garçon Français means French boy, so this is a brand for the boy or man in your life, or, guys, for yourself.

Socks represent a small portion of the brand, but here you can match your briefs for those special occasions when showing a bit of ankle is just the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Impress and attract Francophile friends in the locker room with Garçon Français written above your ankle, at the base of your foot and on your waist band. Founded by (Mr.) Vicky Caffet, the brand is headquartered in Troyes and knitted 20 miles northwest in Romilly-sur-Seine, a town whose sock manufacturing stretches back to the 19th century. As many on this list, a visitor will primarily find the socks through their direct internet shops, though French resellers, indicated on their website, can also be found throughout France. In Paris, Garçon Français briefs and socks are both available in the Marais at Les Dessous d’Apollon (Apollo’s Underwear), 8 rue de Moussy. The brand’s briefs (not socks) are currently sold in the Labonal shop noted above.

Berthe aux Grands Pieds

If you’ve ever strolled in the Luxembourg Garden in Paris and admired the statues of Queens of France and Illustrious Women on the terrace above the central basin, you may have noticed among them a certain 8th-century Frankish Queen Berthe (Bertha or Bertada in English). She was the wife of Pepin the Short and mother of Charlemagne. More importantly for this brand, she is said to have had one foot larger than the other (or perhaps a clubfoot), earning her the nickname Berthe au Grand Pied (Bertha with the Big Foot or Bertha Broadfoot).

Someone was bound to use that for a brand of socks, and that someone is Régis Gautreau. His company makes playfully sexy and chic socks, tights and tabis. While primarily a women’s brand, Berthe aux Grands Pieds also has attractive collections for men and children. Here’s an idea for a single souvenir from a London-Paris trip: BAGP’s men’s or women’s “God Save Berthe” Union Jack/The French Queen socks. BAGP has its own shop in Nantes, a tiny boutique in Passage Pommeraye. Additionally, the BAGP website indicates the addresses of resellers in Paris and throughout France, including at shops operated by Manufacture Perrin. Manufacture Perrin, located in southern Burgundy, is the producer of BAGP socks. Founded in 1924, Perrin also knits for La Chaussette Française and Le Slip Français, among others. The factory can be visited.

Missegle

Rather than coming from the world of finance or fashion, as some of those noted above, Myriam Joly, this company’s founder, comes from a rural farming background. She raised a troop of angora goats for their mohair for a decade before turning to producing high-comfort textiles with natural fabrics—mohair, merino, yak hair, camel hair, organic cotton, silk, mercerized cotton—for socks (nearly half of sales), as well as sweaters, scarves, gloves and bonnets.

Durability, sustainability and comfort are Missegle’s watchwords rather than high design. Myriam created the company in 1983, at the age of 26, and is still at it, though her son Gaëtan now oversees the operation. In 2007 she bought a knitwear workshop in Burlats, 50 miles east of Toulouse, deep in the rural department of Tarn. Missegle is one of only several workshops in France to loop-stitch by hand to create seamless socks for happy feet. Though not all of the natural fabrics come from the region (e.g. yak hair from Mongolia), Missegle production is firmly planted in the region, with the dyer and spinner workshops within 12 miles of the knitwear workshop. Other than a shop at the workshop site, Missegle products are only available online.

Le Slip Français

“Slip” means briefs and “français” means French, so underpants in French flag colors are naturally the flagship products of Le Slip Français, a Paris-based brand founded in 2011 by Guillaume Guibault. While primarily an underwear brand, the company also produces sock. Le Slip Français products are widely distributed, with over 150 resellers throughout France. It has branded boutiques in Paris, Nantes and Toulouse. The Paris boutique is located in the Marais at 137 rue Vieille du Temple.

Kindy

Kindy is an old brand for rather basic cotton socks that has been in and out of bankruptcy over the past decade but continue to sell French-made socks with little French flags above the ankle. The company is headquartered in the village of Moliens, between Amiens and Rouen in northern France. While the French-flag socks are made in France, not all Kindy products are. Be sure to check the label.

Your French socks and underpants vocabulary

Socks = chaussettes
Ankle socks = socquettes
Tabi socks = chaussettes tabi
Knee socks = chaussettes hautes
Stockings = bas, collant
Tights = collant
Underwear = Sous-vêtements (for all); lingerie (for women)
Briefs = slip (typically designating underwear for males)
Panties = culotte (typically designating underwear for females)
Boxer shorts = caleçon
Long johns = caleçon long

© 2025, Gary Lee Kraut

As mother told daughter, “Listen to Gary, he knows.” Planning to travel with your beloved teen? See here.

The post Made in France: Socks, the Gift That Saved Paris appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

… you’ve looked in many stores for a new armchair and finally select one from BHV Marais, the department store located across the street from City Hall. You choose the fabric and the color. It’s Oct 22. Delivery is promised in handwriting by the mannerly floor section manager: Délai : +/- 19 Janvier 2024 ou AVANT ! LE PLUS TOT POSSIBLE !! – [Delivery] Date: +/- 19 January 2024 or BEFORE! AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!!)–capitals and exclamation points in the original. You have the choice between pick-up at the store or, for 115€, delivery chez vous. The delivery fee seems exorbitant. You’d rather ask a friend with a car to help then take him to dinner. You pay for the chair in full (717€), without delivery, and go about your Parisian life.

Six weeks later, you receive a text message from BHV announcing a delivery delay. The new date is 31 January. You respond that the delay is inacceptable. Your message is ignored. Mid-February, you receive a message announcing that the armchair will be available as of 28 February. This time the message promises, as compensation (dédommagement) free delivery/assembly (livraison/montage), “[normally] billed at 139€.”

