Add new zest in your life!
Join Leona on a care-free, week-long adventure in beautiful Italy, with Da Vinci Capers. Immerse yourself in Italian culture and the arts by experiencing cooking, learning Italian language, painting, creative writing, music appreciation and photography, and, of course, La Dolce Vita!
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Leona’s Caper
Composed and performed by Judy Boyd
Leona is a chicken from Ancona, a village on the Adriatic Sea in Italy. Once upon a time, while Leonardo da Vinci was strolling in the Mercato Saint Ambrogio, Leonardo admired Leona’s Nonna’s Nonna… He saved her neck and had a little new friend for life. Leona, like Leonardo, has experiences of trials and triumphs. Leona says, “Spread your wings – escape your routine, and join us on our adventures!”
Something smells royally good here! Basil: Greek, basileus, means ‘king’ – used in making perfumes for the royalty. In present day, basil is placed in holy water in Greek Orthodox churches, and floats in English royalty baths – hence the reputation of being the ‘king of herbs’ by chefs around the world.
But, it is the common folk that interests me most. In Italy, an Italian suitor will show his love by placing a sprig of basil in his hair to win over his sweetheart. In Mexico, lovers will stuff their pockets with basil in hope that their love will be reciprocated, and in Romania, the man offers basil in lieu of a ring to be officially engaged. Stories vary whether the girl gives a basil plant or receives one. Either way, someone needs to talk with these gals!!
Poems have been written glorifying basil over the years. One by John Keats, Isabella or, The Pot of Basil (1818) is a narrative poem adapted from a story in Boccaccio’s Decameron (IV, 5). Elizabethan poet, Michael Drayton, wrote in 1612. “With Basil then I will begin/Whose scent is wondrous pleasing.”
Whether you wear it, eat it, or soak in it – it’s synonymous with summer and, a love pat for friends and family.’ One year, I remember being astounded by the size of a basil plant my sister grew in Maryland. She had the best green thumb and it was so happy. It grew as tall as me (a little over 5′). Well, she dug it up, wrapped the roots with a moist towel and sent it overnight in a Fed-Ex box! Che sorpesa! What a surprise! I gathered my neighbors and we plucked, cleaned and made pesto all night long! True sister love!
Each spring I plant a couple plants. It likes lots of sun, but especially the gentle east morning light. I make batches of pesto and freeze it in ice cube trays to extend the warm days of summer into the cold winter nights. (Thaw at room temperature.)
Of course, there is the classic appetizer iscaprese- a slice of tomato on top of a slice of fresh mozzarella, a dollop of pesto crowned with a sprig of basil, sprinkled with salt and pepper and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. You can also take a couple tablespoons and gently fold around warm pasta as a side, or top grilled fish for deep added flavor.
Not all pesto recipes are alike. You’d think there is only a hand-full of ingredients and it shouldn’t matter. But, the one I love and is fail-safe is by Giuliano Bugialli, Foods of Italy. He adds walnuts for flavor and spinach to hold the color.
Note: With practice, you will adjust the amount of oil into the base mixture – you want it to absorb the oil so that it’s not floating on top – before adding the parmigiano.
Pesto Sauce
6 walnuts, shelled
1 tablespoon pignoli (pine nuts)
1 tablespoon sweet butter
1 1/2 cups loosely packed fresh basil leaves
2 heaping tablespoons drained boiled spinach
2 medium-sized cloves garlic, peeled (if large, only one)
3/4 cups olive oil
4 oz of freshly grated parmigiano cheese
Salt and freshly ground black pepper (not too much – taste)
Preparation: Put the walnuts, pine nuts, butter, basil, spinach, garlic, and 1/4 cup of oil in a food processor. Grind until very smooth. Slowly add remaining oil (see note above – you may not need entire remaining 1/2 cup) and blend until smooth. Transfer the batch into a bowl and add cheese. Taste. Add salt and pepper if desired (cheese is salty – you may not need much salt).
Presto! We have presto – the green gold of the kings!
“I hurried home, sobbing. At last I said between sobs: ‘You’ve written it for percussion and nothing else!’ He laughed and opened the score. He had crossed out all the kettledrums with red crayon and half the other percussion instruments also.” This was 24 year-old Alma Schindler, a musician and composer in her own right and wife of Gustav Mahler, describing her feelings after reading a draft of Mahler’s Symphony No. 5 in 1904.
