Best viewed on a full screen with sound on.

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This evening I’m going out to the Vendeen countryside, south of the Loire near the Atlantic Coast, to embrace the new year with closest of friends.

“Are you going to make us those fat crepes again?” said my godchild when I told her I was coming. “They’re called pancakes,” I reminded her. Since I won’t be arriving until the evening I’m dispensed from helping to prepare tonight’s festivities, and in exchange I’ll be making pancakes in the morning. I’m bringing along some Cary’s Canadian maple syrup, hoping to pass it off as Gary’s.

I could have purchased my train ticket online but I like the sense of happy anticipation is buying it at the station. So I biked over to Gare de l’Est, the East Station. (This evening I’ll take the train southwest from the Montparnasse Station.)

I walked back and on the way, not far from the station, I visited the little garden square beside Saint Laurent Church. The exceedingly December weather has allowed it to remain green

and in flower.

It’s a hopeful garden square. The installations and plantings were done by people accompanied by Emmaüs Solidarité along with local volunteers, as is written on the sign.

Emmaus http://emmaus-france.org/ is an organization founded in France after the Second World War by Abbot Pierre (Henri Grouès) that aims to fight poverty and improve the conditions of those living in poverty while calling on the public and on government to act in solidarity with the poor.

We’ll be eating well this evening as we toast the new year, followed in the morning by pancakes, with much else in store for the weekend. Meanwhile, this charming little garden reminds passersby of the possibilities offered by peaceful earth. Rhubarb, for one.

It reminds us of the need for shelter.

It reminds us of the need for community, family and friends.

It reminds to build good

and better lives.

It reminds us that the needs of a man who would cultivate a small plot of earth,

the needs of a woman who would paint a shell

the needs of a child who would play in a city square,

and the needs of a man who would sleep in a public garden

are also our needs.

Beside the square, the church visible today is the third on this site. The first was built as part of a monastery dedicated to Saint Laurent in the 5th century. Saint Laurent was born in Spain then lived in Rome, where he helped the indigent. That was in the third century, before Christianity held sway in much of Europe, when the Roman authorities sought to diminish its appeal and get a hand on the expanding treasure of the early popes. Rather than see that treasure fall into the hands of the Roman authorities, Lauent distributed it to the poor. When asked to produce the papal riches he pointed to the poor and said, “There are the treasures of the Church.” His martyrdom involved being burned on a grill.

The current Saint Laurent Church was begun in the 15th century, with work on the flamboyant Gothic interior continuing for over 200 years .

Several men were praying in separate chapels. A woman in the welcome booth by the creche was moving her lips while reading a book. A woman was sleeping against a column. So was a man.

I emptied the change in my pocket into the collection box, selected a candle and lit it with the flame of another.

I’m not Catholic. I don’t pray. But as I placed the long thin candle in the holder my mind flickered between the man sleeping nearby, my departure this evening for a joyful New Year’s Eve, the pleasing continuity of renewing for 2016 my resolutions of 2015, plans to call family in the U.S. tonight, tomorrow’s pancakes and Friday evening’s Euromillion lottery.

I saw a scribe and decided to write this before leaving Paris to celebrate the new year.

Wishing a happy, healthy 2016 to all. Bonne année!

Gary Lee Kraut

Dec. 31, 2015

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Still, something has to be done with them, so two weeks ago I set the end of the year as my deadline do something with these pages torn from different size notebooks, these partially legible Post-its and other bits and pieces, odds and ends and scraps and fragments of text.

It was easy enough to clear the brochures and press kits that lie about the room (to the garbage for most), but some of this may be gold dust.

Late at night—always at night—I’ve been filing, processing, digitalizing or trashing them: knickknacks of ideas, pieces of intended articles, wise phrases that may or may not be mine, descriptions without objects, analyses without context, dialogues without place, places without event, restaurant reviews set aside before the waiter arrived, notes from interviews that fell flat, daydreams from the rails (I like writing on trains), conversations heard and overheard, half-finished vignettes.

A friend came over the other day. Can you tell the difference? I asked. He looked around the room. Well, it looks like you made piles.

But the piles then shrank, and now, the new year almost here, there’s only one small pile left. Only a handful remain.

