Putting On The Ritz

About ten days ago, we were invited to the Hotel Ritz to attend a cast and crew party for the movie, Le Concert, that Matthew had worked on. About four hundred people crowded into plush ante-rooms and ballrooms. Women in black. Women in boots. Papparazzi looking for their scoop. Lots of champagne and fancy hors d'oeuvres. Lots of loud music.


Not knowing quite which part of the hotel to go to, we came in through the front entrance, off the Place Vendôme. La Fête, we were told by the unsmiling, snooty doorman, was being held at the far end of the hotel. Following directions, we found ourselves passing through a long gallery of boutiques and display cases containing baubles and bijoux of such breathtaking opulence that, here at least, the word "recession" apparently has no meaning.


Those are bejewelled and betasselled iPod and iPhone cases on the left. There were even some marquisite ear-buds to plug into your PDA.


And here, for your dining pleasure, Madame, the finest, hand-embroidered linens. Just what every "bien-élevée" hostess must possess.












No, Sir, your eyes are not deceiving you, those are cashmere socks, a cashmere eye shade, and a cashmere cover for your hot water bottle....

And for a woman's crowning glory, a stunning selection of jewel encrusted hair brushes, tortoiseshell hair combs, diamond-edged hair clips, hair bands that look like crowns, or are edged with glittering butterflies or flowers.

Out in the Place Vendôme, Napoleon stands atop the spiral column that recounts the feats of his 1805 campaigns. Clad in a little toga, he gazes forward to new triumphs and victories, which, unfortunately for him, did not materialize. Here at least, though, he rules over his Empire, surrounded not only by the Hotel Ritz, but by the ever-luxurious boutiques of Van Cleef & Arpels, Chanel, Piaget, Cartier, Jaeger-le-Coultre, and Boucheron.




Meanwhile, for us mere mortals, there's always the magical sight of a rainbow (un arc en ciel) to cheer one's spirits when standing in line, in the rain, waiting to go into a photography exhibit. And perhaps, just behind the corner of the BHV department store on that corner there, some lucky person will find their pot of gold.


À bientôt!

Hints of seasonal changes...

Amidst the flurries of snow that blanketed Paris last week, there have been small harbingers that winter may be slowly waning. We usually wake up every morning to the sound of pigeons burbling and murmuring from their perching posts on top of the chimneys that rise up from the Passage Choiseul. They sit there, feathers puffed up, perhaps getting a little warm air from heating vents below. Late last week, though, for the first time, we heard a songbird trilling away. Maybe a blackbird, we couldn't see the bird so can't say for sure. Perhaps it's our imagination, but it also seems as though the sunlight (when it appears) is a bit brighter. Certainly, the sun's a little higher in the sky, and there are definitely signs of buds on the tree in the courtyard below our living room window. At the moment, it's a mystery tree, whose identity will slowly emerge in the weeks to come.



Meanwhile, over in England, which has been enduring the most severe winter in over 50 years, the snow has finally given way to rain, at least in London. As the #26 double-decker bus lumbered over to Hackney/Bethnel Green, the wet streets gleamed softly under the street lamps, and pedestrians no longer walked with heads bowed, swathed and muffled against the cold.

I spent the weekend visiting family and seeing Alex's new sculpture show of hand-carved books at the MOT International gallery (http://www.motinternational.org/exhibitions-current.html). If you click on the small button at the bottom, you'll get a close up look at these beautiful works.



Sunday morning, after a delicious, cholestrol-busting breakfast of eggs and serrano ham and a "milky coffee", I stepped outside the front door of Alex and Sonia's flat on Columbia Road, and found myself smack-dab in the middle of the popular Flower Market that takes up the whole street every Sunday.







Choked with throngs of people, as far as the eye could see, I could barely make my way past the stalls displaying endless little pots that held promises of spring: snowdrops, lily-of-the-valley, daffodils, hyacinths, primroses and primulas.



















Today's big sellers, though, were the bright-colored bouquets of roses and exotic orchids -- it was February 14th, Valentine's Day. The hawkers did themselves proud with their bellowing shouts: "'Ere yer go, 'ere yer go -- 'ave a look, twenny red roses fer only 15 pounds!" "Come on then, fellers, get yer roses now - she don't want yer kisses tonight, she wants 'er red roses!"








