Mussel Massacre
Another in my occasional series concerning things I've learned (through bitter experience) in the kitchen.
Mussels:
- must not be sealed in plastic; they need fresh air, and
- should not be immersed as they will not survive in fresh water, but
- should instead be kept moist with a damp towel or newspaper.
With the proper care they may be kept alive in the fridge for several days.
(Note: sources differ as to whether refrigeration is a good idea or not. One says
they'll die; another says they should be stored in the
coolest part of the fridge. There are also varying claims for how long they'll last. I read from
2-3 days to 5-8; obviously it will also depend on how long they've been out of the ocean when purchased.)
If you keep them in a plastic bag for seven hours, then dump them in a bowl of water prior to cleaning, you can expect to lose, oh, about a third of them. Fortunately, if you buy as many as the fishmonger suggests, you'll still have plenty for two people.
The Parisian Mosaic
While grocery shopping in Paris features high quality, the ethnic variety we're used to is hard to find. Yesterday we took ourselves down to the 13th
arrondissement to shop for things we've been missing, like peanut sauce, rice wine, and whole chilies.
Wikipedia says that Paris' Chinatown is one of the largest in Europe, but it has only a little of the hustle and bustle found at Spadina and Dundas, and none of the charm. The buildings are for the most part
ugly modern concrete boxes. We stopped for lunch at a recommended restaurant but found it only so-so. Janet remarked that the
nearby McDonald's was the highlight of the area in terms of Asian colour. We did accomplish our mission, but as a cultural adventure the sortie was a little disappointing.
l'institut du Monde ArabeGroceries in hand, we took a short metro ride up to the Musée de l'institut du Monde Arabe, for an exhibition entitled
the Golden Age of Arab Sciences. The show covers the development of mathematics, astronomy, medicine, and engineering, among others, through the middle ages. Interesting, but heavy with text and light on actual artifacts. Also, perhaps the middle of Saturday afternoon is not the best time for a visit. The crowds made the galleries claustrophobic and it was at times difficult to see anything at all.
Our last stop was an elegant wine shop in the 1st, called
Lavinia. It has an extensive selection of fairly high-end wines; we had to look sharply to find things in our price range. While it mostly features French wines and spirits, of course, they also claim to have two thousand labels from the rest of the world. We found Greek, Ukrainian and even Cuban bottles, but only two from Canada: Iniskillin ice wines, out of stock. All the same, we enrolled in their affinity club, and plan to attend some of their evening tastings.
A Champagne Evening
Today marks the official
fin des travaux: all painting is complete, drop sheets folded up, brushes cleaned and tools put away. Our lovely apartment is finally lovely throughout. Momentum definitely faltered for the last couple of months, but with the tape in sight I managed one final sprint to the finish.
Galling Gauls
Sometimes the French are wonderful; but sometimes I just want to smack them. Whenever they need to chat with friends or do up junior's jacket it's always at the narrowest point on the sidewalk. They stop at the bottom of the escalator or just inside the metro doors to sniff the air. And they never infer from an accent that you haven't lived in the neighbourhood forever so that what you're asking might not be a stupid question.
Yesterday I went to drop off some clothes at the dry cleaners, in a little mall outside the supermarket. It was late and the men behind the counter were clearly getting ready to close, but the grate was actually rolling up, so I asked if they were still open. One replied that of course they were not, with a snorting chuckle as though it was amusingly absurd. Well pardon me, but every other store in the mall is open, you are standing behind the counter, and the grate is going UP; it seemed worth asking since I'm standing here with a bag of sweaters anyway.
Do We Really "Wanadoo" This?
I withdraw what I said
earlier about the ease and efficiency of dealing with France Telecom. A packet of confusing forms, including much fine print and lots of little check boxes, came in the mail from Wanadoo, the France Telecom digital service provider. Apparently these are needed to initiate our phone, TV and high speed internet package. They have to be completed and signed in varying numbers of copies, and an RIB (from the bank; we'd use a void cheque) attached.
Also, I guess in the course of my earlier conversation with them I must have selected the channel provider TPS (over Canal+). One of the forms is theirs, but it doesn't explain how their packages work or what they will wind up costing. I seem to have missed the "with a package subscription" fine print under the "for 7 euros/month" digital TV offer, and I'd really like to know what I've let us in for.
Another call to the customer service line helped a little. But I'm not hugely comforted by the gentleman's assurance that "all you have to do is sign,
Monsieur."
Sunday Run
A good friend once remarked that making a major move such as to another country allows you to reinvent yourself. When no one knows you, you are the only source of information about you, so you can claim anything you want for yourself - as long as you can follow through and act accordingly you can create a new reality. This struck a chord after all my moving around with the Forces and as a consultant; but at the same time a new place can also reinvent you. Here I am, a dedicated runner for over fifteen years, yet I haven't been for a proper run since I arrived. First it was the physical work of moving and painting that left no energy for a workout. Then it was partly inertia and partly just feeling a little guilty about taking time for something that feels so self-indulgent when there's so much else to be getting on with. So what's the new reality? In France am I to go from trim professional project manager to droopy dilettante house-husband?
