I keep confusing Marie Bouillon and Maron Bouillie. One is the designer with an infectious smile and the other is the brand with lilting humor. When I phone up Marie and call her Maron—or is in the other way around?—she answers as though the two were interchangeable.

So I’ve checked my notes once again. Yes indeed, Marie Bouillon is the one who has playfully teased her name into the tradename Maron Bouillie. It’s the Maron Bouillie products—fabric tote bags, shoulder bags, storage boxes, purses, clutch bags, cushion covers and book covers—that are digitally printed with photographic images that speak of daily life in France.

Learning sewing from her mother as a child sparked Marie’s interest in fashion design. Fashion interested her as a field “teeming with ideas and creativity,” but while at fashion school in Paris she was put off by the push to conform to a business model requiring significant investment for the development of collections with a limited life cycle. After completing her studies in 1999, she began working independently and has done so ever since. She created her company Maron Bouillie in 2003.

Not that Marie wouldn’t be thrilled for her products to be considered as “fashionable,” she says, but she sets out to create to create timeless, useful products that contain touches of humor and poetry. Furthermore, she recognizes that by selling shopping bags, for example, at 30€ or shoulder bags at 125€, her artisanal, small-series pricing is higher than what trendy young women are typically looking to spend for a fashion accessory.

Her collections are inspired by various, often shopping-related aspects of life in France, from food markets to bread to old boutiques to flea markets. Images are printed on both sides of the recycled plastic fabric as well as on the strap and bottom of bags and storage boxes so that the narrative runs throughout the product. The objects depicted often define the size of the object created. For example, her market collection plays with the dimensions of each vegetable so that a bag imprinted with an image of, say, zucchinis or leeks is the size of those zucchinis or leeks, or the bread collection that includes a baguette-size tote with four sides, each presenting an image of a different type of stick of bread.

In addition to the market and bread collections, others focus on images of retro boutiques or vegetables (for storing veggies in the kitchen) or letters of the alphabet. Items also remain available from older collections imprinted with images of Provence and of second-hand goods. There are notes of French or Parisian clichés to some of these but especially notes of authenticity and cheerfulness, making them delightful gifts for Paris-lovers and other Francophiles, including yourself.

The full range of products can be seen on Marie Bouillon’s website, maronbouillie.com, through which the vast majority of Maron Bouillie products are sold. Some items are carried by shops in Japan since several years after creating her company she began working with a partner in Japan for distribution and production there. In France, she remains a one-woman show. Products sold online may be made in Japan or France. Those indicated as being made in France are fully made in France. All are made primarily of recycled plastic, though some with lining of organic cotton.

Having said all this, your best introduction to Marie Bouillon’s work is through her own explanation in this France Revisited video.

© 2019, 2020, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Shopping: Maron Bouillie by Marie Bouillon appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Before the tracks of the RER suburban line were laid, Parisians commuted to and from the suburbs via steam trains. On the east edge of the city, Vincennes-bound travelers boarded at the Bastille where a grandiose station, inaugurated in 1869, handled 30,000,000 passengers per year in the 1920s. The rise of the automobile diminished its use and the last train pulled out of the Bastille in 1969. While the Gare de la Bastille had a brief stay-of-execution through its transformation into a concert venue, it was razed in 1984 to make way for the Opéra Bastille.

The Coulée Verte, loosely translated as the Green River, now follows the trace of the old rail tracks beginning behind the opera house. From there it snakes through the 12th arrondissement, a part of the city little explored by visitors, unless they might be visiting the Marché d’Aligre Beavau, one of the most vibrant food market areas (part indoor, part covered) of Paris, and its neighboring restaurants, cafés and wine bars.

Setting out from the Bastille, the path is elevated along the old viaduct, now called the Viaduc des Arts, whose arches are home to elegant craft stores and workshops. Beyond the viaduct, the path lowers into a neighborhood park before winding its way through the varied urban landscape toward the edge of the city, occasionally branching out into broad picnic areas and playgrounds.

This variety adds spice to the trail since almost every conceivable approach to urban landscaping is tried and tested somewhere along the route. There are bird sanctuaries, bike paths, formal rose gardens and several stretches where weeds go wild. There’s everything but the kitchen sink. No, you actually can see kitchen sinks as you amble past people’s 4th floor windows on the elevated sections.

The most extraordinary architectural highlight offered by the Coulée Verte’s elevation is a view of the chorus line of Michelangelo slaves that adorn the top two floors of the Police Commissariat at 80 avenue Daumesnil. The building screams 1930, but it was designed by Barcelona-based architects Manuel Nunez-Yankowsky and Mirian Teitelbaum in 1991. The balcony apartments shadowed by those mighty stone thighs are reserved for police personnel.

The Coulée Verte René-Dumont was originally called the Promenade Plantée, the Planted Promenade. In emphasizing its greenery it also took on the name of René Dumont, an agronomist and one of the fathers of France’s ecological political movement. Paris has a second Coulée Verte, the Coulée Verte du Sud Parisien, that’s especially worthwhile for leisure bikers. It begins toward the southern edge of the city, behind the Montparnasse Station, and extends nine miles to the suburb of Massy.

The Coulée Verte René-Dumont is partially bikable but only parts are truly bike-friendly. Walking shoes are the best bet here. This Coulée Verte is best approached via metro Bastille or Ledru Rollin. There are then a number of stair entrances up to the planted promenade on the viaduct. For an approach without stairs, the Coulée Verte is accessible via the entrance on rue Jacques Hillairet (near Metro Montgallet) and by the Surcouf elevator in the same general area.

If you plan to wander hors piste for sustenance, Le Viaduc Café (43 avenue Daumesnil) makes for a fine pause for coffee or lunch. The above-mentioned Aligre Beauvau Market is also well worth a detour, particularly if you’d like to picnic along the Coulée Verte. The market (closed Mon.) is in fact a notable place to begin or end an exploration of this area.