Ah… to have such passion! We can probably count the number of times we’ve sobbed out of passion. Let’s see… when I left Italy for the first time, Paris after a few months, stopping my sculpting, giving births and agonized over deaths…
Mahler evokes passion and drama. He strove for the monumental and used every means at his disposal. His symphonies were long (always a discussion point), incorporating so many instruments (over 100 instruments – from violins to the Glockenspiels) , soloists, choirs (all male, or all female, or children – often over 100 singers at a time).
Some say that this grandiose spilled over into lack of cohesion or aesthetic unity; but, another way to look at Mahler’s compositions is that it is a story of ones life, and life is not always what you expect or what you planned for – there are ups and downs, love and loss, and sometimes, chaos (here’s Leonardo’s Sfumato again).
A few years ago, I wanted to know what this madness for Mahler was all about. So, I went to a two-day Mahler workshop at the University and met people who flew into Boulder each year to learn more, hear great music, and schmooze with other Mahlerians. There are groupies for Mahler, like for the Grateful Dead! Perhaps the oldest organization being the International Gustav Mahler Society in Vienna! Well, little did I know that Thomas Hampson was the special guest for the concert/workshop. And, this is when I started to understand the passion for Mahler and his music.
It was only natural when the Colorado Music Festival (scroll down) at Chautauqua performed their finale this summer as Mahler’s Symphony No. 5, I had to go. And, it was exceptional. Michael Christie, Music Director and Conductor, is so creative and approachable. In the first half, William Barton from Australia played the didgeridoo, sung and played the electric guitar – all in front of a moving photographic panorama of the Outback. Second half, over one hundred musicians on stage and a full house with “Clef Notes” in hand (clever device that Christie uses to help people, like me, understand each movement): what inspired Mahler, the conversations amongst the instruments, motifs, repeats and culminations… we burst into applause and jumped to our feet! Magnificent!
I must admit, my music expertise is limited. I had the typical music appreciation course where we learned about the elements, notation, rhythm, tempo (adagio, presto…). I traded violin lessons for dinners for a couple of years until I realized I should shelve this love for another life-time (and for the sake of my family and neighbors). I also know that this is the one art that can bring me to tears the fastest. Even though I am not playing an instrument right now, I can take out my red crayon and write – please, play it again!
Keep your eyes and ears open. Next year will be the centenary of Mahler’s death with world-wide concerts and commemorations. Now is a great time to become mad about Mahler!
Once upon a time, there was a precocious little boy named Peter. Peter had 15 siblings and was the youngest son of Tsar Alexey and Natalya Narishkina. His parents ruled Russia and they lived in Moscow. When he was only four, his father passed away, and he soon became the tsar of Russia in the House of Romanov (the last imperial dynasty to rule Russia).
Peter grew to be very tall, almost 7 feet, and suffered from a twitchy form of epilepsy. Despite these encumbrances, he was a dreamer, had an insatiable curiosity and traveled incognito throughout Europe. WhenLeona from Ancona first met him, he was a young tsar traipsing around Europe with his friends getting his hands dirty as a ship’s carpenter, learning everything from seamanship, the sciences, politics to western fashion! He reminds me of Leonardo da Vinci – full of ideas and unbending with determination.
All of these experiences led him to believe that Russia was behind the times and they needed to have a more western life-style. When he returned to Moscow, he decided to turn his back on tradition and mold his country into a more modern, educated, cultured, and financially thriving society. He built a strong Navy, beat the Swedes and established a foothold at the mouth of the Neva River. This primitive outpost fort – Zayachy Island, aka, Isle of Hares (the rabbits are still there!) , would become Peter’s northern capital, St. Petersburg.
Moving the capital to St. Petersburg was a city planner’s nightmare since this strategic piece of land on the Gulf of Finland was a swamp (when you moved there, you had to bring your own stones to build). St. Petersburg was named by Tsar Peter after Sankt Pieter Burkh – in his favorite Dutch tongue and after his patron saint, who stands guard before the gates to paradise.
He needed to have St. Peter on his side since he broke about every one of the 10 commandants, killing his only son, murdering 1,000 people to prove his authority, staked a few heads outside of his exiled sister’s window, played cruel jokes for entertainment…
Despite these character flaws (Leonardo couldn’t even kill a bird – thank goodness!), Peter the Great (giving himself this title a few years before he died) created a cosmopolitan capital that everyone flocked to – imported tastes became more on par with their sophisticated continental neighbors, and European fashion and philosophy became ingrained (even to the point that the aristocrats preferred to speak French!).