A week later, you’ve received no further news of the actual delivery date. It’s now February 21, four months since you paid for the armchair. You’re in the area of BHV so you enter the department store to find someone to speak with. You’re pleased to come upon the same floor section manager who sold you the promise of an armchair. She’s chatting with a colleague.

You greet them kindly: Bonjour. They turn to you with wary expectation. Looking only at the floor section manager, you calmly explain that you’ve received several (plusieurs) delay notices for an armchair that you purchased from BHV Marais four months ago and counting, and still no armchair. She leads you over to her desk and looks up the purchase order, the one with the buoyant and promising capitals and exclamation points, in her own hand: Délai : +/- 19 Janvier 2024 ou AVANT ! LE PLUS TOT POSSIBLE !!

She immediately blames the delay on the supplier, with whom “we always have problems.” Annoyed by the immediate deflection of responsibility, you ask why she kept that detail from you when you purchased the armchair. She says that she didn’t know at the time. You tell her that you have no direct relationship with the supplier, only BHV, so that for you BHV is responsible. “It should arrive next week, monsieur,” she says. “C’est comme ça”—That’s the way it is.

There’s no greater sign of your acculturation in Paris than feeling properly self-righteous and seizing the proper moment to râler (grouse, gripe, grumble). This is it. The battlelines are drawn with a c’est comme ça. Her why-are-you-still-here expression tells you that she thinks that should be enough.

You hadn’t actually intended to râler, you’re not a râleur (grumbler) by nature but by cultural adoption. The floor section manager’s rigid refusal to acknowledge the store’s responsibility is a sign that the moment has come. If you don’t start now, you’ll find yourself wondering while in the metro or in bed or trying to work what you would say or write to best express your frustration with BHV. So you begin with the word that signals to all within hearing distance—the floor section manager and her colleague who is standing nearby. You look the floor section manager in the eye and tell her that the situation is inacceptable. If you’d known it would take so long for the armchair to arrive, you say, you wouldn’t have purchased it.

She returns your square look in the eye as her colleague moves a step closer. She looks to him, he looks to her, they both look to you.

“Un instant,” she says, a sign that she will look on her terminal for proof that the situation is more than acceptable because it is what it is. Indeed, she points at a spreadsheet on her screen and says, “They say it will arrive in one week.” She repeats the offer for free delivery or, she now adds, an 89€ refund. Her tone in presenting the choice is like that of a bored waiter proposing pommes frites or haricots verts. It also bothers you that she’s offering 89€ when the last message spoke of a 139€ delivery value and four months ago she’d offered delivery at 115€. You call her on it. She has an immediate answer: 115€ was an old price. It’s now 89€ for delivery and 139€ if the deliverymen mount the piece of furniture and dispose of the packaging. You tell her that the only mounting required is screwing on the legs.

You’re not sure what to say next and you don’t want to repeat inacceptable so you chose another missile of a word from the râleur’s handbook—you tell her that this is inadmissible.

“I explained the situation,” she says. “Do you understand?”—Vous comprenez? She may or may not be making reference to your accent, but leaving it at that she remains within the rules of engagement. Her colleague inches closer. He can’t seem to focus on his own job until the situation is resolved. You can tell he’s dying to get involved, and he does as he, too, says, “Do you understand?”

What you understand is that you are now culturally obliged to râler further.  You say, “I understand that delivery of my armchair is so long overdue that I’d like to a refund.”

“I’ve given you a choice, Monsieur,” she says. “Delivery at home or an 89€ refund and you pick up the merchandise.”

Yes, you know that you’ll presumably soon have your armchair, whether picked up with your friend’s help or delivered with the legs screwed on and the box removed, and that you can then decide for yourself if you ever want to shop at BHV again. So even though you’re unlikely to make any headway against a business as detached, in your experience, as BHV Marais, and a salesperson as doctrinaire as this, with a workplace rubbernecker by her side, you proceed to tell her (you don’t acknowledge him) that she’s presented you with a false choice (un faux choix), one that is intellectually dishonest (intellectuellement malhonnête; it’s an expression that would get you laughed out of Walmart, but here the number of syllables alone signals that you’re a worthy Parisian adversary) since any reasonable choice would involve a full refund (remboursement total).

As her colleague watches, ready to leap to her defense, she tries to goad you into insulting her personally by asking if you thought she “lied” (menti) when she gave you the original delivery deadline (délai de livraison). You know how this works: Calling her a liar (une menteuse) would label you an aggressor and allow her to call victory and store security. The rules of an in-store râlerie require steadfast concrete reasoning. You won’t fall into her emotional trap. So you tell her that you aren’t here to discuss her feelings. You tell her that you were “duped” (dupé) into buying the armchair, with her own handwriting as proof (la preuve). Four months after the original order, you tell her, the honest choice is between a total refund and, you now add, appropriate compensation.

She says, “Do you want to give me a delivery address or not?”

You’ve had your say and there’s nothing more to do here. Despite your elevated heartrate, you coolly give her your address for delivery, should you decide to accept it. Her colleague walks away. Obtaining an 89€ refund sounds too complicated and isn’t an acceptable number anyway. That thought leads you to declare one more time that the situation is inacceptable and to ask now for the contact information for the complaint department.

She writes down the customer service email address.

One might think that any store salesperson properly trained in customer service would know that few clients would bother making a complaint at that point—after all, the chair is due to be delivered in one week and you’ve apparently accepted free delivery—and so would revert to the customary etiquette of farewell, perhaps with a kind assurance that you’ll be happy with your beautiful armchair. If so, one hasn’t shopped in Paris. As she hands you the slip of paper with the email address, and apparently feeling the need for a final power play, the BHV floor section manager says, “Whatever you send will be forwarded to me and you already have my answer.” You now have no choice but to formalize your grievance (réclamation).