Train buffs may want to picnic in the newly renovated gardens of the Gare de Reuilly at 6 rue Dukas/181 avenue Daumesnil, a rare vestige of the old Vincennes line that has survived and that lives on as a neighborhood community center.

The Coulée Verte opens at 8am on weekdays, 9am on weekends and holidays. Closing times vary from 6pm to 9:30pm depending on the section and the season. See the City of Paris website for times.

Text and photos by Corinne LaBalme.

The post The Coulée Verte: A Green and Gentle Promenade in Eastern Paris appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

Meeting a coffee roaster hadn’t crossed my mind as I planned a brief stay in this corner of Provence, but I’d come looking for passionate purveyors of fine food and drink, and coffee seemed like a great place to start.

1. Yves Aubert-Moulin, coffee roaster

Yves Aubert-Moulin was discussing blends with a customer when I arrived at Cafés au Brésil, a few streets from the café on Place de l’Horloge where I’d read the news. Tall, young, eager, confident and engaging, he seemed more like an ambitious apprentice than a nationally recognized expert. That impression, I soon learned, was close to the truth: Mr. Aubert-Moulin had gained his expertise through an apprenticeship in that very shop or, equally significant, by falling for the owners’ daughter.

“I got into coffee by getting into the family,” he said.

He has worked in the Bouquet family’s coffee shop since 2008 and is now married into both the family and the business, a find blend indeed.

Out of some 600 coffee roasters in France, Mr. Aubert-Moulin was named France’s Best Coffee Roaster of 2012 in an annual competition among six finalists organized by the French Coffee Committee.

Café au Brésil,  24 rue des Fourbisseurs. Tel. 04 90 82 49 71.

2. Les Halles d’Avignon, the covered food market

The wall above the main entrance to Les Halles d’Avignon, the indoor food market, on Place Pie, is covered by a vertical garden, the work of Patrick Blanc, a French botanist responsible for the creation of many such gardens around the world.

Mid-morning,  was bustling with passionate purveyors and their knowing consumers. Its 40 stands make this an ideal place to get to know the foodstuffs of Provence, especially if on a limited time-budget in the region. Turns out this is also a great place to run into some fine chefs, among them Jean-Claude Altmayer (see #5 below), whom I was introduced to as he was kibitzing with his chef and market buddies over coffee.

The market is open mornings daily except Monday, 6am-1:30pm on weekedays, 6am-2pm on weekends. Free cooking demonstrations are held in the little kitchen at the market on Saturdays from 11am to noon.

3. Arnaud de la Chanonie, wine-seller

Late morning is said to be the ideal time for tasting wine before one’s taste buds have been overly solicited and assaulted by a midday meal. But it was too early for me to lift a glass today. Nevertheless, the moment was right to stop at Avitus, a classy wine shop that doubles as a wine bar in the heart of the old town, so as to meet owner Arnaud de la Chanonie.

Avitus is named for a Gallo-Roman emperor from Auvergne, the large region on the western side of the Rhone from which Mr. de la Chanonie’s family hails. But Avignon is known as the capital of Cotes du Rhone wines so the shop/bar is naturally heavy on wines from the Rhone Valley.

Even before a cork has been pulled one senses in speaking with Mr. de la Chanonie the elegant expression of the wines sold here. His approach in presenting the wines he sells is amiable, discreet and informative—altogether helpful if looking for the right bottle to go with the picnic you’ve prepared at Les Halles to take down by the Rhone.

Personally, I already had lunch plans, so I returned to Avitus early evening two days later before leaving Avignon on a 9pm train. It was a Friday, early evening, wine bar time. Mr. de la Chanonie is a fan of jazz, swing and blues. It’s occasionally played live here but was recorded this evening. Between the music, the chummy conversation about wine and whatnot, and the coming and goings of what seemed to be regulars, Avitus felt like a speak-easy. I didn’t see the time pass and wished that I’d taken a later train… the following day.

Editor’s note: Since the initial publication of this article, Arnaud de la Chanonie has moved Avitus to the town of Pernes-les-Fontaine, 15 miles east of Avignon, where it is no longer a wine bar but still a wine shop, at Marché de la Gare, 217 avenue de la Gare.

3. Renaud Tisseur, restaurant owner, Le Bain-Marie

Renaud Tisseur is a likeable presence in a most likable restaurant.

He credits his mother, Régine Viaud, with his devotion to serving quality food within the peaceable setting of the walls of a 14th-century mansion surrounding a plane tree-shaded courtyard. She had opened a first Bain-Marie in 1979 and moved it to this location in 1988, maintaining it until her death. It was reopened in 2006 by Mr. Tisseur.

The restaurant’s soothing seating lends itself to easy-going romance and other meals requiring unpretentious comfort. The menu, reasonably priced, even inexpensive considering the quality, leans easily on French and Provencal culinary traditions with a distinct fondness for foie gras, filet de boeuf and scallops along with assorted herbs and a touch of mother’s generous personality—or at least from what I imagine to be her personality from the small collection of her recipes that Mr. Tisseur has published.

Le Bain-Marie. 5 rue Pétramale. 04 90 85 21 37. Open lunch and dinner Tuesday to Saturday.

4. Aline Géhant, chocolate maker

Aline Géhant’s rise in the ranks of chocolate-makers took a major leap when she won the Young Talent Award at Paris’s chocolate trade show, le Salon du chocolat, in October 2011. That award and a taste for good chocolate (I’d selected a light dessert at Le Bain-Marie) had brought me to her shop. But it wasn’t the taste of the chocolate that first led Aline Géhant to her craft at the age of 25. “I fell in love with the material,” she said. Working with only one apprentice, she still very much has her hands in it.

I went Provencal that afternoon with a tasting of her lavender, thyme and fig ganaches—with a special fondness for the thyme—and a few other pralines and classics to go.

Asked if she was interested in adding pastries to the mix as other chocolate-makers do, she said, “I’m not interested in pastries, either making or eating them… I prefer cheese.”

Aline Géhant Chocolatier, 15 rue des 3 Faucons. Tel. 04 90 02 27 21. Open Tuesday-Saturday 10am-1pm and 3-7pm.