The Romanovs were a delicate bunch (not like moi, a tough bird indeed!). Peter the Great died at the age of 52 from gangrene. Because he killed his son, Alexey (suspected he hatched a plot to overthrow him based on flimsy evidence), his successor went to his 11 year old grandson, Peter II, who soon died of smallpox. Then the reign moved to his niece, Anna Ivanovna (notice how the Russians create their names with ‘ovna’ and ‘ovich’), also known as ‘The Ice Queen. ’ Anna created an ice castle and insisted a marriage to take place (an arranged marriage of someone who pissed her off) and forced their wedding night and consummation inside this ice vault. This was to delight her and amused her court. In fact, a replica of Anna’s ice palace was built by the city in 2006. Do the long dark days and nights in Russia form the underpinnings of this weird sense of humor? Anna’s enthusiasm waned after a big fire in 1737 that left huge swaths of rubble, so she spent most of her time in Moscow.
Empress Elizabeth was Peter’s second-eldest daughter who made his dream a reality. I don’t know why he didn’t choose her in the first place! She created a dazzling court of high culture – poets, artists and philosophers! The Academy of Arts was founded and journalism and theatre gained popularity with the masses. Loving pomp, power and parties, her 20-year reign was a nonstop cabaret of masquerade balls, drinking and dancing. It was Elizabeth who loved the baroque style and had the Winter Palace built (250,000 most embellished sq. ft. you’ll ever see!), and home of The Hermitage.
But it was 16 year old Sophie Augusta of Prussia (now Poland) who married Duke Peter of Holstein (a Romanov), changed her name to Catherine (the Great), was complicit in a coup that landed her husband face down and she sitting straight up on the throne. Yes, Tsarina Catherine reigned for 34 years. We are in the mid-18th century and this was considered the ‘golden age’ for St. Petersburg. High society strolled in the beautiful parks, passed time in smoky salons and danced across ballrooms under crystal chandeliers. The monarchs became known as ‘enlightened despots’ – dictators who could hum Haydn, speak several languages and patronized the arts and sciences in the morning and carved up Poland in the afternoon. I can’t say it better than Mara Vorhees in the lonely planet guide, “When it comes to Russian rulers, Catherine tops the list for most voracious, salacious and bodacious.” The great rumor about her horse mounting her is false, but she evidently loved s-e-x with palace guards and had contests and rewards. Oh, yes…she introduced the potato into the national cuisine (sounds rather bland, no?).
I traveled over many bridges, into manychurches (turned into museums), had coffee and pastry in the Singer Building, one fancy meal with Beluga Vodka and caviar at the Restaurant Demidoff (it’s as bad as Venice – I had to walk a half a mile and managed to get lost). We took a boat trip to the summer palace – the Peterhof Palace , and I got blasted by a grouchy grom-baba (thunder woman) yelling ‘no’, (felt like home in Italy – you need to be pinched once, sì?), and had a marvelous cucumber soup tinkling in a bowl of ice and chilled white wine on the rooftop of the Kempinski Hotel – worth the price!
And, yes, they really do have ‘white nights.’ It is possible to read a paper around the clock outdoors – thank goodness for black-out curtains!
da svidaniya (Goodbye!)
Leonina
Check out my photo album of our trip to St. Petersburg
What? No wheat, barley, or rye? Believe or not, Da Vinci Capers is about to host its first “gluten-free” cultural adventure in Italy this October! A friend of Da Vinci Capers who owns a successful gluten-free food business called “Skinny Crisps” has convinced me that there are many people who would love to travel to Italy, the land of pasta, but are a little leery. So, we decided to present a creative arts and cultural trip just for you - Da Vinci Capers ~ A Personal Renaissance Journey.
To be honest, there are not many Italian chefs who would take on the challenge to cook and serve gluten-free meals for a week and to offer a cooking course! Chef Luca studied in a culinary school in Florence and has traveled the world to learn more about ingredients, spices and herbs. He is a true artist in the kitchen. Chef Luca has worked with us in our adventures in Tuscany and practices sfumato, Leonardo da Vinci’s artistic signature and our lesson for the week – to live a life with an open mind and open heart.