At home, you write to BHV Marais customer service. You keep your message short and direct, just the facts of the delay and the unacceptability and inadmissibility of the offer of simply free delivery. You include a scanned copy of the invoice with its capital letters and exclamation points. You make no personal comments about the floor section manager other than to note your incrédulité regarding her parting shot about this réclamation being dead in the water (lettre morte). You conclude by requesting a full refund for the as yet undelivered armchair.

You’ve done your Parisian best. You’ve presented logic, you didn’t once lose your temper, and you’ve made proper use of two of the three most important words in any proper râlerie: inacceptable and inadmissible, using them sparingly, while throwing in an incrédule and an intellectuellement malhônete to let customer service know that you’re no stranger to complaint departments in France. For the time being you’ve refrained from using the third important word, scandaleux, so as to deploy it at the appropriate time with the appropriate interlocuteur.

Two days later you receive a message signed with a guy’s first name inviting you to please be assured that your request is being treated by the head of the concerned department so as to provide you with a response, and thanking you for your understanding. Business-speak for good luck (bonne chance). Since you’re also invited to rate and comment on his response, you give it a 1 of 5 and comment that the client is only reassured when a matter has been fully resolved, and you thank him in return for his understanding.

Several days later, on a Sunday afternoon, you get a phone call from BHV customer service. The female voice is young and sweet and her words are spoken with a smile. You’re offered free delivery (with the legs screwed on and the box disposed of) plus a 60-euro refund. You comment on the strangeness of that number, 60, remarking that it seems to be resting on its way somewhere. She explains that that’s the amount the manufacturer is willing to reimburse and they won’t give more. Since the number is clearly n’importe quoi (rubbish), you tell her that it is inacceptable for BHV to deflect responsibility in this manner. You further tell her that the so-called free delivery isn’t truly a gift because you had planned on picking the armchair up yourself at the store in January. She responds that delivery nevertheless costs BHV and that you could be reimbursed 89€ if you still wanted to pick up the merchandise. Actually, you would like it delivered but are still annoyed that she’s using 89€ as the figure for dédommagement. You tell her that 89€ is n’importe quoi given that BHV’s text mentioned a delivery value of 139€. She says she doesn’t understand. She says this with such innocent-sounding sincerity that you’re about to lose your own thread of logic, when suddenly you remember that you’re the wronged party and have yet to deploy the most important term of any self-righteous râleur. You use it now.

C’est scandaleux, you say.

You take a deep breath then launch into a mild rant about being dupé by BHV from the start and the floor manager’s faux choix, which was intellectuellement malhonnête, and how your many followers, as they say in French, will soon know that this is inacceptable, inadmissible and scandaleux, until finally she interrupts.

Monsieur, she says, you didn’t let me finish my proposition. You’ll get free delivery and assembly of the armchair, 60€ refunded through your credit card, and a 50€ voucher for in-house purchase.

Whether or not the extra 50€ came from your excellent and emphatic use of inacceptable, inadmissible and scandaleux, you can’t tell. But you know that this is clearly the moment for you to stop de râler and to accept that the négociation has come to an end.

So, with the proper air of resignation, you accept her proposition. And like that, the unacceptability and the scandalousness of the situation disappear like vampires at sunrise.

Once you’ve accepted the offer, you and the customer service rep discuss how and when all this will occur. Her voice is even more soothing and reassuring than before as she explains the timing: the armchair delivered next week, the voucher from BHV within 24 hours, the refund from the manufacturer in 2-4 weeks*. You can nearly smell the floral scent of her perfume. Your own tone is melodious, with a hint of sandalwood, as you provide her with your email address and mailing address. When she says that she knows where that is, you tell her to stop by sometime to see your armchair. The banter is so light and cheery that you nearly forget that you’ll both be glad when the conversation is over. But the time has come for her to ask if there’s anything else she can do for you today, for you to say, “No, that’s all,” and to wish each other un bon dimanche, a good Sunday. She will then return to other dissatisfied clients and you can now decide how strongly you want to advise against ordering anything from BHV Marais.

Very strongly indeed.

© 2024, Gary Lee Kraut

*Six weeks later, when the 60€ has failed to arrive, you wonder if BHV has pocketed the refund from the manufacturer.

The post You know you live in Paris when… BHV Marais and the vocabulary of complaint appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

A public organization named La Réunion des Musées Nationaux et du Grand Palais (RMN-GP) is behind the commercialization of these products as part of their extensive mission within France’s national museum system.

The RMN was created in 1895 to gather and manage funds for the acquisition of works of art to enrich the national collections. Renamed the RMN-GP when the exhibition hall Grand Palais came under its wings, it now oversees 32 national museums including 20 in Paris and the Paris region, plus the Paris the Grand Palais and the Palais de la Porte Dorée exhibition space.

Commercial activities have long been a part of its mission. From its creation, the RMN sold products of the Louvre’s engraving and molding workshops. In the 1930s it began creating post cards, catalogues and guidebooks. Since 1993 it has taken on a more industrial-commercial approach as museum shops expanded in both space and financial importance within the museum system. While still tasked with making acquisitions of artwork as well as organizing temporary exhibitions, managing visitors and publishing catalogues, the RMN-GM currently oversees 34 museum shops.