June. Standing on my balcony. A couple seated at the single table on the terrace of the restaurant across the street. A man scrapes his plate repeatedly with his forks. He then switches plates with what must be his wife and starts scraping hers. “Hey,” my neighbor Mme C shouts from her window. “can’t you eat normally? Eat some bread if you’re still hungry.”

At a party I go into the kitchen to look for a corkscrew. The hostess is in there putting a pie on a plate. “Get out of here,” she says, truly distressed. “I hate having men in the kitchen.”

M’s restaurant recommendations: Ratapoil, rue de Faubourg Possonnière; KGB, rue des Augustins; (illegible), rue du Faubourg St Denis; Pierre Sang, rue Oberkampf.

Walking with a long-lost friend around Chatelet-Les Halles looking for a place to have lunch. We pass a bistro where I have a vague recollection of a fun evening at a table by the stairwell, though I can’t recall with whom and whether the food was any good. I suggest we go there. We have a great time catching up, but the food is horrible. I have a limp and chewy steak with greasy fries. He has tasteless duck. We share a small carafe of teeth-staining rotgut. I now remember the last time I was there. The food was horrible then too. I was with A. and G. We’d laughed about what a poor wine choice G. had made and agreed that I should choose next time.

Metro. A man holding a large can of beer tells a story to himself about the time his protagonist was accused of not paying for his coffee. In his story there is a Chinese man, an Algerian woman, a fat bartender, a man lying on the street. “He’s tired. He slept on the sidewalk. You almost stepped on him. He was by the side. You could see him.” As he speaks, the man’s eyes are fixed on the shoes of a fellow standing nearby, who then moves his feet to escape his stare.

Sully-sur-Loire. 1 of 27 chateaux Sully owned. Copy of tomb here, original in Nogent. Bombardment by Italians in 1941, by Allies in 1944 (to destroy the port). 80% destroyed. Joan of Arc was here. Ark of the Covenant, Germigny.

“Strasbourg mon amour” press conference. Strasbourg is now promoting itself as a Valentine’s Day destination to copy its own success as a Christmastime destination. Christmas Market dates to 1570. Massacre of Jews in Strasbourg on Feb. 14, 1349.

Everyone looks old at a funeral.

A 15-year-old boy hugs me at the end of a week-long tour I’ve been giving to a school group. “I love you,” he says. I’m touched and embarrassed and glad that the accompanying teachers didn’t hear. Then a giant of a girl, 16, hugs me and says that she loves me, too, and several others, mostly the girls, do the same. Saying they love someone is apparently their thing. The oldest of the boys, 18, laughs. “How come you don’t love me?” I ask. “I don’t need to tell you,” he says, “you know I do.”

There, done, the final scraps of 2014 have been processed… with you as my witness.

I am so looking forward to sharing 2015 with you.

Dec. 30, 2014.

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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 didn’t promise 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?

Nevertheless, there’s no denying that the holiday season is upon us in France as elsewhere and that a traveler may well wish to embrace it. The City of Light, which, ironically, has some of the wimpiest holiday lighting of any major capital north of Belgrade, has actually perked up a bit this year in some quarters. You’d think that high brand shops were about to invade the Marais the way they’re stringing lights up there this year. (Well, actually the invasion has begun.)

A Christmas Tour of France
France may be a deeply secular nation, but everyone gets into the spirit of what are called “les fêtes de fin d’année”, the year-end holidays, meaning Christmas and more. Allow me then to take you on a tour of the Christmas season through Alsace, Champagne, Lille, Lyon, Provence, Nice and Paris in an article naturally entitled A Christmas Tour of France. The tour starts here.

A Winter’s Woodcock Tale
The approach of winter, in addition to bringing phone scammers invariably called Anne-Sophie promising to send burly men with accents to check out the electrical installations in the dangerously wired apartments of little old ladies (and writers working from home), has inspired a wonderful little essay about woodcocks (recipe included) by British journalist Janet Duignan, who lives in Dordogne. Read ” Winter’s Woodcock Tale here and learn about 250 years of fine-feathered cuisine and the ideal woodcock wine.