Here’s the scoop – Da Vinci Capers is not a tour. What we do is offer you unusual experiences – moments that you would not be able to do on your own – with the best teachers we can find. They know their craft, love working with adults and will inspire you. No experience is necessary. We want you to escape your daily routine, spread your wings, spark a passion so you will return home with a renewed zest for life! Creative experiences for both right-brained and left-brained people, there is something for everyone:
One day you learn some Italian at the Koinè (so fun and helps us throughout the week), another day you will cook with Chef Luca (scroll down), another Stefania Brandinelli (listed by “Elite Traveler” as Italy’s Up-and-Coming Artist”) will teach us drawing and sculpting at Peralta (famous studio of Fiore de Henriquez, and our golden nugget, Julio (an Honorary Fellow, University of Iowa), presents us with a bohemian creative writing moment.
In between our taste buds explode with a Slow Food style luncheon(honoring local foods and farmers) and a wine and oil tasting at the Fattoria Villa Maionchi. Even though we nest at the beautiful private Villa Boccella, we will travel to Barga, a favorite hill town of Leonardo da Vinci’s. Nick Kraczyna, a renown print-maker with etchings in the Uffizi Gallery Prints Collection, will offer a demonstration. We will travel a short distance to Studio Sem, in Pietrasanta, the sculpting capital of the world. By the end of the week, you will have a new appreciation for Italy, her arts and the culture through your personal experience.
To maximize learning, our group size is limited to 16 people. To learn more, go to Da Vinci Capers ~ A Personal Renaissance Journey, or call Barbara at (303) 284-1383 or e-mail: barb@davincicapers.com
Spread the word to your friends, networks and gluten-free organizations. Hope to see you in bell’italia this fall!
I didn’t need to wear a mask to feel like the Phantom of the Opera. As a most unusual guest, a chicken (albeit beautiful), I stayed hidden during the tour of the famous ‘Opera National de Paris’ and appeared only in the shadow of the afternoon.
“You went to the opera to see, but also to be seen,” our young French tour guide explained without a trace of an accent as we entered the season ticket holder lobby. Louis XIV gets credit for the construction of the first opera house in Paris in 1669. Over the centuries, there have been 13 opera houses built and rebuilt due to fires, flood and wars. What we were looking at was built in 1875, Le Palais Garnier, named after the architect, Charles Garnier.
The Grand Staircase was a river of marble flowing down to greet two large bronze torchères. The Grand Foyer looked like a mini ‘Hall of Mirrors’ at the Palace of Versailles. Opulence surrounded us. I often feel that I should have been born in another time period – one of gorgeous silk dresses with crinolines and matching hair adornments. They had a lot of “butter in the spinach” is how our guide described patrons of the opera. (Only the French would use food as an analogy!)
“You will notice all the lyres… who do you think these were dedicated to? What Greek God?” our young guide tested us. My mind shifted from Dionysus (wasn’t he the chubby little fellow always laying around drinking wine, eating grapes and plucking the lyre?); then there was the big kahuna – Zeus – certainly he had a whole troop of people playing music for him… No. We were certainly a bunch of Cretans who knew nothing… It was Apollo, son of Zeus (I was close) and god of (fill in the blank) medicine to music.
The famous opera, The Phantom of the Opera, was based on a true story – there really is a lake underground, along with six additional levels below, and 10 stories above ground. We didn’t see this famous lake (“liability reasons” we were told). “It’s like a cathedral – it has vaults with running water,” he explained. We did have the chance to see the chandelier being put into place – this precarious movement alone justified the tour ticket. I also found that the idea of building the stage slanted so that all patrons could see well was interesting. You would think dancing on this would throw you off-balance; but, apparently dancers still prefer this venue over the newer Opéra Bastille, completed in 1989.
The small library, a room one walked straight through, went from floor to tall ceilings with dark wooden cases, alcoves with models and housed three centuries of famous original music scores, personal notes and books from composers around the world. But, perhaps (pour moi), the most beautiful element was the Marc Chagall’s painted dome – a whimsical and colorful pictorial and musical journey. At the age of 90 Chagall became the first living artist to be exhibited at the Louvre.
Now, here’s an artist that followed Winston Churchill’s motto: “Happy are the painters, for they shall not be lonely. Light and colour, peace and hope, will keep them company to the end, or almost to the end, of the day.”