Not if I can help it. I just got back from a rainy four miles in the
Bois de Boulogne. It was actually a mile or so further than planned, but my Garmin couldn't find a satellite for the first mile. That happens when it has been moved a long distance; it was looking for the satellites over Toronto. (Passersby would have seen me barking at my wrist "France, you idiot! We're in France!".)
Consequently I emerged from the park on an unfamiliar street, with no help from the GPS to find my way home. Sometimes I try to get a little lost on a long Sunday run; but not when my muscles have such limited stamina. On the plus side, I found just a few blocks from home shopping streets and neighbourhoods I'd never seen before.
It seems foolish to plan a recovery day after only one workout; but I suspect I won't have much choice tomorrow. Perhaps I can spend the day working on changing the "dilettante" part.
French Cinemas
To celebrate the completion of another bathroom, I took myself to a movie today. French movie theatres are a little different from those back in Canada. Firstly, they don’t always look like theatres; they could be behind any old store front. Today, I walked right by it even though I was studying the addresses carefully.
I bought my ticket for the eleven o’clock show – there‘s another difference: they have as many matinees as they do evening shows – and was escorted to my seat by a boy who could not have been more than ten years old. It was a smallish auditorium and the crowd was perhaps a dozen, mostly kids with their parents. When I entered, a woman was addressing the audience, but interrupted her presentation to give me a smile and a “Bonjour Monsieur”. She seemed to be explaining something about the movie, but by the time I had settled myself and was paying attention she was on to a spiel about the theatre and their various programs. There were no advertisements or trailers, but I think that’s unusual even for France.
Another difference: no snack bar. Funny that the French, so passionate about their food and drink, don’t have elaborate rituals about movie food (although I noticed one father/son had brought a baguette). In this case, well, King Kong is a three hour movie, so no snacks was a bit of a problem.
And one final difference: I can’t remember the last time I attended a movie in North America where the film broke in the middle, and the lights came up for ten minutes while they fixed it. These days Europe sometimes gets Hollywood films before they open domestically; but more often, and especially with the blockbusters, the prints screened in Europe have been through the projector more often the German soldiers through Alsace.
What I am still wondering about is: why weren't all those kids at the movie in school?
Can you spot the movie theatre in this picture? (Hint: there's a picture of King Kong and a Tyrannosaurus Rex to the left of the yellow awning.)
New Phone
With more satisfaction than the accomplishment reasonably warrants, I was able to get a new telephone installed. I called France Telecom on Wednesday and spent an hour (well, that's certainly what it felt like) with a very patient M. Darwin, trying to speak and understand French on a very crackly connection.
As an aside, I am pleased that customer service here doesn't tell you "This is Todd how can I help you today, Miles?". Call me a throwback but if I introduce myself to a stranger on the phone by my full name, I want to be addressed with a "Mister", and I am happy to return the courtesy.
The call got off to a choppy start, since the second question M. Darwin asked was who were the previous occupants of the apartment (the first was what is my name; the answer being something the French often have trouble with - thank heavens for Miles Davis, allusion to whom tends to turn the lightbulb on). A logical question, once you think about it, but I hadn't, and I couldn't recall it. It had been on the mailbox when we moved in, so I was able to get as far as "it starts with an 'H' and is really short..." but no further. Fortunately that was enough, and we could proceed. Most of the time was taken by providing bank account numbers, credit card numbers, and the usual bumf required by any French bureaucracy; it could have been worse, since they took all the information over the phone and didn't ask anything about my
carte de sejour, which hasn't arrived yet.
And then, since we need the full suite, there was the discussion of the high-speed internet options, the television channel package, and so on. And after all that, M. Darwin had to call back because the configuration I'd requested wasn't a possible package, and I'd given him the wrong bank information. All quite a workout for my tortured French, one I'm not sure I would have been up to a few months ago.
Sarcastic comments about French bureaucracy are perhaps a little out of line here, because the whole thing was arranged efficiently over the phone, the information they requested was all quite reasonable, mistakes (mine) were corrected quickly, and the very next morning there was a text message on my mobile announcing that the line was operational.
Unfortunately, there was no dial tone. I checked periodically all day, dreading another call to customer service, where I was not likely to get someone as patient as M. Darwin a second time. This morning I checked again, and still no tone. But then I remembered the dictum that has served me well at work (if I remember it) when a computer is not behaving: first, check the cables. The line into the phone was not seated correctly. One little poke, and I had my dial tone.