5. Jean-Claude Altmayer, chef

Jean-Claude Altmayer is the most exuberant chef I’ve ever met. Perhaps that’s because he has nothing more to prove in the kitchen—he says that he’s cooked for five presidents—but simply enjoys the pleasure of his craft and of direct encounters with his guests, his convives.

On Tuesday and Wednesday evenings and upon special request, Mr. Altmayer receives up to 16 guests by his “piano,” a more than centenary stove in the basement of an ancient cardinal’s palace that is now La Mirande, Avignon’s luxury boutique hotel, right behind the Popes’ palace.

I went to the hotel in the late afternoon. The reception staff was politely wary about my request to make an impromptu visit to the chef in the basement but Mr. Altmayer welcomed me without hesitation and invited me to have an aperitif of white wine as he finished prepping for the evening’s meal.

He spoke with passion about his past experiences, encounters with the famous and the not, and his current guest table, all the while revealing his generosity of spirit through he’s joyful scraping out of scallops from the shell

and his handling of bloody pigeons

and his stirring of a large pot.

Several months after my aperitif interview, I had the pleasure of attending one of Mr. Altmayer’s dinners, where his craft, his tales of meals past and his generosity of spirit were all on display. He’s as much a bighearted chef as he is a jovial performer. As chef, he prepares a meal of rustic gastronomy, rich in the French traditions of freshness, precise timing and earnest, recognizable taste. As performer, Mr. Altmayer is a natural who makes everyone feel like a special guest attending a singular event.

When reserving (done though the hotel), be sure to mention any food allergies or major dislikes. However, unless you’ve reserved the chef’s table for your own private group it’s best to leave your food issues upstairs and simply arrive honorably (not overly) dressed and with an open appetite and a sense of culinary joy. Being an undemanding guest is the best way to allow Chef Altmayer, as he stands before his “piano,” to be a wonderful host.

The aperitif (which may be served in the sub-basement wine cellar), followed by a 3-course meal including wine and accompanied by Chef Altmayer’s “performance” and cooking tips costs 86 euros. That may not be appropriate for everyone’s budget, but if the price is palatable and you’re lucky enough to get a seat at Chef Altmayer’s table this may well be your most memorable indoor meal in Provence.

La Mirande, 4 place de l’Amirande. Tel. 04 90 14 20 20. Jean-Claude Altmayer isn’t the chef of the hotel’s gastronomic restaurant on the ground floor but rather the host of an extraordinary guest table in the ancient basement, where he cooks for up to 16 guests on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings and upon special request.

6. Philippe and Daniele Hiély, restaurant owners

An aperitif with Jean-Claude Altmayer is a tough act to follow, but the transition to dinner turned out to be smooth and effortless and an admirable act in its own right.

Thanks to the combined passions of Philippe Hiély as master of the kitchen and Daniele Hiély as mistress of the dining room, La Fourchette is friendly, fine-fared Avignon institution where local regulars and visiting tourists happily coexist.

Monsieur’s extensive menu of polished French traditional cuisine ensures that there’s something to please everyone, though the choice may be difficult, while Madame’s good humor in the knickknacked dining rooms—walls decorated with forks and cicadas—ensures that you’ll be able to take your time in choosing.

They Hiélys opened La Fourchette in 1982, so just imagine the complicity that’s necessary to be caught on camera 30 years later like this:

La Fourchette, 17 rue Racine. Tel. 04 90 85 20 93. Open Monday-Friday.

7. Michel Blanc, wine promoter

Michel Blanc represents the winegrower of this Chateauneuf-du-Pape with infectious brio. His title is Director of the Federation of the Unions of Chateauneuf-du-Pape Producers (Fédération des Syndicats des Producteurs de Châteauneuf-du-Pape). That sounds stiff and officious, but Michel Blanc comes across as a joyful wine aficionado who’d be happy to swill any wine with you (and you with him) at a wine festival.

Mr. Blanc and I did actually have the occasion to swill together at a wine festival, la Fête de Veraison, a celebration of Chateauneuf-du-Pape that’s held the first weekend of August. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Six months earlier, on my initial visit to Chateauneuf, the day after the food and drink encounters in Avignon (9 miles south) described above, we met for lunch at the well-fed, wine-happy restaurant La Mère Germaine.

Tastings that morning at Chateau Gigognan and at Domaine de Beaurenard had put me in the mood to learn more about Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

In 1933, Chateauneuf-du-Pape became the first winegrowing region in France to define parameters by which producers could use the appellation. It’s that head-start as a winegrowing area (7959 acres of it) defining terroir and the general conditions for producing quality wines that brought Chateauneuf-du-Pape its international fame. When I grew up 1960s and 1970s, the name Chateauneuf-du-Pape was synonymous with wine sophistication—not that we know anyone whoever drank it. The international wine market has become too vast and varied for a single appellation to be so evocative these days, but Chateauneuf remains a most curious appellation producing a variety of quality wines, some superb, mostly red. White wines represent about 7% of the production and are well worth discovering.

The curiousness of this appellation—and the difficulty of getting a handle on its wines—stems from its diversity of soils (clay and/or sand, often remarkable for their natural carpet of large pebbles and sharp calcareous stones) and of grape varieties allowed in production (13 in number, some with sub-varieties, led by granache, with syrah, mordèvre and cinsault a distant second, third and fourth).

Over lunch we made stops at Clos Saint Michel, Domaine Durieu and Domaine Grand Veneur.

That first visit to Chateauneuf may not have turned me into an unconditional fan or a connoisseur, but having tasted dozens of other Chateauneuf’s since then, studied (well, a bit) an awfully big book on the subject, “The Chateauneuf-du-Pape Wine Book” by Harry Karis (with forewords by Robert Parker and Michel Blanc), revisited the town during its August wine festival and taken part in the grand mass of French wine tasting in Paris with a seat at one of the Chateauneuf tables on the national jury of the Concours Agricole at the Salon de l’Agriculture, I credit Mr. Blanc with turning me into a curious occasional consumer of the wines he so passionately represents.