Leonina (Chicken Little – only weighing 2 oz) just returned from France and Russia, but she is already to get on the move again. And, poor Leona (the Grand Dame from Ancona, Italy) has been sitting patiently, waiting for someone to take her on an adventure.
If you are desiring a little company, both chickens make for great conversation. You can take photos, write about your experiences (or give me notes and I’ll write something) and I’ll post them on the blog. It is a fun way for arm-chair travelers to experience the world! From Mt. Everest to Antarctica, these chicks have traveled.
While in Paris, I made new friends from Australia, Debbie and Dirk from Adelaide . And, they said that perhaps next year one of our fine feathered friends can go down-under and into the Outback! Now, that would be an adventure and their first time on that continent!
But, of course it doesn’t have to be an exotic trip – it can be a picnic at your local park! Just let us know and we’ll put them on an airplane to you (just promise to return them!). If you’re a techie, you can do a Google tracking of their wanderings, or short videos – like art, there are all kinds of possibilities! They can even swim, jump and fly (low level)!
I’ve been anticipating this day for a couple of weeks – a cooking experience with Paule (pronounced, “Pole – like the North Pole”) Caillat’s Promenades Gourmandes, in Paris. Da Vinci Capersis all about experiencing the culture, so what better way than cooking in Paris?
Feeling a little anxious to enter the dark cavern of the Métropolitain, second busiest Metro in the world with Moscow holding the baton, I recheck my map. Purple, number 4 – Saint Sulpice to Etienne Marcel – straight shot. My mind wanders… I remember hearing a duck quacking on the roof last night! It wasn’t a dream – a duck was on the roof! I also heard about pigs flying, and now I think, why can’t a little chicken like moi, just flap my wings through the Luxembourg Gardens, past Notre Dame Cathedral, over the Seine and into the Marais’ le 3 arrondissement (neighborhood). This surely would be easier than climbing down into the belly of Paris and cheaper than taking a taxi (plan B)! I can read the headlines now, “A small chicken wearing an apron was bitten by a giant rat and is now carrying the plague – BEWARE!”
I click the buckles on my satchel. Notebook , pen, maps, water bottle – I’m ready! Coming out of the Metro, my feathers were a little ruffled, but I splayed open my little green and white fan to cool myself off. Ah! Voilà! I turned the map 180 degrees, and find the right street to head down.
Ah, such a colorful street! Food stands on one side, pastry shops with glittering chandeliers on the other, people scurrying around artistically displaying their catch of the morning or fresh local vegetables. Butchers were arranging their meats (with little tags assuring patrons of quality). “Let me see you a little closer, ” said one happy-looking butcher. Reminiscent of a fairy tale, I quickly headed for Eric Kayser’s bakery!
A woman stood under an awning hiding from the sun. We smiled knowing that this must be our meeting place! Rachael from Australia certainly came a distance to learn a little French home cooking! The rest of our small entourage came from the U.S. and we all seemed fairly astute in getting around a kitchen! (This was not a requirement, but made it easy when Paule said, “we’re making a roux,” or, “first we’ll make a bouquet garni…”)
“Half the effort in becoming a good cook is desire,” Paule said as we went over the menu we were making that day: “Petits Souffles Suisses (Twice Baked Souffles); Roti de Veau a L’Angevine (Braised Veal Roast Anjou style); Legumes a la Barigoule (Vegetables ‘provenςal’ style); and two tarts – Tarte aux fraises creme d’amandes (Strawberry tart with almond creme that became a peach tart ) and Tarte au chocolat (inspired by Joël Robuchon’s recipe). In addition, we made the crust for the tart, “The Caillat Family crust”, a salad with two dressings and had a cheese tasting of five cheeses!
This was certainly an ambitious menu for a market stroll, cooking and dining by mid afternoon! “It’s all written down,” Paule said as we started bombarding her with questions. “We must get the roast in the oven by noon,” she added. And, Paule was right – in addition to detailed recipes and her other hand-outs, these were all classic recipes that one can find in a decent French cook book such as one of Julia Child’s or Jacques Pepin. I decided that I was going to soak up everything, enjoy my new friends, and make my clucks when I must.
But when you have seven women and one man in a small room who all love to cook – look out! We had big discussions on how to get rid of the dirt on the mushrooms (cut stems, add them to water with 1/2 lemon or some vinegar – or spritz them depending on time); on searing meat (low-med heat to brown all around in a vegetable oil and butter – of course!); or on making a bouquet garni (use a leek leaf to hold herbs and tie with a string. Only use to infuse, then throw).