And now, for your holiday shopping, you don’t even have to get near a museum to purchase some of the RMN-GP’s museum-inspired souvenirs, including items from contemporary designers and creators. In addition to an e-boutique, a selection of products from France’s national museums are available at a pop-up boutique in Paris at 9 rue de Rivoli (metro Saint Paul) until January 5, 2020.

Which bring us to Louvre Monopoly,

Marie-Antoinette and French princess beauty kits,

serving trays on which the Mona Lisa stands on a balcony with the Eiffel Tower behind her and Madame Récamier reclines on a Paris park bench,

Pompon’s panther,

Basquiat skateboards,

Liberté and 1789 t-shirts,

and I Louvre You teddy bears.

Don’t lose heart, art Louvres, the museums themselves are still there.

Text and photos © 2019, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Cute, Kitsch and Tacky Gifts from France’s National Museums appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

The Folies Bergère (established in 1869 and adorned with its landmark Art Deco façade in 1926) ought to be on every American arts-oriented heritage tour, given that the theater nurtured Trans-Atlantic talent like Chicago-born Loie Fuller (1890s) and Josephine Baker (1920s) whose dance acts (and banana tutus) were too daring for censors and sensibilities back in the homeland.

The lobby, decorated in the “too much is not enough” style, is almost worth the admission price so arrive early enough to take pictures of the gilded goddess statues and giant chandeliers before making your way to the tattered red-velvet seats (last re-upholstered in the Piaf era?) and accustoming yourself to the slightly hazy atmosphere (residue of Maurice Chevalier’s cigars?).

Jean Paul Gaultier has always been the offbeat enfant terrible of French fashion culture, holding some of his early fashion shows in circuses, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that his life and work are presented in a Barnum & Bailey version of Gay Pride in Las Vegas. The show is mostly visual; a certain amount of the narration is in French only but it’s easy to follow if you know the basic storyline.

The saga begins with the designer’s 1950s childhood, his early fashion experiments with a beloved teddy bear, and an homage to the grandmother who let him play with her corsets. We share the joy when Jean Paul meets the love of his life and share the sorrow when his lover dies of AIDS. We travel to the seamy sex clubs of London and the wild parties held in the infamous Palace night-club, the Parisian Studio 54 of the era.

But most of all, it’s about the clothes: Gaultier’s insanely inventive fashion manages to be playful and provocative at the same time. When the models sashay on stage in clothes from his debut show in the late 70s, the entire audience is swaying to the 1978 ear-candy hit “Ça plane pour moi” by Belgian punk artist Plastic Bertrand. (Check out this video if you want to sing along, or this audio if the previous one is blocked in your country.)

On-screen celebrity cameos of Gaultier muses are slipped in between the fashion shows. Some faces will be familiar to non-French visitors (Madonna, Kylie Minogue, Catherine Deneuve) although others (rock divas Catherine Ringer and Mylène Farmer; fashion pundit Cristina Cordula who critiques the cat-walking skill of a chosen member of the audience) will only be recognizable to the hometown crowd. There’s a funny, back-handed slap at fashion dictatorships with actors portraying Anna Wintour and Karl Lagerfeld. (That sequence is in French with sub-titles even though calorie-obsessed pseudo-Karl remarks that speaking French is fattening.)

The show ends with a taped video of Jean Paul Gaultier explaining that fashion is much more than a “commodity” and that everyone is beautiful in his or her own way. It’s a heartwarming happy ending to an upbeat evening.

A word about seating: unless you pop for the best orchestra or front-row loge seats, you won’t see absolutely everything. However, the show takes place on many levels (with video screens and acrobats on high platforms) so you will still enjoy a full two hours of fancy, freaky fashion wherever you’re sitting.

Jean Paul Gaultier Fashion Freak Show at the Folies Bergère through April 21, 2019. 32 Rue Richer, 9th arr. Metro Cadet or Grands Boulevard. Tuesday-Saturday at 8pm as well as Saturday and Sunday at 3pm. Tickets 30-99€.

© 2019, Corinne LaBalme

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No need for discretion. France recently marked the 50th anniversary of its law authorizing the sale and use of contraceptives. Adopted in December 1967, it is known as the Neuwirth Law, after Member of Parliament Lucien Neuwirth. Neuwirth had fought for nearly a decade beforehand for the right to contraceptive use, supporting and supported by the Family Planning Movement.

That movement was created in 1956 under the name La Maternité Heureuse (Happy Motherhood). In 1960 it was renamed Mouvement Français pour Le Planning Familial (French Movement for Family Planning), or Le Planning Familial (Family Planning) for short. Family Planning and its motto Liberté, Egalité, Sexualité gained visibility and strength as the 1960s progressed. Liberté, Egalité, Sexualité, now there’s a good reason for all of us to get in touch with our inner Parisienne.

The postal service commemorated the law’s 50th anniversary with a stamp dedicated to Neuwirth and showing three ages of women. The image of the three women is a stylized version of a prominent Family Planning poster of 1978 which bore the words “un enfant… si je veux… quand je veux” (a child… if I want… when I want.).

The Neuwirth Law primarily aimed to overturn the Law of 1920 that prohibited any action, advertisement or propaganda in favor of abortion or contraception. That post-war law had been passed on the premise that, with some 1.4 million French war dead, laws preventing further depopulation trumped a woman’s or a couple’s right to choose. So while the pill, that great liberating force in the sexual revolution, had been a hit in the United States since the early 1960s, it couldn’t play that role in France as long as the earlier law stood guard.

(As an interesting contrast on the timeline of nations, 1920 is the year that women obtained the right to vote in the U.S.; it took another world war for women in France to be granted that right, first exercised during the elections of 1945. Meanwhile, Planned Parenthood remains under attack in the U.S..)