The passion of a purveyor of fine food and drink rubs off—a good reason to seek them wherever you travel.

© 2013, Gary Lee Kraut

Also see Avignon: Practical Information and Choice Accommodations and Black Diva and the Roman Theater of Orange.

The post Profiles in Provence: Passionate Purveyors of Fine Food and Drink in Avignon and Châteauneuf-du-Pape appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

***

When I stop wandering, I want to settle down in a village in Southern Europe.

I want to spend summer evenings in the village square, where lovers kiss on benches and older couples walk hand in hand, where villagers drink wine and pontificate about politics in sidewalk cafes while their dogs lie quietly beneath their chairs before rising to greet canine friends—like the children who slip away from family dinners to careen around the fountain, splashing in it on hot days.

Perhaps I’ll settle in Spain, where families eat tapas while young people on motorbikes putt-putt around and around the plaza.

But then there is France, which is quieter yet still alive and faultless meals are prepared from fresh local ingredients.

Or Italy, perhaps, in a village with a piazza where impeccably dressed people linger over pizza they eat with a knife and fork, finishing their meal with a minuscule cup of espresso.

No matter where I settle down, most days I’ll cook a meal for my husband and myself. We’ll walk to the town center (yes, maybe it will be more than a village, an actual small town), where fresh produce is displayed on sidewalks before small family-owned shops. I will select meat carefully at the butchers and send Dave to the bakery for fresh bread.

It will be like the time I followed our Italian host and hostess as they prepared Sunday lunch: first to the fish store to choose clams, mussels and calamari, later to be served over al dente pasta, then to the cheese shop, then to the bakery. In each shop we were greeted warmly and offered tastes of flavorful cheese, sausage or sweets. Then to pick up wine from a local winemaker. Like our hosts then, I’ll bring a jug with me and, after tasting several wines, choose one and fill my jug with it from a large wooden keg.

I wonder if I have to choose my wine first in order to better choose my village? There is a village in Southern France where I purchased the most wonderful wine at the local cave for only a euro a liter.

On market days, rather than be a stranger to sellers I’ll be a regular customer, bantering with them about their red, yellow, orange and green peppers, inquiring about this week’s sausages, this season’s cheeses, discussing the day’s catch with a fishmonger, her fish fanned out on ice like a hand of playing cards, glistening with freshness. I’ll know how to pick the sweet local melons and the purple and green figs. A young woman selling cheese and wearing a low cut blouse will tempt my cheese-averse husband into a purchase as she leans into her refrigerated case to grab a goat cheese.

We could purchase a white house with brilliant blue shutters in Greece, where market stalls are filled with nuts, raisins and other dried fruits, where carcasses of sheep and goat hang neatly in a row, alongside rabbits skinned except for their fuzzy tails. We could choose between a half-dozen different kinds of olives; mounds of black and green—I would know them each by name, or at least Dave would since he loves eating olives almost as much as he enjoys shopping for cheese.

Perhaps we’ll live in Rovinj, Croatia, where every day is market day, and from morning ‘til dark, rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables provide color beside ancient stone buildings by the sea.

Would we miss France too much if we settled in Croatia? Would we find ourselves dreaming of the creamy cheeses, berries, truffles, herbs, and lavender in southern France? Or would we feel nostalgic for Spain, where market tables are covered with sacks of powdered herbs and spices of rich and exotic hues? Or for the tomatoes of Italy so sweet they could be candy?

How would I choose? If not by the wine or by the tomatoes then perhaps by the sound. In Italy people are effusive; they talk loudly and shout at each other then kiss on the cheeks. Would we become like that? In France, the language is lyrical and romantic, and people are patient with me when I haltingly and inadvertently destroy it. In Eastern Europe, folks are more reserved, but always respond cheerfully to a friendly greeting.

People who live in the villages I loved as we traveled through their land were warm and inviting. How would it be different if we lived there?

In the Italian countryside, an Egyptian immigrant opened his door to offer a warm bed to two strange travelers on a cold night. In Greece, we were offered food.

On the Greek Easter holiday, in the mountains of Crete, a man blocked our way… out of kindness, motioning us into his door, pantomiming an offer of beverage. We met the family. His mother, Maria, smiling, stood about three feet tall, dressed all in black with traditional headscarf and apron. As we took a seat, his brother brought in half a goat (“that can’t be for us,” we thought), and while he quartered it we were offered the Greek aperitif ouzo. Then food started to appear on the table while the meat roasted in the fireplace (“perhaps it is for us…”). Tomatoes, home grown olives, bread, Easter cakes, and beer. A delicious stew of lamb, artichokes and lemon, and finally, the grilled meat landed on our plates. All without a common language.

Later we watched the local holiday celebrations. At midnight there were bonfires and fireworks in the village square. But first the village priest walked through the village, stopping at each house. Every stop lengthened the procession. What a joy to live here and join the other villagers, ducking under a flower-covered canopy carried on the shoulders of four burly men. Their tradition would become our own.

Holidays seem more special in villages and small towns than in cities, just one more reason to aim small. And it need not be a holiday to be a festival. In France they celebrate truffles, garlic and bread. There are peach (pêche in French) festivals and fishing (pêche in French) festivals, and I would hopefully know which one someone is talking about if I were to settle in Provence. And of course, wine festivals. But there is no need for a festival to celebrate the wines of France; every evening meal is a “fête du vin”.

Beauty is celebrated in the Umbrian village of Spello, Italy. Might flowers grace my doorway here, where each year a prize is given to the house with the most attractive floral decoration? Would they give a prize to a foreigner? Or would I no longer be a foreigner? Every street is alive with color as each old stone house is dressed with pots and hanging planters overflowing with the glory of spring. On a feast day we’ll dance to traditional music and eat ours way down the cobbled yellow streets. We’ll start with an aperitif at the church at the very top of this hill-town, then, descending lovely square by lovely square, stop for antipasto, pasta, veal, desert and finally espresso.