Then there was herb-talk: what is chervil? I always considered this herb as a fancy, delicate parsley and it is! I learned from Chef Angelo long ago what herbs go together and when to put them in; laurel (bay leaf) with potatoes and sugo (very historic herb from Greece to Dante’s wreath), rosemary with peas, sage with beans, mint with artichoke, don’t use rosemary and oregano together (redundant/too strong – if memory serves), use small amounts and add at the end of cooking, and lastly, if you want a soft taste of garlic, boil gently a couple times with fresh water.
On oil – you can freeze extra olive oil in cubes (does not age well – check date). This is brillant since nice oil can cost a lot of money. Keep all oils in a dark, cool place (not frig) and use nut oils (i.e., walnut) only to add flavor and texture (the new, ‘hot’ thing to do now in Paris).
Mustard is a serious topic. Take my first-born, but don’t take my mustard! All mustards are not equal – Maille is the best and not the same as here in the U.S. I bought a jar, cost practically nothing, but added a pound plus to my already-to-heavy suitcase!
I finally couldn’t resist, “Do you use a digital thermometer?”, I clucked? “Mais, no!” was the answer and continued, “you must have no resistance to a small fork pierce to know when the roast is done.” Another student chimed in, “It’s the bounce-back you get when you touch the roast, right?” Another, “When you pierce and clear juices come out, right?” “No. Veal is very mild flavor and does not have much blood,” was Paule’s final verdict. “Use a fork.” Looking back, we were an unruly bunch!
Nothing is worse than a piece of dry meat, right? And, the most ingenious pot to help in this effort is a large oval cast iron Le Creuset Doufeu. You place ice cubes on the top so that moisture will slowly drip into the pot to keep the meat moist. Being perhaps a little too critical, the meat was still a little dry, but the sauce saved it - the best taste in the whole meal! Once again, butter and wine rules; but, wait! What did I see? Paule pours in a jar of veal stock plucked from the frig!
We’re all around a beautifully set table, and I couldn’t resist. “The veal sauce is yummy, but I don’t see the recipe for the veal stock!” “Maybe it’s on the web site, ” another student softened the silence. Then, the guessing game: “Well, if you were to say what the most important ingredients were, what would they be?” asked one cook. “Who would you suggest to find a good stock recipe, Alain Ducasse?!” “Yes!,” Paule quickly responded, “I basically use his recipe.”
As we ate, we learned a little French etiquette – no hands in the lap, and forearms resting casually on the edge of the table. Also, bread is not really a food – it resides on the table, not the plate. And, one last tip – tear a piece off first and place in your mouth. Do not tear with your teeth!
One student started to sniffle, “I’m so happy! Two tarts!” Yes, it was a fine day. Everyone felt that they learned something new and had some fun.
We are literally steps away from the Jardin du Luxembourg – the Luxembourg gardens. Oh, what a delight! We have walked from one end to the other. Watched little kids have boat races, studied sculptures, listened to a Chopin concert, ate ice cream, and watched teams of Petanque (pronounced, pay-TONK) players. Even Leonina witnessed this grand sport.
Petanque is like lawn bowling or bocce ball. And it is, with the exception of having to stand feet together in a circle marked by your opponent. The history goes back to Egypt in 5200 B.C.! Clubs exist around the world. Here in France, it was first invented in 1907 specifically to allow people confined to a wheelchair. Just two weeks ago, celebrity Chefs had a fundraising competion to raise money for handicapped children and their families. From the young to the elderly, it’s a game for everyone to come, play and socialize.
Usually, there are two or three teams playing against each other. The idea is to throw a little yellow ‘cochonnet’ (means, piglet in French) up to 30 feet away. Then, you want to bowl or throw the ‘boules’ as close to the cochonnet as possible. There’s a point system and the team that reaches 13 first wins.
Having returned a few times, we noticed that team members like to stay together. We learned that each person (mostly men, it seems) have designated strengths for different jobs to become a successful team. One person may be a good ‘pointer’ - throwing the ball as close to the little piglet as possible. Another teammate is the tireur, the striker – one who is able to strike the opponent’s boules out from near the piglet. Then lastly, the milieu, a jack-of-all-trade, one who is generally good all-around. One of these people will be the ‘director’ who makes strategic and tactical decisions – usually the one with the most experience.
