* * *

By Melinda Mayor

“Wait ’til you taste it.”

I slip on an oven mitt and take out the tray. My mouth is watering at the smell, and I’ve eaten two (okay, three) already today. I only put them in the oven long enough to warm them up a bit. I slide the tray’s contents onto a plate. Excitedly, I turn around, only to find my husband checking the mail.

“Don’t you want to try them?”

“What? Oh yeah, sure.”

I cannot comprehend this indifference when it comes to something so important, so delicious. He picks up one of the two on his plate and casually takes a bite. It takes every drop of willpower I possess not to leap onto the plate and scarf down the remaining one. He chews. I wait.

“Well?”

“It’s good,” he says unconvincingly.

“You don’t like it?”

“I said I like it.”

“It didn’t sound like you like it.”

“I said I like it!” A pause. “But it’s kind of…”

“Oily, right? I mean, it’s supposed to be oily, all our food is about the oil and the temple and blah-dee-blah-blah, but it’s…saltier, don’t you think? I was really thirsty after I ate a couple this afternoon.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

I smile at him. “Nothing compares to yours, but what could I do? You were at work, and I needed latkes. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Yes,” I say icily. “I NEEDED them.” I hold his gaze with all the wide-eyed melodrama of an afternoon soap, and we both laugh.

My gentile husband cooks latkes. It’s one of the many things he didn’t do before meeting me, along with lighting Hanukkah candles and saying, “Oy” (though he argues with me about that last one). I told him how much I loved latkes—who doesn’t?—and he looked up a recipe online. The first time he made potato pancakes they turned out more pancake than potato. But now he’s a pro. When he selfishly goes to work, however, I have to make other arrangements: The latkes I just heated up were from the deli on rue des Rosiers in the Marais. That’s where I fail as a Jewish mother: I ask my kids, “Are you sure you had enough to eat?” but I don’t know how to cook. Well, I can make an egg. But who wants eggs all the time?

Getting latkes from the Jewish deli is a schlep worth making, especially if you get a pastrami sandwich to go with them (I also enjoy the turkey). In addition to the Jewish food on rue des Rosiers, the Marais is also known for its gay and Chinese communities, respectively. This means Jews can easily go for their typical Christmas dinner—Chinese food—while taking in the well groomed, smartly dressed men strolling by.

The first time I was on rue des Rosiers, I knew this was going to be something special. I was just visiting Paris then, and I was excited to be surrounded by “my people.” Surely I would feel at home in this foreign land once I was immersed in my natural habitat. I walked into a shop that sold everything from meats to pastries. As usual, I had trouble deciding what I wanted. And once I’d finally chosen from the vast array, I realized I could barely pronounce the words. I couldn’t even make a joke about how long I’d taken to decide. These weren’t my people. They were French.

The next time I was on rue des Rosiers I was pushing a baby in a stroller. We sat down at a restaurant and I ordered him his first latke. When it arrived, my excitement was palpable. I cut him off a piece, and he examined it for a while before finally putting it in his mouth. He loved it. Seeing my little mensch chow down on his potato pancake (more potato than pancake) warmed me almost as much as the food did. Later he broke out around his mouth in a reaction to the oil, and I broke out in guilt. Oily food and guilt: Maybe my Jewish mother instincts aren’t so off after all.

Now, in the kitchen, I eye the untouched latke left on my husband’s plate. I look at him, then back at the latke, then at him again. I broach the subject slowly, carefully: “So…are you going to eat that?”

His head is in the fridge, rifling through the vegetable drawer as he figures out what to make for dinner. “What?”

I sigh and roll my eyes. “I said, Are. You. Going. To. Eat. That.”

He glances over at the plate on the countertop. “Yeah, I’m saving it for later.”

I look at him incredulously. “I’m sorry, what is this ‘later’ that you speak of?”

He grins at me. “It’s called self-control.”

I have a look of utter confusion on my face. “I don’t understand you.”

He closes the fridge, shaking his head with a smile.

“Oy.”

The last time I was on rue des Rosiers we were celebrating Father’s Day. We went to the Jewish deli where I first got the latkes, and the four of us—me and him plus the four-year-old and the three-year-old—all indulged in giant deli sandwiches and, of course, latkes. It was a very Jewish meal, and I didn’t have to make it. The gentile husband was in his element. The kids whined slightly less than usual. And I knew who my people were.