Meanwhile, at the far end of the street a retro skiffle group entertained the passers-by. On closer inspection, I suspect they might have been an original skiffle group. Instead of a washboard, though, the drummer chap had a metal baking tray, a colander and a kid's drum set. And sang away with gusto, as though he knew the days of winter were numbered.


À bientôt!

Or, as the hawkers at the Columbia Road flower market would say: TTFN (ta-ta-fer-now!)

'Allo, Paris Calling...

Thanks to the brilliant creative planning and construction skills of our nephew, Sean, "Le Studio Robbins" is open for business!
Using our flat's minute, barely 'walk-in' linen cupboard (just about 24" wide!), he built me a little table under a shelf that holds my computer, my Mbox, my microphone and microphone stand, and my pocket drive just perfectly.

Closing the door, and squeezing myself into the chair -- feeling a bit like a member of the Resistance, hidden deep in enemy territory, sending furtive messages to HQ in London -- I recorded a new reading for KWMR's Turning Pages at Nature's Pace, beginning the latest book by Diane Ackerman, Dawn Light: Dancing with Cranes and Other Ways to Start the Day. A delightful reverie of the world at dawn.























Once recorded and edited, using Pro Tools, music laid in, etc., and with just a few taps, clicks and commands on the computer, the audio file "bounced" to disk, transferred into iTunes, converted into an mp3 file, uploaded onto my website, has been downloaded by my co-host at the radio station, burned onto a CD -- and will be aired tomorrow morning, Monday, at 10 am PST! Tune in, if you can.
(www.kwmr.org).

How cool is that?!!

À bientôt!

Bon Appetit!

Tuesday, February 2nd signalled feasts in many places. In New Orleans, Fat Tuesday, brought people from near and far to "let the good times roll". In a small town in Lancashire, England, Shrove Tuesday was celebrated (as it is every year) by holding a race in which women run through the streets tossing pancakes. In Paris, of course, there's no need for a special day to make a feast. They exist any time, any where. This year, I was invited by my niece to celebrate this particular day at a cooking class given by Susan Herrmann Loomis, author of On Rue Tatin (which I have in my Inverness kitchen) and other books on cooking. American born, she has lived in Paris for over 25 years, working at first as a food writer, and now as an author and quite well known gourmande-about-town. Ten of us gathered near the Marché Poncelet (above) and, led by Susan, strolled down the street, soaking up all kinds of advice on just which kind of scallops, beets, cauliflower, lettuce, etc. to buy.

A brisk 20 minute walk brought us to the Wabi Salon in the 8th Arr. Here, in the well-appointed kitchen, we donned On Rue Tatin aprons and set to work creating the menu Susan had designed for us. That's Susan on the left in the white apron, explaining to Penny how to sauté dandelion leaves -- in French, you call them "pissenlit", a name derived from the legend that if you eat dandelion leaves you will p--- in bed....

The menu: Soupe aux Betteraves aux Nuages à la Crème (Beet Soup with Cream Clouds), Magret de Canard aux Amandes, Ail, Cumin (Duck Breast with Almonds, Garlic and Cumin), Salade d'Hiver à la Vinaigrette de l'Huile de Noix (Winter Salad with Walnut Oil Vinaigrette), Fromage (Cheese), Sauté de Fruits d'Hiver (Sautéed Winter Fruit), and Gâteau Friable aux Amandes (Crumbly Almond Cake).

Pairing off, we dove right in. Here Jim (from Wisconsin) and my sister-in-law, Genie (visiting from Vermont), tackled the duck, brewing a delicious orange sauce, creating a soft bed of sautéed onions, garlic and chopped almonds, seasoned with cumin, and then, scoring the fatty back of the duck breasts, they cooked them very quickly in a frying pan on the top of the stove, before letting them rest a while.

I volunteered to make the spiced winter fruit -- so simple and elegant, it's become an instant addition to my travelling recipe book. Light brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, powdered ginger, butter (naturally!) and various tart apples and firmish pears, peeled, cored and cut in eighths. The butter is melted, the fruit added, the sugar and spices poured in, and the whole thing merrily simmers away for about ten minutes. No stirring allowed. I had to learn how to "toss" the pan, so the fruit did not suffer from overhandling...



Meanwhile, the soup makers were hard at work, chopping the beets, simmering a vegetable stock, puréeing it all in a blender, and then whipping up crème frâiche until stiff before adding a little white pepper, to create the cream clouds. Here's the finished product with a little garnish of a mâche leaf!

