Paris Journal 2008

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Tomatoes. We depend on them more than we know. When tomatoes were recently partially banned in the U.S., we all realized how ubiquitous tomatoes are. Florida tomatoes were unfairly banned for a while this past Spring. Now, it seems more and more likely that the salmonella-tainted tomatoes came from Mexico. But we still don’t know where they became contaminated. Now it is jalapenos. People aren’t going to miss jalapenos the way they missed tomatoes. France seems to want to malign Spanish tomatoes. I saw a program on French national television about a wonderful, beautiful, high-tech tomato farm in France. It is on land owned by an aristocratic-looking Frenchman who still lives and works in a real chateau. His vast greenhouses are sleek. The tomatoes roots are in packages of rich-looking almost-black humus-like soil. Into each package are inserted a sensor and a little black tube that squirts just the right amount of water into the package when a computer tells it to do so. In his kitchen, the Frenchman has an assortment of very special, colorful tomatoes. He has a staff of knowledgeable cooks to prepare exotic and beautiful dishes involving tomatoes. His employees out in the greenhouses are clean, well-dressed, well-fed, and seemingly educated. And of course, they all are native French people. After the idyllic presentation about the French tomato farm, French national television shows us – watch out! – a Spanish tomato farm. The Spanish farm’s greenhouses are shabby and shredded. Nothing is high tech. The workers are illegal immigrants from Morocco who live in squalor near the farm. They have only polluted water to drink. Too many of them must share too small a space in a rickety, dark shack that has makeshift electrical wiring. Every day, the illegal workers have to go to the farmer and beg for work. If he has no work to give them, they beg for a few coins so they can buy something to eat. Suddenly, French national television takes us back to our Frenchman in his enormous kitchen. He does a taste test, comparing the French tomatoes to Spanish tomatoes of the same type. He says they taste very similar, but the French tomato is maybe just a little bit better. We did not eat any tomatoes for dinner last night. We walked over to the apartment in the 6^th arrondissement where Joyce and Art are now staying. We had drinks and met their son, Lyle, and his wife Annette, and their bright and charming children, Brian and Jennifer. Lyle and Annette took their children off to see the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower at night. Art, Joyce, Tom and I went to dinner at l’Espadon Bleu (click here for restaurant recommendations and phone numbers). When we turned the corner onto the rue des Grands Augustins, we saw Julien Logereau, Jacques Cagna’s nephew, and he saw us. Julien runs this fine restaurant. I smiled and said “bonsoir, monsieur.” He bade farewell to whoever it was he was speaking to on the street corner, and hurried after us so he could greet us at the door and give us the table of our choice. He remembers us from prior years. Three of us had the special of the day, a generous, whole Daurade (Mediterranean sea bream), served in a bit of butter sauce accompanied by a small portion of au gratin potatoes. The fish was light, flaky, moist, fresh, and delicate. Perfect. Next to the fish, on the same plate, was bone marrow, still in a big bone that was sliced lengthwise. The cooked marrow was seasoned with sea salt and herbs. I should have photographed this – you have to see it to believe it. Like many buildings in this part of town, the restaurant still has its old beamed ceiling. Where there once was a wall separating the two dining rooms, now is the wood-beam framework without the stone that once filled the spaces. The ceiling is high, and the restaurant is tastefully decorated. You can see photos on the web site for l’Espadon Bleu. Julien’s photo is there, too. Isn’t he handsome? Joyce and Art loved the walk to and from the restaurant. We took them along the narrow, cobbled passage, Cour du Saint André, where one side of Le Procope is located. (Le Procope professes to be the oldest restaurant in Paris; but I think the oldest continuously operating restaurant in Paris is La Petite Chaise.) The rest of the passage is lined with little shops that Joyce found to be very appealing.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008 French tomatoes on the vine are pretty much identical to the same kind purchased in Florida grocery stores. The fountain in front of St. Sulpice finally is flowing with water again. Sign my guestbook. View my guestbook.

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