During the First of May in Conversano in southern Italy, young and old stroll to the square where thousands of colored lights hide the facades of ancient buildings. The entire piazza lights up bright as day, including the gazebo in the center where a brass band plays. If we lived there, perhaps Dave would take up the saxophone again.

But most rural life is quiet, people provide their own entertainment, whether through sport or music or food or conversation. And that would suit me well, when I stop wandering.

But it is so hard to choose.

Passing through the varied landscapes and varied architecture of southern Europe is entertainment in itself. Medieval villages made of stone or plaster cling to mountainsides, huddle in valleys or stand high on mountains where church steeples crown the hillside, their silhouettes standing out against a sunset of red, pink or purple.

In France, we are thrilled by winding, narrow streets made of dark stone. The brilliant white plaster houses and orange roofs of Southern Spain take our breath away when lit by the sun. Flowers stand in pots before doorways and fill boxes below windows framed with wooden shutters that really work. In Slovenian Alpine villages flowers are everywhere, they even pour from barn windows. Woodpiles in Croatia are stacked in orderly perfection; we saw one stacked into the shape of a house.

When I settle down, I want my window to look out onto a village street. I want to walk through picturesque alleys to the bakery for a breakfast of bread still warm, or for a fresh local pastry to accompany an espresso. I want to hear music resonate against stone buildings. I want to open my shutters and smell the flowers. In a language that will become increasingly familiar to my tongue I will greet people and celebrate each holiday with them. My entertainment will be to sit by a cafe table in the square sharing a bottle of wine with my husband, perhaps friends and neighbors, a dog at my feet, someone else’s children splashing in the fountain, mine long grown.

And where might this café, this village square be? What country’s waters will flow from its fountain, with what language will I struggle? In what country will I find both mountains and seas, flowers lining quiet streets? Where will I find the creamiest cheeses, the finest wines, the most colorful markets? Where will I listen to a lyrical language offered with courteous finesse?

When I finally arrive, when my wandering is limited to a stroll to an evening’s repast, I suspect that I will say, “Bonsoir, Monsieur, une table pour deux, s’il vous plaît.”

Or perhaps I’ll say nothing—he’ll simply know who we are and why we’ve come.

Text © 2011, Judy Kashoff
Photos © Dave Kashoff

First published on France Revisited and Europe Revisited.

Other articles by Judy Kashoff include “Quakers in France: Finding Friends in Languedoc” and “The Natural Pleasures of WWOOFing in Europe.”

The post Village Life: When I Stop Wandering appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

The golden fruit has been part of local history for at least five centuries and has brought the town prosperity and fame for close to 150 years. It has provided a steady source of income, attracted an increasing stream of visitors, inspired painters, poets, and master chefs, generated festivals and even caused the odd death or two.

The first Cavaillon melons of the year, reared in heated greenhouses, appear in April. They tend to be crunchier and less aromatic than those that follow. From May to mid-June, melons grown in unheated greenhouses dominate the market. They prepare the palate for the peak of the season, from mid-June to September, when the melons ripen in the fields and cross the taste boundary from mortal fruit to heavenly ambrosia.

History of a melon

Melons have been cultivated in the Cavaillon region since at least 1495, when Charles VIII is reported to have brought some seeds back with him from Italy, where melons were raised in the country gardens of the popes, in Cantelupo, near Rome. Known as Cantaloup melons, chances are that they had already been introduced to Provence a century and a half earlier, when Avignon was the official residence of the popes. The highest representatives of the Catholic Church certainly consumed melons, very much a luxury delicacy at the time, with a relish bordering on religious fervour. Pope Paul II was such a melon glutton that he died from gorging himself on them in 1471, and Pope Clement VIII may have been struck down by a similar fate in 1605.

In Cavaillon, the real “gold rush” began in the second half of the 19th century when the weekly fresh produce market became so busy that the municipal council could proudly note that it “excites among the neighbouring towns, not jealousy, but astonishment and admiration.”

Among the admirers of Cavaillon’s delicious melons was the writer and bon-vivant Alexandre Dumas (The Count of Monte Cristo, The Three Musketeers, etc.). In 1864, when the new municipal library asked popular French writers to donate some of their works, Dumas responded promptly. As generous as he was prolific, he donated all 194 of his published works to Cavaillon and promised to send a copy of all his future publications as well, on just one condition: a life annuity, of twelve melons a year. The town fathers were delighted to grant Dumas his request, and until his death in 1870, a dozen melons were dispatched to him every summer.

The melon variety grown in Provence since the mid-1920s is the Charentais, originally developed in the Charentes region in west-central France. Charentes remains a major melon producer, though the region is more famous for its alcohol: Cognac. The Charentais melon of Cavaillon is a fragrant star of the European cantaloupe family and at its best is far more succulent than the North American cantaloupe. In fact, the North American cantaloupe is technically a muskmelon and its net-like or webbed rind quickly differentiates it from the skin of the European canteloupe.

The Charentais can be either lisse (smooth-skinned), or brodé (its skin “embroidered” with a filigree of raised markings). The potent perfume evokes violets, jasmine and almonds when the fruit is not quite ripe, and later develops into a honeyed concentrate of apricot, passion fruit and banana. The fragrance pervades every market stall and shop where melons are sold and embalms every table where they are served. The taste lives up to the divine smell: the bright orange flesh is luscious, juicy and honey sweet. Furthermore, a 7-ounce serving provides plenty of Vitamin C, but only 100 calories, which makes greed without guilt a delicious possibility.

Gastonomony and the melon

An important chapter in the recent history of Cavaillon as melon capital of France began in 1978 when Jean-Jacques Prévôt, a chef from the far north of France, was driving by and his car broke down in Cavaillon.  Little did he or the good town folk suspect that the gastronomic Golden Age of the melon was about to begin. In the 24 hours it took to make repairs, Jean-Jacques met his first Charentais melon and the girl he wanted to marry—the one introducing him to the other—and he decided to stay for love of them both. Twenty-six years later, he is Cavaillon’s “Monsieur Melon”: no one else has explored the versatility of the melon with more ingenuity and passion than he has; no one has been more ardent and persuasive an ambassador for the golden fruit.