We doffed our aprons and sat down to eat around 1:30 pm, a normal lunch hour here in France. The various aromas and the anticipation of the meal had given us all healthy appetites! A lovely chilled Loire wine magically appeared in our glasses as the soup was served, and two bottles of Côte de Rhône appeared to accompany the duck, salad and cheeses (a perfectly ripe Camembert, a Neufchâtel and another soft cheese whose name I've already forgotten -- but not the taste!).

As well as being loads of fun, with a very nice group of eight women and one man, Susan found ways to pass along many helpful hints (how to slice an onion so it comes out chopped, how to use a whisk so your arm doesn't fall off, etc.) and shortcuts. And, needless to say, the luncheon itself was truly delicious. I should have it all down by the time we return to Inverness!

I got home just in time to take a little nap before going to a gala evening crèpe party (!) traditionally held by friends of ours, on this, the day before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. One last chance to eat way too much before, perhaps, cutting back a little for the next forty days ... or not...

À bientôt!

Les Trois Passions

Every country has its passions -- the Brits are known to be fanatic hobbyists, Americans have their baseball, football and basketball. And the French have their big, huge, gigantic love affair with cars. From this Peugeot electric car (circa 1941, built to save fuel during WWII) to the 2010 version of it displayed behind, French auto designers have led the way in innovative and sometimes crazy iterations of the horseless carriage.

Perhaps no French automobile firm sums up this philosphy more than the Citroën Car Company, founded in 1919 by André Citroën. And within the ranks of crazy-looking, beautiful Citröen cars, practically none is more treasured than the Citroën SM -- the one with the Citroën body and Maserati engine.
A total of only about 12,000 of these cars came off the factory floor between 1970 and 1975. Of these, less than 2000 ended up in the US and Canada. Seldom seen on the roads in the States, one of them lives in First Valley, Inverness, California, where it is kept under wraps, constantly doted upon by its owner, and driven only on special occasions. However, here in France, they are more visible and collected with great passion.

This past week, at La Porte Versailles Exhibition Hall Number 7.3, (a vast space the size of several small towns), the 35th Retromobile held court, attracting thousands of vintage car fanatics. Along with the most glittering display imaginable of French, Italian (Bugattis!), Belgian, German, English, even a few American cars (Mustangs and 'Vettes), were an equal number of stalls selling model versions of all these cars, and endless aisles of stalls selling hard-to-find spare parts for the full-size models. Matthew spent over eight hours there on Saturday, absorbing everything Citroën SM he could see, breathe, touch and talk about, and proudly showing everyone photos of his own recently restored SM. By the time I got there, he had added another membership card to his growing collection -- SM Club de France. This year marks the 40th anniversary of the car. We will travel to Reims in May to join in the celebration. Stay tuned.....

Meanwhile, over at La Galerie Pinacotèque on Place Madeleine, an exhibition celebrating the Golden Age of Dutch Painting closes this week. Going to museums provides another kind of passion for Parisians. People have been queuing up for hours every day during the four months this show has been on. We joined the queue today -- cold, snow showers, biting wind at times -- and were rewarded by an astonishing display of over 130 paintings, prints, drawings, ceramics, tapestries, silverware, and glassware by Dutch masters from Rembrandt to Vermeer, including Jacob van Ruisdael, Frans Hals, Jan van Steen, Paulus Potter, etc. etc. Really too much to take in on one visit -- the still lifes, the portraits, the landscapes, the depictions of village life. My eyes were glazing over by the end. Even though the place was packed, French art lovers are always polite, moving on from one work, to allow the next person to drink in yet another Rembrandt portrait.

And the third passion? -- well, guess who joined the Club Med Waou on Grands Boulevards and went for her first session today? - oui, c'était moi. A bit intimidating to enter a French gym's women's changing room and observe the, mostly, razor thin bodies that French women tend to maintain throughout their lives! But, here came my coach, Nathalie, maybe 23 years old and, thank goodness, with dimples in her cheeks and not one of those razor-thin bodies. Utterly charming, she led me through the various machines, and between the two of us, we managed to translate the kilos back into pounds, and come up with a program approximately the same as I usually put myself through at the West Marin Gym. The lighting throughout the facility is suitably muted, which means you can sort of forget that, at this point, you only manage 10 kilos on the chest press, where others effortlessly push four and five times that....

À bientôt!