Abortion was legalized by the Veil Law of January 1975, put forth by then-health minister Simone Veil. Since 2001 abortion has been allowed until 12 weeks of pregnancy and parental authorization for minors is no longer required.

The pill remains queen despite waning influence

In France, according to a research paper published (in English) to coincide with the 50th anniversary, 83% of women of childbearing age use contraception. A 2014 U.S. Center for Disease Control (CDC) brief indicates that 62% of American women ages 15 to 44 use contraception.

Whereas, according to the French paper, 43% percent of contraception in United States involves sterilization (tubular occlusion for women, vasectomy for men), with about third being male sterilization, only 5% of contraception in France involves sterilization, with the percentage of male sterilization being negligible. The CDC brief gives different figures for the U.S. but nevertheless finds female sterilization (15.5%) nearly on par with use of the pill (16% in terms of percentage). Vasectomy (male sterilization) is not covered in that brief but where elsewhere reported the number performed in the U.S. is significantly higher than in France.

The pill, by contrast, is by far the contraceptive method of choice in France as it represents more than 40% of all contraceptive method use. That, however, represents about a 20% decrease over the past decade, with the initial decline largely attributed to the possible risks associated with recent generations of the pill.

The French health system supports contraception: implants, IUDs, diaphragms and some contraceptive pills are reimbursable (65%) through the national system, as is access to the morning-after pill. Those same contraceptive methods and the corresponding medical consultation (doctor’s office, school infirmary) are free to minors of at least 15, without need for parental notification.

In France, male condom use (often combined with female oral contraception) has increased since the HIV epidemic in the 1980s, representing about 15%. Condoms are non-reimbursable but are rather inexpensive.

Women who have left their oral contraceptive at home when traveling abroad to France would typically need to see a doctor for a prescription. A pharmacist, however, might help, particularly with the morning-after pill, called la pilule du lendemain or la contraception d’urgence in French

If you or your partner has packed FDA-approved condoms, rest assured that they will make it through customs even if they don’t bear the EU stamp of approval. But why ruin the fun of shopping overseas.

The Condom King, Le Roi de la Capote

The French word for a condom is un preservatif or, colloquially, une capote. (It used to be more commonly called une capote anglaise or English bonnet/hood/overcoat, as the English, upholding their side of tit-for-tat terminology, would refer to a condom as a French letter or French tickler for the fanciful kind).

The word condom will likely be understood in Paris, but ask for a condom in southwest France and you risk being given directions to the charming town of the same name, in Armagnac country, midway between Bordeaux and Toulouse. Condom the town would rather that travelers associate it with the architectural appeal of its cathedral and cloister and with the culinary and cultural appeal of Gascony rather than with French letters, though many an English-speaking traveler has undoubted entered the town on the snick of its name alone.

The town aside, France’s premier destination for all things condom is in Paris and online at Le Roi de la Capote, the Condom King, a shop created and owned by Marc Pointel. Pointel opened Le Roi de la Capote as an online shop in 2005 and eight years later opened a brick-and-mortar, rather a latex-and-gel shop in Paris’s 11th arrondissement. Seventy percent of its sales are online, while it’s the 30% of in-store sales that Pointel sees as a sign of its success. The store is located at 106 boulevard Richard Lenoir in the 11th arrondissement.

This is not a sex shop. It is a bright, open, come-one-come-all parapharmacie, a type of shop that sells health products but not medication.

Classic mass-market condoms are no more expensive here than in any grocery store in Paris (the other place to purchase them, along with pharmacies and parapharmacies), perhaps even less as is the case if you wish to stock up on a 300-pack at 0.10€ per condom for the traveling optimist or that special New Year’s party. (Note: condoms typically carry a 5-year expiration date.) Single condoms are sold for as little as 0.20€. The most expensive condoms here come out to about 1.50€ each. A small price to pay, says Pointel, for the serenity of knowing that you and your partner are protected, not planning on conceiving just then, and having great pleasure.

The French nevertheless complain about condom prices, Pointel notes, because they don’t like to pay for anything medical related.

The Condom King is the exclusive retailer in France of My One Perfect Fit (formerly They Fit) condoms, an American brand that comes in 56 sizes. A paper ruler is available to properly measure oneself or one’s partner (at home). Various types of lubricants are also available as are hygiene products and massage oils. You’ll also find some a few playful objects, including cheering but non-protective condoms (seen at top of article), such as an Eiffel Tower condom, perhaps something to offer one’s lover as a way of saying “we’ll always have Paris… without STDs.” See the website the list of products sold by the King.

While the items sold at the Condom King may lead to good fun between the sheets, Pointel recognizes their role—and his own—in helping to promote sexual health. Furthermore, the condom, since it involves at least two people, has a social role, even if that role presents itself intimately between the two. “The condom,” he says, “is the tree that hides the forest [of many public health issues].”

Erectile and other sexual problems and concerns have many roots, he says, and the best place to start is by having someone to speak with about it. “I manage to destress those who are stressed when they enter,” he says. Indeed, Pointel has the assured sense of humor to help put anxious clients at ease and the proper discretion to allow those entering the king’s domain to shop unassisted if they prefer.

He tells of an athlete in his twenties who said that condoms keep him from having an erection and a 30-year-old woman (20% of his clients are women) who said that she’d never had an organism. “It takes nerve to say that,” he says, “and once said it should be discussed.”