It’s all in the concentration and being able to focus “like a robot” that will bring a team up the ranks. We could tell that it was fun, yet serious. Lines drawn, balls clicking, rolling, wiped by an old cloth, cigs dangling. The man in the blue shirt actually went into a trance-like mode. He was the ’striker’ and was 95% right on. Chit-chatting with us on the side-lines, we all laughed and had some winking going on. Then, I think the man in the blue shirt said with a smile, “Your chicken would like to go swimming in the lake?”, or something like this. It was time for Leonina to go into hiding for a while…
Just watching made me want to get up and give it a try. But, I don’t have a set of boules (your personal boules are stored in a wooden hut). In addition, I think it was a private club. Not sure how I would fair since I’m terrible at bowling. But, great at ping pong! I guess these hefty guys don’t bounce. In any case it has been great fun watching them and learning about this popular French sport.
Oh, yes! If you ever go to this park, you should know that it’s like Lego-land. There are three difference kind of movable chairs. People pick them up, move them around into different configurations to read, sleep, people-watch or socialize. It’s like a game in itself – everyone eying up their next chair they will scoop up (and these are heavy metal!). Tre interessant!
“Sure, Mike, take the key with you… Laurent will be here at 9:00″, I said to my husband as he went off to his scientific meeting outside of Paris. I now sit here as a prisoner in my own apartment.
“I will drop off the extra key on Monday at 9:00 am, and check-out on Friday, at 7:00 pm.” Laurent, the representative said in English, and I heard it clear as a bell (in fact, wrote the check-out info on the Paris calendar). After calling Laurent at the office, on his cell, to his assistant, I finally found a general office number for Agence Eliya, the management company for my apartment. After two communications, this new fellow finally said, “Sorry. We will pick up the keys at 5:00 and bring them to you then.”
Since we’ve lived here before and I’m on the tail-end of a cold, it’s not earth-shaking. I have salad makings, my computer, my book and 2003 Chateau Lamonthe Bergeron bottle of wine. But, most people would be furious – needing to go site-see, shop and explore around, come back for a rest and do it again in the afternoon.
I think what bothers me is the attitude of total indifference. The French are famous for just being down-right rude and so superior. I’ve never really experience this with the exception in Avignon on one trip (and I think the person was German in disguise). When we lived here, people were genuinely nice helping me with hair cuts, shopping, cooking lessons, and in my general stumbling around. Even in our 48 hours on this return visit, the woman in line at Bon Marche went out-of-her-way being helpful and Pary, the owner of France Insiders, who rented this apartment to us, has been as nice and helpful as can be!
Being one to give huge benefit-of-the-doubt to everyone in the world, I think the “French Rudeness” leans heavily in the service businesses – just the place you think they would have to be 150% nice and accommodating. After my Le Rousseau restaurant experience with the rude waiter, I thought, “Oh, he’s so tired – just look at him.” Now, I just think he was being indifferent – not going to waste his time nor energy on us (or me, the shoes broke the straw). Rude. Indifferent. Not the same, but both will get you pissed.
It’s a curious thing and talked about a lot – this French rudeness. I was reading last night The Collected Traveler – Paris. An Inspired Anthology & Travel Resource, by Barrie Kerper. It’s a great little gem. As I flipped through it, I came across an article written by Joseph Voelker, called, “The French, Rude? Mais Non!” Voelker’s point is to give the French a break – they get brow-beaten as a child to know their language perfectly and their country has been invaded by foreigners since Caesar in 52 B.C. , thus the disdain for tourists. I think this is a stretch, but the article is laugh-out-loud funny! (And, I can relate to it with similar stories in Italian!)
So, here I wait, in my Christo-orange “gates of Central Park” top, and ruddy-brown Magaschoni pants waiting for the keys…maybe it’s the Italian clothes? Or, perhaps Laurent mumbled something else that I did not hear?… No. They just don’t care.
Our first meal in Paris – Le Rousseau Brasserie. For the next week, our calendar moves by meals, not by days.