© 2013, Melinda Mayor

Melinda Mayor is a writer-performer whose works include her one-woman show, “Jew! (A Musical),” various monologues and Meshugeneh Mama, her regular column for Message magazine. For more of her work see www.MelindaMayor.com.

For other work by Melinda Mayor on France Revisited see The Cranky Parent in Paris: Maman, Bébé and Unsolicited Advice.

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by Melinda Mayor

Attention. Watch out. She’s coming this way.

There is a menacing air surrounding the shriveled-up old thing, but this isn’t immediately discernible due to the swaths of decayed fur and sagging support pantyhose. Swaying against her cane, she peers up from beneath her limp white coiffure and tsks at you. And then it comes:

“Oh la…”

Never have two words been more degrading. The disappointment positively drips from each syllable. She isn’t looking at you, however. She is staring down at your baby. The grand dame of the supermarket stage gasps.

“Il a froid!”

You are completely taken aback, especially if you’re American or Canadian and therefore caught with a smile on your face. Who is this creature with one foot in the grave to tell you that your baby is cold? But of course it is your fault, as it was you who decided to risk entering the local Monoprix in the company of a person less than two years of age. This is the price you pay not just for being a parent, but for daring to leave your Paris flat at all. Mon dieu!

Sadly, this scenario is not an infrequent one: Each day, countless English-speaking mothers face the same fate (the number of French mothers who experience this is unknown, because their babies are in nursery school). A little old lady limps along the yogurt aisle, seeking something soft to sink her brittle teeth into. She has the cough of a thousand lions roaring, only now the lions are old and decrepit, so it’s more of a death rattle. The throaty cough is phlegmy and weak after a steady diet of a pack of cigarettes a day followed by an evening glass of champagne. That was in her youth, when she was all high heels and expensive parfum. Now her shoes are orthopedic and the perfume is at least a double dose. She has even bypassed the stage of elegance, where French women of a certain age outdo their North American counterparts by an embarrassing degree. No sweatshirts bedazzled with fuzzy animals for them; these French grand-mères are civilized, pantsuited and lipsticked with soft silver hair that glints in the light of their favorite museums.

But this buzzard in beige is past all that. She and her cronies (what is the French word for “cronies,” you wonder) skulk in slow motion along the edges of grocery stores and pharmacies like the Grim Reaper himself, if Death needed a walker. Their bloodshot eyes are constantly peeled for babies, poor innocent defenseless bébés with monsters for mothers, monsters who dress their children in nothing but the most threadbare t-shirt and shorts over a diaper when the weather is murderously hot. Bundle that child up, madame! It is only 30° in the shade! The poor thing will freeze to death beneath all that sun cream! Oh la, indeed…

It never fails. From the posh confines of the 16th to the village-like streets of the 18th, the ancient ones descend, on the lookout for new mothers whose nerves are already at the breaking point. It took all day just to leave the house, and all maman can think about is the possibility of her precious angel’s diaper exploding in a catastrophe of epic proportions (and smells). She is a wreck, feeling out of sorts on these Parisian streets, looking nothing like the chic and manicured woman she aimed to be B.C. (Before Children). She wants so badly to fit into her pre-pregnancy clothes like all the French mothers seem to do so effortlessly. For now, she will consider it a success if she can just get to Monoprix, just get outside and walk among the living for a while. That’s all.

Even if your French is limited, you can fight off one of these wizened harpies with a deceptively calm tone. “Il est content, madame” can be enough to briefly wound her, especially if said in a condescending tone. When the old bat insists that your baby needs socks, a hat, a snowsuit in July, try a sickeningly sweet, “Merci beaucoup, madame, mais il fait beau aujourd’hui.” If she hasn’t hobbled off yet, feel free to throw the niceties out the window and tell her off in English or Urdu or whatever the hell language you damn well please. Your confidence is shaken enough on a daily basis without this elderly Wicked Witch of l’Ouest messing with you. Let her have it. Then make your way back to your Paris apartment, still a charming abode no matter how many pieces of clothing covered in bodily fluids are lying about. It won’t always be this way. Your baby will grow into this life and so will you, and these blurry days will be nothing but a distant memory.

And all that will be left of that old crank is her cane.