Even for online sales, Pointel says, many people will call before ordering, and their calls often fall into a “grey zone” between requests for purchasing advice, as other merchants might receive, and requests for information about sexual health. While he cannot by law physically examine or diagnose clients, he recognizes that during such calls or in-store conversation, the individual is seeking a form of consultation, speaking of matters that he or she may not yet have broached with a medical professional or a therapist. He fully accepts his role in listening to the individual’s symptoms and complaints and in suggesting, nudging or guiding the person, if possible, to speak with a medical or therapy specialist, or simply to correct any sexual myths or misconceptions.

(Pointel isn’t always at the front of the shop since his office and storage facility for online orders are in the back. While his assistants are quite capable, those looking for advice shouldn’t hesitate to ask if he is available. He’s fluent in English.)

Recognizing his unique position on the frontline of health issues, Pointel, who had previously studied sexology, recently completed further studies in sexual health. In June 2017 he obtained a University Degree (D.U. in French—a type of master’s degree) in the matter from the Paris-Diderot Medical School. His thesis was entitled “How and within what limits does a related and specialized parapharmacy participate in the promotion of sexual health? Practical situations and ethical questions.”

Unfortunately, he says, “the Anglo-Saxon puritanism of the major players of the Internet (GAFAM: Google, Apple, Facebook, Amazon and Microsoft)” consider Le Roi de la Capote’s website as an “adult site” or an “adults only site,” meaning that it may assimilated with pornography.

“We’re considered to be selling ‘adult products’ whereas the condom is a key element of public health,” he says. “It’s also a tool that should be associated with pleasure. We need to ‘re-eroticize’ the condom. Thinking only in terms of protection can cause stress, and we don’t make love when we’re stressed.”

But the Condom King can only do so much for the sex lives of our perfect pouty-lipped Parisienne. La Parisienne has a lot going for her, says Pointel, “but the mouth is the first sex organ that one encounters, and she doesn’t smile enough.”

Le Roi de la Capote, 106 boulevard Richard Lenoir, 11th arr. Metro Oberkampf or Parmentier. Tel. 01 42 38 60 40. Closed Sunday.

© 2018, Gary Lee Kraut

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For one, they’re both staples of the French celebratory and holiday table and of plenty of hospitable tables and cocktail events in between.

For two, they’re both produced with excellence and tradition by Maison Barthouil, a family business located in the small town of Peyrehorade in the Landes department of southwest France, between Béarn and Basque Country.

While Barthouil products (under the J. Barthouil brand) are sold in a handful of luxury grocers throughout France, in some restaurants and online, their only shop outside of their home village is in Paris, in the Upper Marais. That’s where I met with Pauline Barthouil, the company’s sales director and granddaughter of its founder.

Foie Gras

Fattened duck liver (foie gras de canard) and all manner of duck preparations have long graced the table in southwest France. They can thank European explorations in the Americas for returning home with the prime ingredients for foie gras: large ducks and the corn with which to (force-)feed them.

The Barthouil family, however, gets to call their affection for all things duck a truly local affair since their business is based on a traditional model of agriculture. Hatcheries in the area deliver 1-day-old ducklings to five breeders whose farms are located within 25 miles of Peyrehorade. The breeders then raise a safe of about 400 ducks for 16 weeks until slaughter. The breeders also grow their own corn, which represents 50% of the ducks’ diet while being raised and 100% during the 12-13-day fattening period known as gavage. Gavage is the force-feeding that gives such a delicious taste and buttery texture to the fattened liver. It is also the technique that occasionally gets the production of foie gras banned in certain parts of the U.S.. (Pauline Barthouil emphasizes the gentleness of the breeders’ handling during gavage and the calm of the feeding room.)

Some 25,000 ducks are raised and slaughtered each year for their products. J. Barthouil transforms the entire duck, since in addition to producing various types of duck foie gras (different preparations of entier or whole foie gras and of mi-cuit or semi-cooked foie gras), along with mousse and terrine, the company also makes the duck versions of rillettes (pulled duck cooked in duck fat and served cold as an hors d’oeuvre spread), confit (a drool-worthy main course of duck cooked in its own fat), cassoulet (a hearty duck and white bean dish), fresh breast or duck steak (magret), smoked, dried magret, and other preparations. Barthouil also produces some goose foie gras.

I asked Pauline Barthouil two nagging questions:
The first: Is there a difference between whole foie gras in a tin and in a jar? The answer: No.
The second: Several or more years ago I gave to my sister a jar of foie gras that she’s yet to open. The sell-by date has rubbed off and, not knowing how old it is, she’s wonders if it’s safe to eat. Do we dare eat the foie gras inside the next time I visit? Her answer: Absolutely! For me, she said, it gets better with time. So as long as it’s still properly sealed you can consider the suggested sell-by date as simply a legal obligation.

Smoked salmon

Salmon was abundant in western France until about a century ago, when numbers, already dwindling, began falling more dramatically. As they migrate inland from salty seas, some salmon, however, are still found in the rivers and streams of Brittany, in the Loire, and in the Adour and its confluents, i.e. Barthouil territory.

Pauline Barthouil’s grandfather Gaston would have known days of abundance, which is probably why, when he became aware of the novelty of Scandinavian smoking, he might have though, “Hey, I’ve got salmon, I’ve got land, let’s build a smokehouse and start smoking.” Except that he had no experience in smoking salmon. His amateur attempts were likely so smoked that they tasted more like fishy ash than lightly smoked fish.

He therefore sent his production manager to Denmark to learn from European pros of preserving through smoking. Thus the Danish tradition became the tradition of the Bartouil family, which continues to follow much the same method as in the late 1950s, though with indirect smoking rather than the original method of direct smoking. (Pauline’s sister Guillemette Barthouil is the current production manager).