Paris Restaurant News: Eggs-istentialism and Dining à la car(te)
Meanwhile, back in Paris, contributor extraordinaire Corinne LaBalme presents two worthy restaurants and a side order of less worthy puns. First, on the Champs-Elysées, Corinne goes dining à la car(te) in order to test drive the menu at Renault’s newly re-conditioned showroom/restaurant. Then, in the Odeon Quarter, where philosophers, revolutionaries and writers once roamed, she visits a chic new bistro that offers diners tasty lessons in eggs-istentialism and the pleasures of carpaccio-diem.

On the radio with Peter Greenberg
Someone also forgot to tell me that I was on American radio a few weeks ago. That someone is the producer of Peter Greenberg’s show The Travel Detective. But no harm done. An astute and most thoughtful reader, to whom I’ve now promised coffee and a kiss on each cheek, eventually tipped me off with a message asking “Was that you on the radio on Nov. 1?” as though there might be a parallel universe where another Gary Lee Kraut operates a web magazine called France Revisited. Luckily the Nov. 1 show is available in podcast for those curious to know how I answered Peter Greenberg’s questions about how travelers should best to approach Paris and where to find the best macaroons and chocolates in the city. You can find the podcast by starting here.

The gift of travel
Finally, I’d like to tell you how you can contact me and my little elves to order a most fantabulous tour de Paris as a holiday present for your friends or family or self. But after the French Black Friday fiasco I don’t want to do anything to encourage Le Cyber Monday. So I’ll get back to you on that next week.

Happy travels always,

Gary

Read the next post on the Editor’s Blog here.
Read the previous post on the Editor’s Blog here.

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As the daylight dims and the cool air blows, travelers in France from late November to early January—and beyond in some areas—will find a bright and warm mix of regional, national, commercial and religious traditions throughout the holiday season.

Christmas Eve, rather than Christmas Day, is the privileged family time in France for presents and an abundant dinner, followed for some (relatively few) by midnight mass in some of the country’s magnificent medieval churches and cathedrals. There are then generally leftovers of fine food and drink and, hopefully, family spirit, too, to enjoy on December 25th.

Let’s take a tour of the Christmas season in France through Alsace, Champagne, Lille, Lyon, Provence, Nice and Paris.

(The dates in this article are for the holiday markets and events of 2014 however these are all annual happenings that take place about the same time, give or take a day or two.)

Alsace

One of the most recognizable features of the Christmas season is the Christmas market, rows of chalets (wooden or make-shift shopping huts) set up as early as mid-November in public squares and along major streets to sell folklore, craftsmanship, much food and drink, and Christmas or gift knick-knacks of all kinds.

The tradition of Christmas markets likely originated along the Rhine, leading Strasbourg, which dates the origin of its market to 1570, to call itself “Capital of Christmas.” While otherwise known as capital of Alsace and seat of the European Parliament, Strasbourg pulls out all the stops when it comes to the holiday season.

The most animated of Strasbourg’s Christmas markets surrounds its Notre-Dame Cathedral, whose tremendous steeple dominates the cityscape.

Head due south from Strasbourg and you enter Alsace’s wine route whose bare vines contrast in December with the cheery main streets of picturesque villages, such as Riquewihr and Kaysersberg, that ward off the frost with the warmth of Christmas decorations, mulled wine, gingerbread, small biscuits called bredele and a Bundt-type cake called kouglhof (spelling varies).

Eventually one reaches Colmar, another hotspot for Christmas markets, and beyond that Mulhouse. Mulhouse, a major player in the European textile industry from the mid-18th to the early 20th centuries, produces each year a new Christmas fabric (this year an adaptation of a late-19th-century motif) that decorates the city and is translated into various derivative products.

For more specifics visit the official tourist information sites of Alsace, Strasbourg, Colmar and Mulhouse.

Champagne

Champagne may call to mind the celebration of New Year’s Eve more than Christmas, but Reims, the largest city in the region and home to some of the world’s most elegant champagne houses (i.e. producers) also unfurls an extensive Christmas market along Place Douet d’Erlon, center-city’s main pedestrian drag, and neighboring streets.

The official tourist information site of the city of Reims is found here.