© 2013 Melinda Mayor

Melinda Mayor is a writer-performer whose works include her one-woman show, “Jew! (A Musical),” various monologues and Meshugeneh Mama, her regular column for Message magazine. For more of her work see www.MelindaMayor.com.

Also see The Cranky Host, The Cranky Urbanist, The Cranky Foreign Resident and The Cranky Pedestrian.

The post The Cranky Parent: Maman, Bébé and Unsolicited Advice appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Due to the importance of agriculture and agricultural lobbies in France, French president Francois Hollande, following in the footsteps of his predecessors, made ample room in his schedule to visit the show, spending 10 hours there—impressive, though down from 12 hours when he was candidate for president a year ago.

After inaugurating the event, M. Hollande attended the milking of the cows, met with union leaders and producers, farmers, farmhands, and children, laid a presidential hand on one-ton beef cattle, futuristic cows and other precision animals, cute, wooly and otherwise remarkable, tasted enough cheese, beverages and other appellation delights to make a Francophile swoon, made a political declaration about the need for better labeling for beef in prepared dishes (response to horse meat scandal), and overall showed the manure-loving bonhomie that the exercise requires. So can you, minus the presidential hand.

I, meanwhile, at least in the morning, was over in a vast hall nearby tasting wine in my role as a judge for the Concours Général Agricole (annual agricultural competition) discerning, along with four cohorts, gold, silver and bronze medals to the best of the 15 Chateauneuf-du-Pape 2012 white and 2011 red wines.

For our joyful troubles we left with purple teeth, a medal of our own (see photo), an ice bag (not for our head but for chilling wine), and three invitations to attend the Agriculture Show during the week.

We’re giving those invitations to the first two people* to correctly answer the following question:

What appellation cheese is being made here?

Since no correct answers came from that clue, and since an image of this healthy meal enjoyed in that cheese town may not do the trick…

… then maybe it will help to know that the cheese bears the same as this church:

Send your response to moi, Gary Lee Kraut, at francerevisited@aol.com, with “Name that cheese” in the subject line.

If no correct answer is received by Tuesday evening Paris time, Feb. 26, then a final clue will be posted here as well as on my personal Facebook page and on the France Revisited Facebook page (new FB friends welcome).

Contest over, we have our winners. And the name of that cheese is….

… Saint-Nectaire.

Congratulations to our winners, Jennifer (2 tickets) and Lynn (1 ticket), and to the others who got the right name right if not fast enough.

*Name That Cheese Contest Rules:
– The first person to send the correct response will receive 2 invitations. The second person to send the second correct response will receive 1 invitation.
– One entry per person per clue. In other words, you can send your guess after the first clue and then a second guess after the second clue and a third after the third.
– Anyone can enter for the fun of it, however you must have a mailing address (it can be a hotel) within Paris or the Paris region in order to be declared a winner and receive the prize. The reason for this is that the show ends on Sunday and the invitations will be sent out on Tuesday or Wednesday, meaning they will normally be received by the winners with only two or three days to be used. You can wait until you have been declared winner in order to provide your address but please indicate your city of residence in your initial e-mail.
– No purchase required.
– Invitations cannot be sold.
– Prizes will be mailed out by regular J+1 priority mailing at La Poste.
– We/I cannot be responsible if the invitations fail to arrive on time and apologize in advance for postal delivery.

Attending the show with or without an invitation: The International Agriculture Show (Salon de l’Agriculture) at Porte de Versailles is open from 9am to 7pm until March 3 and also in the evening until 11pm on Friday March 1.

Tickets: €13; €6 for children from 6 to 12, students on presentation of ID, everyone on Friday March 1 after 7pm; €9 for disabled people (upon presentation of disability card) and the person accompanying them; free for children under 6.

The next Paris/France Revisited contest will take place during the week leading up to March 20.

The post France Revisited’s Agriculture Show – Name that Cheese Contest appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

You see, I normally speak to groups that invite me because they’re interested in the subject of my talk, whether some aspect of travel, wine, culture, writing or travel journalism. But at this recent event the group didn’t have any prior interest in France as far as I could tell, so I was unsure about the best approach to speak to them about the country where I live.

Wine was off-limits, they were underage.
Writing was inappropriate, they weren’t very experienced readers.
Pictures, alright, but to show what? Had they even heard of the Eiffel Tower?