Local Adour wild salmon, which the company considers “the Rolls Royce of its kind,” still appears on the Barthouil menu, where it weighs in at 315€ per kilo in its sliced smoke version. The vast majority of the production, however, is shipped from far north: wild salmon from the Baltic Sea, Norway and Scotland, along with farm-raised salmon from Scotland (organic) and Norway. Smoked and sliced, these salmons range in cost from 107-182€ per kilo.

Plump salmon arrives whole (gutted) and fresh three days after slaughter. The salmon is hand salted with dry salt from Salies de Béarn, 12 miles east. After drying, it is cold smoked (68-75°F) for 20 hours with alder wood, a type of birch, which gives only a slight woody taste. Alder had been used by their Danish “teachers” yet needn’t be imported since it grows abundantly in France, including in the southwest.

Among the eight types of J. Barthouil smoked salmon available, there’s an exquisite wild Scottish salmon (175€/kilo), but I particularly enjoy the subtlety and refinement taste of the wild salmon from Norway’s Namesen Fjord (150€/kilo), whose taste hints at the krill that it feeds on. I also appreciate for its distinctiveness the wild salmon from the Baltic Sea salmon (130€/kilo), which feeds in part on herring, giving it its gray-beige in color and a slight herring taste.

Tarama

A third specialty of the house is tarama, a fish-roe spread that’s frequently served with the aperitif in Paris. Barthouil’s seven tarama recipes all use Islandic cod eggs and rapeseed oil, to which may be added fresh crab or Espelette pepper (two personal favorites), scallops, sea urchin (for those ready to be launched into an iodized coastal fantasy), truffles or algae.

French caviar is also available in the shop. The shop also sells some accompanying wine and spirits, often with an eye to southwestern producers, such as Lactalium vodka distilled in Gers from cow’s milk from Auvergne.

© 2017, Gary Lee Kraut

Maison Barthouil’s Paris boutique, J. Barthouil: 41 rue Charlot, 3rd arr. Tel. 01 42 78 32 88. Metro Temple or Filles du Calvaire. Closed Monday. Nicolas Ferrand, glimpsed in the first video, provides friendly counsel in the Paris shop, which he manages.

The video below, from the Barthouil website, tells of the company history and gives a step-by-step presentation of its production of foie gras and smoked salmon. It is narrated by Jacques Barthouil, son of Gaston, father Pauline and Guillemette. Company president and primary shareholder, he is the J. of J. Barthouil.

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By Gary Lee Kraut and C. C. Bell

Partly sunny with a few dark clouds – that’s both the day’s weather and the mood of la flâneuse as she dresses for a day of idle wandering about the city. She’d like to get over to the Luxembourg Garden to see the tulips at some point in the afternoon, but she has no set schedule, no firm plans. She’ll do what she does, see what she sees.

Fresh from the shower she opens the top lingerie drawer of the dresser bought last fall at the neighborhood vide-grenier (garage sale). It’s a Made-in-France day, she thinks, a never-know-who-you’ll-find, never-know-who-you’ll-come-across day.

She smiles as she selects the comfortable Madame Aime (7 Fashion) mesh hipsters with lace trim, smiles as she recalls buying them as much for the look as for the name of the brand. Aime, pronounced like her first initial. This is Aime’s day, she thinks. She feels too nude in the matching bra so she chooses a simpler, blue Madame Aime triangle.

The flaneuse opens her Ikea closet. Feeling both insouciant and determined she takes out her new pair of Terre des Anges (Kiplay) jeans.

To break them in, she thinks. She crouches down, as though to get close to the tulips, to see how the jeans feel. Just fine.

Light pink cardigan, decides the flaneuse. She puts it on. Then, opening the window and putting her hand outside, she recalls the saying En avril ne te découvre pas d’un fil (in April be wary removing too much thread). She’ll hold off on the cardigan until a sunnier day, or until May, when you fais ce qu’il te plaît (do what pleases you). The grey and ivory Chasse Marée (Bonneterie Dupé) pullover will work well today. Work: she laughs at the thought of the word as she pulls the sweater over her head.

Looking in the mirror above the dresser she admires the way the grey and ivory pullover casually shows off her figure (enough, but not too much to be bothered). The sun the dissipates behind a cloud, stealing light from the room. I need some color, she thinks.

She tries on a scarf. No, replies the mirror, too winter. A beret? No, replies the mirror, too… intentional. Several umbrellas hang from the coat stand which she inherited the former renter. That’s it, she thinks, my fuchsia and navy blue striped Pierre Vaux umbrella, practical yet suave on a you-never-know walk-about day like today.

La flâneuse goes into the living room and stands back from the ornately framed mirror above the chimney (circa 1890). She holds the umbrella against her chest like a sword. Perfect. Ready to rumble, she thinks, or at least amble. Only then does she look down at her feet and laughs at herself for having left them undressed.

Is it too early in the season to wear her Mangalani sandals?, she thinks. Oh, but the butterfly leather reminds her of a palate of spring flowers. In April, be wary of removing too much thread, goes the saying, but removing a bit of leather, why not! She take her sandals from the bookcase in her hallway, and with it her Mangalani purse.

Fatimata Soumare, Parisian designer of the confidential line of Mangalani sandals, ballerinas and purses, is a solo entrepreneur. Unlike the others mentioned here she came to the field not by following in the footsteps of her parents but by departing from the footsteps of her fellow lawyers.

One last look in the mirror and la flâneuse is ready to stroll, to wander, to idle, and to follow her nose, her eyes, her intuition, with the vague notion that she will eventually reach the Luxembourg Garden, to see the tulips in bloom.

© 2017, Gary Lee Kraut / C.C. Bell

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There it is. I have seen pictures of it on websites and in guidebooks. The familiar yellow sign with green lettering.

SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY.

I enter the bookstore and I’m greeted by “The Lost Generation.”

Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, Joyce. They are all there. Immortalized.

I bypass them, tilt my head and read the category subtitles: fiction a-z, history, geography. I wander with my head at an angle. Dozens and dozens of titles blur together. I pause when I see the drama section. I scan the shelves looking for Scottish writers but I can’t find any. I skim past Beckett and Ibsen and Miller.

I’m looking for something. I’m looking for something but I don’t know what it is.

I leave drama and enter poetry. A pink collection of love poems sits on a stand. I see blue books and green books, white, black, red, orange.

I reach a staircase and climb it. I click my fingers repeatedly, a sign that I am both tired and irritated.

Harry Potter greets me. I feel my love of children’s literature creep upon me. I stop to look at a beautiful edition of “Alice in Wonderland”; white with raspberry coloured flamingoes adorning it.

I follow the sound of music and find two teenage boys playing piano together in a room full of thick, dark hardbacks. They do not see me. I back away to avoid breaking their musical moment.

Another room with comfy seats. Readers sit quietly. I stand in the doorway and watch. It is a public room and, yet, I feel like I have entered a private space. I do not want to go in any further.

I see a wooden cubicle and approach it slowly. I duck my head and find myself inside a small booth with a broken typewriter. I press a few keys to hear the metallic noise. A childhood memory flickers.

Post it notes and little scraps of paper litter the inside of the booth. They are piled on top of each other, stuck overlapping on the wall; different handwriting scrawled in colored inks.

I read a torn note and a curious sensation hits me. I am surrounded by thoughts, memos and moments. The personal declarations of strangers.

I read another and another. Some are simple, often thanking Shakespeare and Company for their existence. Some are funny, commenting on the broken typewriter. Others share scattered sentiments: one thanks God for their purpose in life.

I have no idea how long I sit in the booth for. I feel strangely comforted here. In amongst the pockets of people, I have found my own little space.

I am about to leave when one, final note catches my eye:

Not all those that wander are lost.

A half laugh catches in my throat. There it is. Thank you Tolkien. Thank you stranger for leaving this.

I open my handbag and retrieve my diary. I rip out a small piece of paper. I write: From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring;

I leave my note on the desktop for the next wanderer to find.

© 2014, Morna Young

Morna Young is a playwright, actress and musician from Scotland. Her plays include Lost at Sea, Netting and Never Land. She won the New Playwright’s Award 2014 (Playwrights’ Studio, Scotland). For more about Morna Young see www.mornayoung.com.

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Not just any Black Friday, but LE Black Friday, so evocative and so directly imported from the New World that no one even bothered to translate the words, let alone explain the concept.

One major retailer promised “jusqu’à“ (up to) 15% off… for those armed with a membership card discounted to 10€. If they plan on inciting a stampede and some shopper-on-shopper violence in Paris they’ll have to do better than that!

As it was the so-called discount and the promise of limited quantities didn’t signal anything more than the usual salesperson-on-shopper abuse.

But now that France has gotten a whiff of Le Black Friday, can Le Thanksgiving be far behind?

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“I’m just a result,” she says while outlining the family history in gemstones since the 17th century. The family long lived in the last valley of Jura before the Swiss border. Her grandfather left the valley for Paris, where in 1929 he created a workshop for cutting colored gemstones.

“As a little girl I was surrounded by things that glimmer,” she says.

She recalls the excitement in the family workshop and at home with the approach of the imperial coronation in 1967 of Shabanu (Empress) Farah Palavi, wife of the last Shah of Iran. Langlois was 12 at the time and some of the gemstones intended to decorate the empress during the ceremony came from their workshop.

Langlois has remained true to the family niche of colored gemstones and claims to work with the widest variety of stones on rue de la Paix. Rue de la Paix and Place Vendôme do indeed form a rather diamond- and crystal-studded runway. “What I know how to do best is work with an assortment of colors,” she says.

She has a particular affection for floral themes—flowers and bouquets that don’t fade—with a good deal of butterflies and angel also present in recent collections. She says that she especially enjoys working with sapphire, with the padparadscha, a rare orange-to-pink variety, being her “ultra.”

She purchases many of her stones from a brother who operates a gemstone cutting workshop in Thailand. Another brother operates a workshop n Paris.

After working as a jewelry designer for a variety of other houses she began selling her creations under her own name in 1998. Her collections are now available in 24 countries, including the US, Canada and the UK. Asia has become her largest market. Langlois’s ambition is global yet she thinks of her own creative spirit as remaining very French, and particularly Parisian in its search for balance and elegance. “We,” meaning Parisians, “have plenty of flaws,” she says, “but at least we have that,” meaning balance and eleganc.

Langlois’s haute-couture approach doesn’t launch prices into the stratosphere, particularly since she doesn’t focus on work with diamonds. Her windows in the courtyard off rue de la Paix show pieces mostly in the 500 to 5000€ range (about $700-7000), along with some high-priced creations. Or as she says, “I make jewelry at the price of a very nice dress.”

The small shop and showroom are open to the public during normal business hours. Because of the international scope of her business Langlois isn’t always present though, so to have the pleasure of meeting in person this amiable creator of fine jewelry it’s best to make an appointment.

Isabelle Langlois, 12 rue de la Paix, 2nd arrondissement. Metro Opéra. Tel. 01 42 46 75 00. For locations worldwide where Isabelle Langlois jewelry is available and to contact by e-mail see www.isabellelanglois.com.

© 2014, Gary Lee Kraut

Map

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