Lille

Lille isn’t quite the North Pole but it’s about as close as one gets while still in France. Never one to miss out on a good party (accompanied by beer rather than wine), Lille gets into the seasonal spirit at its two central square: Place Rihour, which is transformed into an 80-chalet village from Nov. 19 to Dec. 30, and Grand’Place , where a 59-foot pine stands along with a Ferris wheel offering a view over the city. The market fills the square from Nov. 19 to Dec. 30. See Lille’s official Christmas market site here.

Lyon

Lyon’s dazzling Festival of Lights (Fête des Lumières) isn’t directly related to Christmas but nothing announces the winter holiday season better than long nights brightly lit. From December 5 to 8, France’s third largest city is lit by more than 70 different major creative light installations, a brilliant event that draws the oohs and ahhs of 4 million visitors.

For more about Lyon’s Festival of Lights see here.

Provence

North Americans sometimes have trouble associating Christmas with warmer climes since our own Christmas decorative and culinary traditions are rather Alsatian-Germanic in nature. But the nativity story takes place in a bald Mediterranean landscape whose white stone hills have more in common with Provence. In fact, some of world’s must ancient Christian traditions developed in Provence.

While Americans fully enter the Christmas season the day after Thanksgiving, Provence tradition would have it last from the Feast Day of Saint Barbara (Sainte Barb) on Dec. 4 to Candlemas (Chandeleur) on Feb. 2. According to legend, if one plants a plate of wheat at home on Dec. 4 and if by Dec: 25 it grows to a healthy green tuft then abundance will follow in the next harvest. As to Feb. 2, a date Americans are more likely to think of this as Groundhog Day, that’s Candlemas on the Catholic calendar, commemorating the purification of Mary after childbirth and the presentation of Jesus in the Temple. That’s the date when crèches are taken down.

Where better to consider Christmas in Provence than in Avignon, the town that the Catholic Popes called home during through most of the 14th century, when they temporarily abandoned squabble-ridden Rome. One of southern France’s most expansive Christmas markets takes place (this year Nov. 30-Jan. 4) on Avignon’s main square, Place de l’Horloge, around the corner from the Popes’ Palace, the town’s major tourist attraction. Among the many manger scenes set up around town, one of the most outstanding typically occupies a portion of the lobby in City Hill, which is also on Place de l’Horloge.

Beginning about the third week in November, crèches begin to be set up in villages and cities throughout the region. And in those crèches you’ll find dozens of figurines called santons. Santon comes from the Provencal word santou, meaning little saint, though few of these figures are now sainted. Santons of the holy family are naturally central to the crèche, but the vast majority of them represent characters of folklore and everyday life in the ideal, traditional Provencal village. While traditionally made of clay and hand painted, other materials such cardboard, cork, or even paper are used by some santonniers, as their creators are known. These cute, naïve and/or humorous figures are typically thumb-size, so taking a dozen home in your suitcase is no problem. Doll-size and baby-thumb-size santons also exist.

Santons are so anchored in Provence that shops sell them year-round, but to buy them in the Christmas spirit the best place may well be Marseille, where they’re said to have originated. Since 1803 Marseille has its Foire aux Santons, an annual traditional nativity fair where santons and other crèche features can be bought. This year’s fair will be held Nov. 15 to Dec. 31. Aix-en-Provence has had its own santon fair since 1934 (this season Nov. 20-Dec. 31), Arles has been celebrating all things crèche since 1958 (this season Nov. 15 to Jan. 12) and the small town of Carpentras also has a nice market for these precious figurines.

In Avignon as well as in other crèche-proud towns of France, one can follow a special route (le Chemin des crèches) to discover different animated and illuminated nativity scenes. Other regions also have crèche-routes outlined though villages, so don’t hesitate to inquire about crèche routes wherever you may travel during the holiday season. Whether travelers partake in it or not, they’re certain to hear along the way about the Provencal tradition of the 13 desserts of Christmas, which ends the Christmas Eve meal known the big supper (le gros souper). The desserts, numbering 13 in honor of Jesus and the 12 Apostles, consist of dried fruit and nuts, fresh fruit and sweets.

For further details about the above-mentioned towns and cities see the official tourist information sites of Avignon, Marseille, Aix-en-Provence, Arles and Carpentras.