The eponymous restaurant he opened in 1981 is dedicated, in the best of tastes, to the melon. The bright, elegant dining room was redecorated in a purer style last year, with the melon theme not as omnipresent as it once was at first glance. But look around and you still find it everywhere, from the napkin rings and cutlery on the tables, to the antique melon knives, pitchers, plates, and sculptures on display, to the paintings, cartoons, and sketches on the walls. Even the buns come in the shape of a melon! Thankfully, every object has been so lovingly and expertly chosen that the collection does not fall into the kitsch trap.

Melon-mania

Jean-Jacques’s boundless enthusiasm for all things melon has spread throughout Cavaillon. A brotherhood known as the Conférie des Chevaliers de l’Ordre du Melon was founded in 1987 to preserve and promote the glory of the local fruit. The melon-loving popes would have approved of these apostles who conduct their business with all the ritual solemnity of a Holy Order. Clad in black robes, wearing a melon medallion, rather like a tastevin, on a broad ribbon around their neck, the Knights of the Melon do not shrink from hyperbole. During his inaugural speech, the Grand Melon Master, Emile Morlot, proclaimed: “The melon IS Cavaillon!” and went on to cite the 20,000 tons of prime Cavaillon melons produced locally every year.

The enthronement ceremony with which the brotherhood welcomes new members every year has been a majestic mainstay of the annual melon festival of Cavaillon ever since it was launched in  1997. “Melon en fête” stretches over several days in mid-July and gives young and old their fill of melons, not just fresh from the fields, but also candied, baked, cooked into jam, distilled into liqueurs, coated with chocolate, in short, served up every way you can possibly imagine and some you have not even dreamt of.

All of Cavaillon is caught up in a veritable “melon-mania”. Pyramids of melons dominate the market square; melon paintings are exhibited in the streets; a communal banquet featuring melon dishes is held under the plane trees: bus excursions tour the local melon farms; pastry chefs and chocolatiers vie with each other to come up with the most imaginative melon speciality. Should anyone find this just a tad too much of a good thing, the program also includes all the more general, classic ingredients of any good town fair, such as a parade, concerts, dancing, market stalls, and pony rides.

Once the July melon orgy has passed, Cavaillon settles down again and visitors get the chance to see that, besides melons, the town has a Roman arch, a 12th century hillside chapel and hermitage, a splendid synagogue and cathedral, a museum of Jewish heritage, and an archaeology museum.

As for the golden globes that are Cavaillon’s glory, they continue to ripen in the fields until September, condensing the sunshine of Provence into a little piece of taste bud heaven.

How to choose a melon
Tips provided by Jean-Jacques Prévôt of Restaurant Prévôt, 353 avenue de Verdun, 84300 Cavaillon. Tel. 04 90 71 32 43.

Look at it: A melon should have spotless skin veering towards a pale gold, with bluish-green stripes marking its segments

Pick it up: A melon should be heavy, gorged with sugary juice and flesh.

Examine its “tail”: The stem end should be thick and green, indicating that the melon has been picked within the last three days. A circular crack should show around the stem, from which a drop or two of dark-red, crystallised juice sometimes oozes. This is a sure sign of a well-ripened, sweet melon.

Take a deep sniff: The stem end should smell nothing less than divine!

Now change ends: The bigger the blossom end of the melon, the better. Many people claim that melons with big “mamelons” (nipples) are females, but melons are unisex. The large blossom end is the result of dried flower remains rubbing against the melon, which stimulates its defence system and produces a tastier fruit.

© 2010, Ester Laushway

Ester Laushway has consumed the beauties, wine and food of Provence without moderation for the past 15 years and lived to tell the tales. She holds a degree in oenology, works as a restaurant critic for the Gantié Guide, and organizes food and wine tours.

The post Savoring Provence: The Charentais of Cavaillon, a Succulent Superstar of a Melon appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

I don’t mean to be sexist about this but there’s something sad and unseemly about grown women endlessly tweeting, FBing, blogging, and otherwise texting about what they ate, are eating, and will eat. And it is indeed mostly bloggeuses who operate these chew blogs—their male counterparts at least throw in some wine, perhaps a few beers, before going off to playing with their Wii.

But it isn’t the sex of a food blogger that’s the problem rather the lack thereof. The libido of these wannabe Julies (or is it Julias?) is exclusively and obsessively directed toward what can be bought, prepared, and swallowed. Other than that there’s no there there.

Blogs are of course obsessive by nature. But the better blogs, whether about food or travel or anything else, manage to attach to their chosen obsession some analysis or contemplation or reflection or conviviality surrounding their subject—in short, some humanity, something to share. These aren’t geek blogs about “Mafia Wars” or iPhones, these are supposed to be about food and all that involves: earth, life, culture, exchange, breaking bread, shared conversation, a personal and collective quest for substance and sustenance.

The majority of food bloggers, however, offer neither substance nor sustenance. Even when they present recipes they aren’t really sharing so much as letting you know how they kept busy before sitting down to eat. And there’s never a surprise ending since every mouthful ends with a self-congratulatory “Mmmm!!!”

You can tell a blogger’s at a complete loss for words when there’s a post that contains five close-up images of an éclair in various states of consumption, with the heading “Stopped at Chez Madeleine on the way home. Mmmm!!!” I wish they’d put even a tenth of the time they spend thinking about what goes into their mouth into what comes out of it.

Don’t get me wrong, I have great respect for food writing. There are some very palatable, informative, and entertaining food blogs out there, though I can’t think of any offhand. Perhaps readers can tell me some so that I might present as the plat de résistance. (Disclaimer: Food writing is also a part of my work, though I am more a travel writer and advisor than a food writer.)

Good food writers manage to talk about food while showing some connection between a given food/product/restaurant and people, place, culture, history, geography, economics, even themselves.