So the twelve 4-year-olds of my neice’s pre-school class gathered around me along with their teaching assistant and I started off with a few pictures.

To my surprise, some of them did recognize the Eiffel Tower.

When I asked if they knew anything else about France one boy proudly volunteered that his mother was French. I asked if he knew any French words but he said he couldn’t remember.

I showed them pictures of castles and of kings and queens and princesses. The girls said “Ooooooh!” and claimed to recognize some of them. The boys, not to be undone, said they saw the movie.

They gathered closer as I showed them a picture of my French cat, not telling them that he’d died two years ago, and I taught them how to say cat and dog and mouse and elephant in French.

Most fun of all I had them hold onto each other’s shoulders and taught them how to dance the can-can. One girl had a purple ribbon in her hair.

They were an attentive audience, and I was relieved that no one asked what my favorite restaurant is in Paris and no one’s cell phone went off during the 30-minute talk, which regrettably ended due to snack time, where no one sidled up to me with a glass of wine to ask how to get a work permit in France or the name of a good but reasonably priced hotel in Avignon or to tell me that their daughter would be spending a semester abroad in Lyon.

Instead they had cookies and apple slices and juice and sensed that their parents would soon arrive.

When they did, I asked the teacher to point out the mother of the boy who’d told me that his mother was French.

I went up to her and said, “Bonjour. Your son tells me that you’re French.”

“I’m as French as mud,” she said, or something to that effect.

And his grandmother said, “Is he making up stories again?,” as the boy skipped off to look for a friend.

© 2012

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The tethered helium balloon in Parc André Citroën on the southwestern edge of Paris offers a queueless, stepless view of the expanse of the city and of its southern and western suburbs.

You might see the balloon in the sky as you pass the strange, stone stair-boxes at the eastern entrance to the park.

The RER suburban train line C passes this way along the Seine. You’ll see it going by as you rise in the balloon.

The park is in the former village of Javel (hence the name of the nearby metro and RER stations). In the late 18th century a French scientist set up a factory in Javel to manufacture a chlorinated bleaching powder. Because of that, bleach in French is called Javel or eau de Javel. The park, however, honors the 20th-centry industrialist André Citroën (1878-1935).

As the balloon rises and you look up the river you begin to see the top of the Eiffel Tower.

In 1915 the engineer André Citroën set up a factory initially producing shells to supply the army during WWI. After the war he converted the factory to the construction of automobiles. The automobile production facility moved out in the early 1970s and the company headquarters moved out in 1982.

The park now occupies 35-acre site of that site. It’s is a playful city park with fountains and greenhouses, intimate corners and an open lawn, and diverse vegetation.

Thirty adults or more children can go up at once for to 10 minutes of air time, which is sufficient to take in the wide view, including the towers of the suburban business district of La Défense.

With binoculars or a camera you can zoom in for a closer look of the towers rising beyond the woods of the Bois de Boulogne that form western lung of the City of Paris.

The world’s first manned balloon flight blew over Paris in 1783.

The current balloon was installed in Parc André Citroën in 1999. Aérophile, the Paris-based French company that installed this balloon, has also placed tethered balloons in cities and theme parks around the world, including in the United States Disney World (FL), Wild Animal Park (CA), and Conner Prairie (IN).

No, the basket didn’t sway…

I just took angled shots.

It’s actually a smooth ride, just hold onto the railing at take-off and landing.

At 150 meters (492 feet), the full extent of the balloon’s tether, you’ll have view of the full expanse of the low, dense city of Paris framed between the Eiffel Tower on the left and the Montparnasse Tower on the right.

Getting there: Metro 10 or RER C to the Javel station. Or perhaps stop by when returning to the city from Versailles, in which case you can get off at RER C station Boulevard Victor.
For more information: Ballon Air de Paris
Ballooning times: 9 a.m. to 4:30/6:30pm, depending on the season. It’s grounded during adverse weather conditions; if in doubt call ahead at 01 44 26 2o 00 or see the Ballon Air de Paris website.
Price: Adults 10 or 12€, 12-17 years old 9 or 10 €, 3-11 years old 5 or 6€, infants free. Higher price is for weekends and holidays. Little to no wait on most days.

– photo and text, GLK 2011.

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