Nice

Though the Riviera holds back on its winter exuberance until the February Carnival/Mardi Gras season, Nice hosts the largest Christmas village of the coast west of Marseille. From Dec. 6 to Jan. 4, Place Massena is given over to 60 chalets, a skating rink and lights galore, while concerts and other events are held on Place Garibaldi on weekend and school holidays. See here for official tourist information about Nice.

Paris

There’s no sweeter place to hunt for Christmas pastries than Paris, where you’ll find some of the best traditional and creative yule logs or buches de Noël, feasts for the eyes as well as for the mouth. The yule log is a log-shaped cake traditionally made of sponge-type cake and chocolate buttercream and then more cream. They can be found throughout France, but their greatest expression graces the fine pastry shops and tea rooms of Paris, where now anything goes as long as it’s got the general shape of a log and a gazillion calories. Though most come in family-size versions, the solitary or coupled traveler will find single or double portions as well.

As a whole, Paris doesn’t display the same seasonal fervor as, say, New York, but its major department stores take to the holiday spirit as eagerly as anywhere. This is particularly the case at the department stores Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, behind the Garnier Opera on Boulevard Haussmann, where families and shoppers (or gawkers) of all ages come to admire the year’s display of lights and window dressings.

The City of Light itself has Christmas markets at the bottom of the Champs-Elysées near Place de la Corcorde (Nov. 15-Jan. 5), at the Montparnasse Train Station (Dec. 4-31), Trocadéro, outside Saint-Sulpice Church (Dec. 1-24) and Saint-Germain-des-Prés Church (Dec. 6-Jan. 2) and in Montmartre (Dec. 5-Jan. 4), as well as the town of Versailles (Dec. 5-26) and other near suburbs. The English version of the official Paris information site is found here.

Bonnes fêtes de fin d’année!

© 2014, Gary Lee Kraut

A slightly different version of this article also appears in the Nov.-Dec. 2014 issue of Travelworld International magazine

The post A Christmas Tour of France appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

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 did indeed take great pleasure in putting together the current issue of France Revisited, and I like to think that those who contributed to this issue enjoyed doing so as well, as will you in reading/traveling with us to four very different parts of France: Paris, Auvergne, the Riviera and the Loire Valley.

25 Paris Restaurant: A List Beyond The List

A 2-part article that discusses why so many travelers have the same restaurants on their list (part 1) and suggests 25 restaurants to expand that list (part 2), including recommendations kindly contributed by six Paris-based French and American food journalists and bloggers.

Moulins (Auvergne) and the National Costume Center

I travel deep in the heart of France to the little-known town of Moulins, which reveals the fabric of great theater at the National Costume Museum. This year the museum celebrates the 450th anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth with an exhibition of costumes from some of the bard’s most emblematic plays.

Le Ciotat: A Splash of Reality on the Riviera

Corinne LaBalme forgoes the Saint Tropez glitz-krieg and heads for the refreshingly quirky (and under-hyped) port of La Ciotat to enjoy great food, unspoiled beaches and affordable prices in one of the all-too-rare Mediterranean enclaves that’s escaped paparazzi pollution.

Blond Girl in Saumur: When Our Eyes Met for the Second Time

A photo/video-log from the Loire Valley in which I remember when travel was less about fooding and more about flirting, less about getting reservations and more about losing inhibitions, less about looking for recommendations and more about following your own nose.

Enjoy the read. Enjoy the travels.

Happy Labor (of Love) Day.

Gary

Gary Lee Kraut
Editor, France Revisited

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Wishing you a bright and joyful holiday season.

Enjoy the ride as the new year comes ’round again.

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* * *

By Max Kutner

Passover was one week away and I knew no one in the city. I had just moved to Paris from New York for a five-month séjour and, having always celebrated the holiday at home, I searched the Internet for community Seders. France has the largest Jewish population in Europe; I figured finding a way to celebrate the holiday wouldn’t be difficult. It wasn’t. Chabad popped up near the top of the list.

As a twenty-four-year-old Reform Jew, I knew little about the Chabad-Lubavitch movement of Orthodox Judaism, only that if you can’t find them they’ll find you. In Paris so far my only contact with the men of Chabad had been to ignore them when they approached me near the falafel stands on rue des Rosiers in the Marais. I didn’t know what to expect from the Seder. Would it go on for hours? Would it be entirely in Hebrew? Would men and women have to sit separately? Leaving my comfort zone was part of what I liked about getting to know Paris.