Bad food bloggers try to give themselves kitchen cred by dropping names:
“I ate at that bistro that Mark Bittman wrote about in the NY Times and it’s as good as he says it is. Here’s the link to his article.”
“Michelin gives it three stars but I’d only give it two.”
“I started with the Barefoot Contessa recipe but gave it my own personal twist because my favorite vegetable seller Claude had THE BEST avocadoes at the market today.”

They would have us believe that they spend their time hobnobbing with farmers, fishmongers, butchers, produce sellers, and chefs of all kinds, but, like an actor trying to learn acting by watching sitcoms, their characters inevitably come directly from central casting.

Read enough such food blogs and you realize how much of it is food porn, only instead of penetration and bad acting they show engorgement and bad writing, with an apron as protection instead of a condom. “Eat it, baby, eat it… Yeh, lick that hot emulsified sauce, you know you like it! Go ahead, fork it.” Go down on a few of these blogs and your gag reflex kicks in within a few inches.

No wonder “Gourmet” magazine folded. Their readers were too busy blogging about everything they ate to want to cut out and save actual articles. (On the other hand, “Gourmet” had become a hyped up version of those same blogs.)

Bad food blogs are irrepressibly cheery. That might sound like a good thing. Indeed, initially the image they present of the happy, venturesome foodie seems sweet and appealing enough. But follow them for three or four posts as they go about their daily search of multiple Mmmm!!! food orgasms and you’ll find that these food bloggers have created a disturbingly manic food persona for themselves. They are constantly applauding themselves for having a kitchen, an appetite, and a camera. The bad food blogger’s syllogism goes as follows: I love food. You love food. So you love me.

I think I’m going to be sick.

(c) 2010, Gary Lee Kraut
Recipe for this article

Servings: Self
Calories: 0
Preparation time: 24-36 hours
Temperature: May be served hot or cold

Ingredients: 6-10 food blogs, 1 keyboard, 1 website

1. Select 6-10 food blogs. You can get these through your local “food blog” search but I prefer the peppery expression of those available in specialty searches such as “French food blog” or “Italian food blog” or “Southern food blog” or “lonely foodie wants the world to know she exists” or “wealthy traveler finds purpose in life in food.”

Blog posts should be fresh, frequent, and colorful. Look for large gaps of 2 months of blogging as this may be a sign of nervous breakdown. Be wary of a series of blog posts that consist of unformatted images showing close-ups éclairs and cupcakes as these contain few textual nutrients. Avoid blogs that make excessive use of links to articles and videos that are not their own as they contain large quantities of free radicals.

2. Once you have selected food blogs of sufficient self-indulgence, eliminate skin of attitude. Read each for 10 minutes.

3. (optional) Brown slightly by posting one-line comment on Facebook or other social networking site. This may cause loss of some amigos and followers but will bring out the flavor in others.

4. Let simmer for 12-22 hours. Some rant may spill well before then, but personally I like to wait. My own method is to begin this recipe between midnight and 2 a.m. then let simmer until the following evening, however that schedule may be impractical for some. Stir occasionally. Avoid further blog searches as that will dampen spontaneity of rant.

5. When ready, quickly stir until all blogs are fully blended, then place rant layer by layer without allowing previous layer to cool.

6. (optional) I also like to add a glass of whiskey at this point, but other beverages are also possible. Alternately, coffee may be used, but I suggest adding that well before midnight so as to avoid ranting through the night.

7. Limit rant to 2 hours and 800 words. Larger quantities tend to dilute the original flavor of the blended blogs.

8. Select and format photo. Any image showing the author enjoying local food will do.

9. Let sit on desktop overnight or at least 3 hours.

10. Reread, eliminate excess fat, and smooth transitions without seeking perfection as this is intended for relaxed consumption.

11. Serve. I like to use fine France Revisited dishware for this.

The post Roasted French Food Porn (Includes Recipe) appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

For one, the town’s Notre-Dame Quarter has one of the most attractive market squares in the Paris region, part of the planned 17th-century layout that fans out from the palace. The current covered markets that enclose the square, Halles Notre-Dame, date from 1841.

It’s along that market square that Patricia Boussaroque, freshly graduated from the celebrated Ecole Cordon Bleu in Paris, recently set up a cheery and intimate kitchen-workshop, where she offers two- and three-hour cooking classes in the preparation of classic (and occasionally contemporary) French dishes and desserts.

In Paris there are dozens of possibilities for taking cooking classes lasting anywhere from one hour to one year—in schools, in kitchen supply stores, in restaurants, in private homes—so one needn’t go out to Versailles from the capital just for several hours in a kitchen. But what’s special about the prospect of an easy-going class with Patricia is the way in which it can contribute to a full, leisurely day in Versailles, both town and palace.

As a chef Patricia doesn’t have decades of professional culinary experience in her hands since for twenty years she worked in the corporate world in human resources. Until recently, tying on an apron had largely been an amateur passion not a career. Her atelier cuisine is now the result of well-baked career change.

After obtaining her Grand Diplôme from the Cordon Bleu in the spring of 2009, she found this unique location by the market to install a bright, convivial kitchen-workshop and began sharing her passion as a professional in September.

Set dates for daily classes in French are posted on Patricia’s website, yet the most enjoyable way to include a cooking lesson from Patricia on a Versailles outing would be for you and your traveling companions to arrange a private class. Patricia, who speaks fluent English, can either privatize an already scheduled class for your own small group or create a special class for you outside of the posted schedule, beginning with a tour of the market below.

Patricia’s affable, easy-going approach to cooking classes make them attractive to casual chefs, a group of friends, or families looking to bring home some French culinary experience and more than a taste of history when they visit Versailles.

© 2009, Gary Lee Kraut

L’Atelier Cuisine de Patricia, Place du Marché Notre-Dame, 4 rue André Chénier, 78000 Versailles. Tel. 01 71 42 82 42. www.lateliercuisinedepatricia.com.

Halles Notre-Dame, the covered markets of Versailles, are open Tuesday to Saturday 7 a.m. to 7:30 p.m., Sunday 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. The best time to visit is when food market stalls also occupy the square outside from 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. on Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday.

