Paris Journal 2013 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com
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Today is Bastille Day, the French national holiday, so let’s talk about
the French, shall we? Roger Cohen, an columnist whose work I admire, took on the same topic that
Maureen Dowd did last week: the morose
mood of the French people these days. As usual, I think Roger did a much better job. In his column, France’s
Glorious Malaise, he describes precisely the origin of this morose mood. Roger is an expert on the topic.
He’s written about it before, back in 1997, when he lived in Paris and
worked as a foreign correspondent. My favorite line in Roger’s current column on the subject is, “The
French are living off their malaise much as the British live off the royal
family.” It’s a way of life. It is an
attitude. Why be this way? Well, there is a good reason. I
agree with Roger that this “surliness is more a fierce form of realism than a
sign of malaise.” With this kind of
pessimistic realism, one is not ever disappointed, surprised, or shocked. Another source of Roger’s expertise in the subject is his family. You see, his daughter married a Frenchman. Roger quotes his son-in-law’s uncle, a farmer in the harsh environment
of the Camargue, to provide ample illustration of this folksy French
pessimism. That’s what I believe it is
– pessimism, not depression. Pessimism is protection against disappointment, when one adopts this
“realistic” attitude. It is protection
against being made to look foolish.
Optimists look foolish, when they’re wrong. This aversion to seeming foolish is what is behind many things we’ve
encountered in France, and we’ve understood it for a long time. We rather like it. In fact, I love it. I haven’t adopted it myself; people who
know me know that I am an optimist. I
believe things can be fixed, problems can be solved, errors can be
corrected. I have that American can-do
attitude. So does Tom. But I certainly understand the French pessimism. You see, I have it in my family. My mother is a bit like this, even though
she isn’t French at all. She’s smart as can be, so her admonitions cannot be simply dismissed. No, she isn’t morose or depressed.
But she will never be made to look foolish. She anticipates, well, not the worst, but
the not-so-good. If you express a very
positive attitude about something, you can expect that she’ll draw your
attention to the possible downside of it. And that’s good. People like me
need people like her, and I love her very much. I also love the French – maybe not as much
as I love my mother, but I do love them. For those of you who do not know her – my mother’s
name is Joy. C’est ironique? Not
really. It’s complicated. In most ways, my mother is not like the French. People here are fond of ratatouille, and when they are served a good ratatouille, they say it is just like their mother’s, or their grandmother’s, ratatouille. My mother never made ratatouille, that I can recall. But Tom had some delicious ratatouille yesterday evening at Le Granite. He needed it. He isn’t supposed to eat raw food, per his doctor’s instructions, and so has not been eating salads. Fortunately, Le Granite gave him a large serving of ratatouille with his grilled lamb brochette. This he had after we’d shared a country terrine that was very good. It came with the correct accoutrements, like a bit of candied onion relish and a couple of little cornichons (gherkins). For dessert, Tom had a tarte tatin, which was good. Before dinner, we took a long, slow stroll through the neighborhood and down the avenue Félix Faure. We stopped in at Axuria to make a reservation for dinner tonight. At last one of the best restaurants in the area is staying open to serve dinner on Bastille Day! My, how things have changed in this part of Paris over the past decade. Business was slow at Le Granite. I’m not sure why. The food is certainly good, and the service is very warm and welcoming. Dalila greeted us at the door and remembered us well from prior years. We were surprised to see that the extensive blackboard menu was gone. In its place on the wall is a handsomely framed mirror. The printed menu is très chic, as Tom told Dalila. She liked that compliment very much. The menu is also a more reasonable length now. I don’t know how the chef managed with such a long menu of offerings in the past. Only one other couple was dining there. They were our ages, and very French. They had a table on the “terrasse,” really the sidewalk, and we were inside, where we wanted to be. A gathering of young people was outside, off to the left, and mostly out of our sigh.. But they weren’t really dining at the restaurant. They were standing around, having a happy hour, it seems, before going off to party somewhere. The restaurant provided them with what looked like three veggie pizzas for their happy hour out on the sidewalk. That was very accommodating, I thought. The pizza is not on the menu. I ordered a traditional dish (everything is traditional at Le Granite, even if the décor is modern), the magret de canard (duck breast) in a berry sauce. The “purée” that came with it was really a big serving of buttery smashed potatoes. I could only eat a bit of this lovely side dish, because I am limiting the amount of food I eat from the nightshade family. (Watching this category of food and limiting it is helping noticeably with my arthritic joint pain.) So Tom enjoyed much of that hearty dish. On the way home, we glanced over at Axuria. It was packed with people. I think Parisians like the more inventive, modern twist on traditional cuisine, like that of Axuria (and l’Alchimie). The very correct and good traditional cuisine is perhaps waning in popularity. That might also explain why Les Trois Carafes isn’t packed with diners, as it should be. When we finally arrived at home, dusk was already creeping into the city. (The elevator is working again, we’re happy to say.) We enjoyed the dying light on the balcony for a short time, then came in to read for a couple hours. I finished one book (Strangers on a Train, by Patricia Highsmith) and started a new one: Murder by Champagne, by Keith Spicer. You guessed it: a murder-mystery that takes place in Champagne country, in France. Time to watch the military parade on TV! |
Sunday, July 14, 2013
The
historic Boucicaut chapel still standing in the
middle of a 3-hectare construction site.
The grounds of the former hospital will become housing of many kinds
(including social housing), a small-business incubator, and a public garden.
The
professional hair conditioner worked its magic on this long-distance
swimmer’s long hair, I’m happy to say.
A three-month respite from pool chemicals is probably a good thing.
The
juicy duck breast at Le Granite had been grilled, and had a crispy outer
layer as a result. Tom’s brochette was
also expertly grilled.
Le
Granite is tucked away at 19 rue Duranton
in a residential neighborhood of the lower 15th arrondissement. You have to know it is there – this is not
a well-traveled street.
A
new business on the avenue Félix Faure – a place to get a computer fixed, or
to buy a new one. |