In a somewhat zombie state, we walk our new neighborhood that borders on the Luxembourg Gardens. We are searching for the perfect place to experience our first dinner in this beautiful city of Paris. Little beads of sweat drip down my back as we look for a restaurant with outdoor seating. We walk past a bustling brasserie called “Le Rousseau” and I notice there are two seats open on the skinny sidewalk, but they’re squeezed between smoking fiends, so we continue. If our kids were with us (or friends, for that matter), we would start to hear grumbling about how Mike and I always try to find the perfect restaurant. Our clock and calendar revolves around dining, and we only have eight dinners on this trip to Paris.
We soon realized that Le Rousseau would be the one. We opted for an inside table with plenty of fresh air flowing and settled in. It was already 10:00 pm – still early by their watch.
This spot was the happy home for young and old – a young couple to our right, middle aged lovers to our left, and older man with a young honey straight ahead. With each couple, the man is fondling the woman’s hand with an occasional raising to his lips for a sweet kiss. Suddenly, I recall all the kissing and hugging when we lived here ten years ago. Ah… so wonderful!
“Mike, so much hand-kissing!”, as he picked up my hand to kiss it. Yes, I decided that I could live here. I started to peek at the menu. Another problem I have: What do I feel like? What could they be good at making? What day of the week is it – how fresh? What do I feel like spending? A million thoughts fly through my head, but I can’t stop looking at the hand-kissing and now the chickens! What’s with the chickens? Should have I brought Leonina with me instead of leaving her on the fireplace mantel?
Henri Rousseau was known for his wild, flat and colorful jungle animals, not chickens! Nothing matched. Large vases, a few oriental pieces and nice crystal chandeliers, too beautiful for a brasserie. Then, I spied a little book on Rousseau propped up in the corner on the inset bookshelves. I see a large painting with ‘Rousseau’ written and the word, Litteraire. I think we’re talking about the other Rousseau! Jean-Jacques Rousseau – the philosopher and writer of hundred years earlier! (Note: if you read the links, you will see that both Rousseaus started their artistic career in their early 50’s! Now, that’s encouragement to start a new creative hobby!)
Back to the menu. I’m really not that hungry, jet-lagged and my body is just ‘off.’ I decided I’m looking for nothing heavy, just good comfort food. And, onion soup jumped up and said ‘pick me!’ It’s one of the foods that I’ve made since the Julia Child days – so, I know my onion soup and, well, we’re in France, right? Mike decides on a hangar steak with a shallot sauce, pomme frites (french fries) with a mini salad.
Okay. This is how it goes: the waiter comes over to your table. No smile. “What do you want?” “Onion soup,” I reply with a big smile, “and a glass of white wine from the Basque region.” In French (of course), “Only one glass?!” “Oui!,” I reply. He asked one more time and I replied one more time. Mike ordered his meal and it went somewhat smoother.
I know my French is terrible bordering on non-existent, and I know I’m not 20 any longer… but, why the sourpuss face? My soup came. Am I crazy? Ordering hot soup on a hot night? I didn’t care – it was like mamma bear, pappa bear: it felt just right! The broth was fresh, not heavy, not too many onions, thin bread on top, yummy cheese (not too much) and burnt edges (a taste of nostalgia of mom burning toast in the oven for our breakfast!) I loved it! Feeling a little guilty about skimping on the main, I ordered a creme brulee, a dessert everyone thinks is French and every country claims it. I must confess, I’ve made this dessert many times (see recent blog for a no-fail recipe) and this was also perfect: not too thick, not eggy, cool – not cold or too warm, dark caramelized sugar (to the point of black in some places) with a large surface area. Yum…
You become a keen observer in an unfamiliar place. I noticed the old man did the same thing – ordered one bowl of onion soup. No one left additional change for the tip (we did – not sure why), everyone drank at least a bottle of wine per table, salads were their specialty (although, they said moules – mussels, which unfortunately, I can’t eat any longer – so very sad), and no one wore tennis shoes or anything remotely like a sport shoe.
I threw my cross-trainers in (with orthotics) in the last minute of packing. I told myself that I might be sorry if the plantar fasciitis came back, no matter how much it cost me in fashion points. We returned to our flat that evening and Mike was lounging reading a book on Paris. He reads out loud, “Do not order just one glass of wine… and do not wear tennis shoes out to dinner.”
Well, the sourpuss could have been the expression of disdain of my wearing ugly shoes and ordering less than a bottle of wine! I know this from living here and in Manhattan – you at least carry your nice shoes with you. I must have been really jet-lag! But, the onion soup and creme brulee was worth it!
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