Note: The palace, the Notre-Dame market, and Patricia’s atelier are all closed on Monday.

The post Patricia’s Casual Cooking Class in the Town of Versailles appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

So it was with Fabien Nègre at Le Cotte-Roti, a year-old “bistronomic” restaurant near Marché d’Aligre in the 12th arrondissement. With his doctorate in philophy and post-graduate degree in economy, professional experience in radio and television, and expertise in gastronomy and cigars, Fabien Nègre is the kind of person whom you can ask how he got from there to here and then sit back and enjoy the ride.

Marché d’Aligre, the nearby food market, is notable for its own pairing of character and history. The neighborhood of a food market is traditionally prime territory for homey bistros and rustic wine bars. For the latter, Le Baron Rouge is now part of the city’s folklore, so if you’ve never been there you might push past the smokers outside and cozy up to a barrel for a glass of down-home red before going for the more refined stuff at Le Cotte-Roti two blocks away.

While traditional bistro and ethnic fare is found all around this market area, we’ve come to Le Cotte-Roti to examine a more contemporary development in Paris market (and non-market) neighborhoods, something that has in the past few years come to be called bistronomy.

Bistronomy is a combination of bistro and gastronomy. The term best applies to bistros where the chef continues to emphasize seasonal produce and nearly traditional recipes while displaying his knowledge and interest in more polished or sophisticated cuisine. These are indeed bistros since the additional elements required of a truly gastronomic restaurant—elegant services, fine tableware, more expensive produce, a section-by-section kitchen staff, a decorator—may be absent.

A number of famous (read: trademarked) mid-career and older chefs who have made their name in gastronomy now have an adjacent business of bistronomy, while opening such a restaurant is now also a way for chefs in their 30s to try to strut their stuff and take full control at an early stage in their career.

The term bistronomy is naturally a fad, a bit of a marketing ploy by which its owner or chef claims to be a cut above the ordinary bistro. Yet beyond the easy way the word rolls off the tongue lies the sensible notion that traditional French cuisine evolves and that gastronomy is just another of saying a good meal. Add to that the notion that a hungry traveler can have a relaxed, well-conceived meal in an unpretentious setting at an inviting price.

Le Cotte-Roti is a classic example. It is an open 30-seat space that’s pleasant enough without having any particular charm. Service is kind if direct. The chef sometimes gives a hand in the dining room. A three-course meal is currently an honest 30€ without supplements. One comes for the food.

Thus a tasty October lunch with Fabien of hare terrine containing bits of foie gras; braised veal tournedos with stewed mushrooms; a fruity-cum-earthy bottle of Faugères, a Syrah-Mouevèdre-and-then-some blend from the Languedoc region.

Re-thus a notable November dinner with Jean-François (who not only allowed me to share in the conversation but also in his meal) of oeuf mollet frit, a fried soft-boiled egg on a pesto-lined “dipping” bread; a mi-cuit foie gras terrine; a succulent scallop and potato purée dish; a sea bream (dorade/daurade) on a bed of salsify heightened with white truffle oil; poached quince with a triangle of French toast; poached pear on a creamy rice putting laced with caramel. Wine: Saint Joseph 2006, a Syrah from the northern portion of the Rhone Valley.

All these are good examples of bistronomy’s enhanced bistro fare and of someone giving it his best effort in the kitchen. Regarding those efforts, the foie gras lacked umph (and curiously of toast), an indication that one can’t expect the chef in a two-man kitchen to do everything well.

Nicolas Michel, 33, owner-chef of Le Cotte Roti, is in many ways the classic example of the type of culinary beginnings and ambition that have led to such praisable, acceptably-priced bistronomy. His C.V., punctuated by the names of notable restaurants, also serves as a language lesson for anyone looking to learn the terms for kitchen help in French: stagiaire (trainee/intern), divers extras en cuisine (various on-call jobs, i.e. Hey, Nick, I need someone to help out Saturday night, are you free?); 1er commis de cuisine (basically the cook helper); demi chef de partie (somewhere between a commis and a section head): chef de partie (section head);chef de cuisine (head chef); second de cuisine (sous chef); chef cuisinier (big boss, accompanied here by the title propiétare-gérant/owner-manager)

Cotte-Roti is a play on words involving the name of the street (rue de Cotte) and the Nicolas Michel’s reverence to Côte Rôtie, the Rhone Valley appellation that has made a name—and a price—for itself over the past decade. Mr. Michel, having lived in the Côte Rôtie area for two years, is a big fan of these wines. Sold here at 80-90€ per bottle, they can overwhelm the price of the meal. That’s not a judgment, just an observation. Indeed, despite the moderate price of bistronomic meals such as served here, bistronomy does assume a clientele capable of spending more and of aiming high when in the mood or at the appropriate occasion. Most wines here are priced in the 30-45€ range on a list that sits broadly in Côtes du Rhone, therefore mostly Syrah, territory, while occasionally spilling north to Beaujolais, Burgundy and the Loire, and west to Languedoc as during my lunch with Fabien Nègre.

As for what Fabien was telling me during this time, there’s no need for me to repeat it here. You’ll soon be able to sit back and enjoy his affable, wide-ranging conversation yourself by reading his series of portraits of some of Paris’s most celebrated chefs to appear on France Revisited beginning with his portrait of Guy Martin of Le Grand Véfour in February 2009.

Le Cotte-Roti, 1 rue de Cotte, 12^th arrondissement. Near Marché d’Aligre. Tel. 01 43 45 06 37. Metro Ledru Rollin. Closed Sun., Mon., Dec. 25-Jan. 1, three weeks in Aug.

Le Baron Rouge, 1 rue Théophile Roussel, 12^th arrondissement. Near Marché d’Aligre. Tel. 01 43 43 14 32. Metro Ledru Rollin. Closed Mon.

© 2008, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Le Cotte-Roti: Exploring Bistronomy Near Marché d’Aligre appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.