Paris Pedestrian
Janet was away in London today (answering questions about a phone call she took from a plumber - long story). I found a reason to go for a walk downtown. I picked up some paint near the
Hotel de Ville, then walked up to Opera Plaza, down to the
Place de la Concorde and along the Seine. Being Valentine's Day, and Paris, there were lots of people about, couples at the movies, men carrying bouquets, and so on. It was much quieter along the river, where I took some pictures of the Eiffel Tower. It twinkles for the first ten minutes of every hour in a sparkly display that would impress even Steve Duff (my friend whose company lit Niagara Falls).
We have been here about six months now (more already for Janet; not quite five for me), but we both still get these "Wow, we live in Paris!" moments.
Maggie's Site
The last (known) bug is fixed, and the new and improved
Margaret Brennan web site is up.
For those of you with a Y chomosome, be warned: some pages are nauseatingly cute; you may require insulin. For those of you (such as her immediate family) immune to excesses of adorable-ness, I particularly recommend reading some of her mother's stories in the journal.
Catching Up
We've been off-line again for a few days (recent entries are back-dated). I really must get on with signing up our own ISP. We lost the wi-fi access point just when I was ready to upload the updated photo album web site for my niece. Back on-line, I put all the new pages up right away - and discovered a bug in the navigation buttons that only shows up in Internet Explorer under WindowsXP (or at least I haven't triggered it in any other circumstance). I'll chase it down, and then leave a link here. Then it's on to the wedding/honeymoon pictures (
pace, Mum; they're coming).
In the mean time, Janet returned from her business trip with tales of Turkish boardroom adventures. She's off again to London on Monday, so my debugging may be a little delayed while we attend to our Valentine's Day celebrations.
Fender Bender
I was brought to the window today by the distinctive
crunch-be-e-ep of a traffic accident. Very minor; it seemed to be someone backing out of the car radio shop across the street and getting clipped by a bus. What I found unusual about it was the speed with which it was dealt with. One expects snarled traffic, wide-armed gesticulations and gallic tempers; but within five minutes everyone had turned away, the bus passengers were off on foot, and a couple of men were out with brooms, picking up the broken glass.
Since the place's business is sound system installation for very expensive looking cars, and the vehicle was probably being driven by one of the staff, perhaps the scene came later.
Nothing Like a Hot Bath
The January sales are winding up, with many stores posting signs saying "
Dernier Jours" or "
2me Demarque" (second markdown). Despite the apparent buzz, we're pretty underwhelmed. Last weekend when we sallied forth we found articles for sale at every turn; but not a thing on our list could we find reduced, be it a book or a waffle iron. Anything that isn't a leftover is still full price. And while the clothing stores seem to be cutting prices in half or thereabouts, other deals are only 20% or 30% off, the kind of sale we expect every day in North America.
The marketing is certainly going full bore. This metro billboard caught my eye as something you're not likely to see in the Toronto subway - but maybe that's just my twisted mind...?
(The caption translates: It's a strange sensation to discover that a muffin can be effervescent.)
Willy Ronis Exhibition
Janet and I went to an exhibit of
Willy Ronis' photographs today, on display at the Paris
Hotel de Ville. He is best known for his work in the decades before and after the war. His post-war pictures of Paris are particularly admired for the way in which they have captured the hopeful spirit of reconstruction.
So well known are these black and white shots of happy, young Parisians at work and play that it does make me reflect: is the artist merely reporting this spark, this essence of Paris? Or is he in fact, in the act of observing it, affecting it, and perhaps even creating something? The mirror-up-to-life view is that the artist is clearing away the clutter and allowing us to see to the heart of some human truth, in this case the bold spirit of building a bright future that characterized Paris in the post war years. But there is so much going on in any given society at any given time and place. Isn't it likely too that that perspective we have is simply one of many possible, and we happen to hold it because of these photographs (and other complementary work) that for whatever reason became widely known? Does the artist chip away the stone to reveal the elephant hidden within, or does he or she in fact choose to create that elephant out of the material?
This is not to suggest that the hopeful spirit comes to us only through Ronis' work. It's of course a much more complex interplay of influences - artistic and social forces feeding and interacting with each other. And it must be noted that Ronis' work shows many different views of life in Paris throughout the last eighty years, including the political and commercial, dreary and banal.
Crème Fraîche
Back in Toronto I remember spending a good part of one Sunday searching the city for crème fraîche, for a monkfish recipe Janet and I were preparing. I searched high and low and only found it finally at
Pusateri's (for about nine #&%* bucks a tub). Here there is a crème fraîche section of the dairy case, in regular and light, with a couple of brands to choose from.
On the other hand, finding some chili peppers is proving a real challenge.
In Practice
It's awfully hard to tell sometimes, but I may actually be making a little progress with my French. I went out today and did a whole string of errands, including having my hair cut and buying a vacuum cleaner, with complete confidence (and without once resorting to charades). Something that helped me in moving out of the classroom was the realization that one can in fact get a heck of a lot done without ever using the plus-que-parfait, passé simple, gérondif, futur antérieur, conditionnel, and even the subjonctif. It also helps, at least at the stylist's, that the French word for hair gel is "
gel".