Chabad was easy enough to find—and it was right on the Champs-Elysées, at least the address was. The Arc de Triomphe was glowing a few blocks away and tourists sat at sidewalk cafés under heat lamps. The Chabad building was unmarked, hidden among the street’s bright lights and stores. I knocked on an enormous door and a man emerged to let me in. He lacked the coat, hat and beard that I thought all Chabad men wore, so I was unsure if I was in the right place. I nevertheless followed him down a long, dark hallway, worlds away, it seemed, from the bustling Champs-Élysées. The hallway ended at a courtyard, where a more traditionally dressed Chabad man greeted me.

“Chag Sameach,” came a voice from between the man’s hat and beard. “Happy Passover. Speak English?”

“Oui, mais je parle français aussi.” I answered.

I had seen too many Liam Neeson movies and thought for sure I was about to get taken so I wanted him to know that he couldn’t pull one over on me in French.

He pushed open the door behind him.

The lobby was more welcoming than the courtyard had been. I approached some English speakers, explored some Jewish geography and discovered that one of them grew up in the Long Island town next to mine.

When it was time for the Seder, we headed to a room that doubled as a banquet hall and chapel. There was a Torah ark along one wall and shelves holding prayer books along another. In the center of the room were four rectangular tables with ten chairs each. We were invited to take a seat.

My tablemates included Sam, a middle-aged man from Los Angeles who worked in “investments and gold” and looked like my former therapist. There was Asher, a seventeen-year-old from Pittsburgh who was taking a break from living on a kibbutz to travel Europe. There was the thirty-something Long Islander from the lobby and his wife. They had recently moved to Paris from Brooklyn. And then there was our table leader, a member of Chabad, who was probably younger than I was, although he seemed to have a few centuries on me.

It wasn’t clear when the Seder actually started. Aside from major songs and prayers, each table moved at its own pace. I struggled to follow along with the mix of French, English, and Hebrew. Chairs squeaked as the Orthodox participants rocked back and forth. At one point we had to pour drops of wine into a bowl to commemorate the Ten Plagues. Growing up, I had always dipped my pinky in wine and dabbed ten drops on a plate, so the pouring was unfamiliar to me. I poured one drop too many and my table leader gasped.

I considered an early departure, but all that praying had worked up my appetite and I had no Passover food in my apartment.

Dinner was served: salmon with mashed potatoes, diced beets and carrots. Thinking this was the whole meal I licked my plate clean and ate whatever matzo remained on the table. Then, to my surprise, out came a second dish of meat and more potatoes. The food tasted fine in the moment, but soon after I felt like an Eleventh Plague had hit me, my punishment for spilling that extra drop of wine.

It was late by the time we finished dessert, and the Seder showed no signs of wrapping up. The Rabbi told stories in what was to me incomprehensible French. Dirty dishes cluttered the wine-soaked table. There was no break in the action for me to say “merci” and “aurevoir,” so I made a quiet exodus. Rejoining the crowded Champs-Élysées, I felt like a free man. It’s what Moses would have wanted.

I had moved to Paris for new experiences like this. But that Seder just made me miss my family in New York. I missed my brother, with whom I used to perform scenes from the movie The Prince of Egypt for Seder guests. I missed my mom, who had gender neutralized the words in our sixty-year-old Haggadot. I missed my dad, who leads our Seders and adamantly says “Four Sons” despite my mom’s “Four Children” annotations. I missed singing “Dayenu” around the piano, grandma’s matzo ball soup and watching The Ten Commandments on ABC. It was the only time we still gathered around the TV as a family.

What made this night different from all other nights in Paris? I missed New York which, even if just for one night, seemed like a land of milk and honey.

© 2013, Max Kutner

Max Kutner is a New York-based nonfiction writer and documentary filmmaker. His work has appeared in Belleville Park Pages and The Columbia Journalist and on Thought Catalog, Buzzfeed and io9. His films have screened at festivals in the United States. For more about his work visit maxwellkutner.com.

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* * *

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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