Category: dear reader

The List

There seems to be a rash of “life lists” and “bucket lists” circulating on the ol’ blogosphere lately. And while I don’t have too many “life goals” at this point, I do have an ominous event looming at the end of next summer:  I’ll be leaving Paris. I don’t have a firm departure date just yet, but like all good things, this one will be coming to an end sometime in early August 2011. The mere thought of it makes me sad, and a few days ago I sat in the park in front of the Musée Picasso (closed interminably for restoration) and wept at the thought of having to leave this city. I’ve never been happier in my life than I have been living here. And while I’m excited for the next chapter, it’s still going to be a tough transition come next summer.

It’s easier than you think to become complacent when you live in a place like this for a long time. While I’ve certainly done plenty of amazing cultural activities since my arrival, I’ve also managed to avoid some really important one (like, uh, stepping foot in the Louvre). So I have compiled (along with B) a “to-do list” of sorts so I don’t forget all the things I want to do before I leave. I’ll share it with you, dear reader, and periodically update you on my progress. Some of these things are pretty cliché, so I’ll ask you to promise me that you won’t make fun. Telling you about things has been a great incentive to do things over the past ten months.  Better yet, if you are in Paris (or are planning on being in Paris) and want to join me in any of these activities, let me know!

The List

Muesums and other cultural attractions

  • Buy an annual pass and tour the Louvre from top to bottom (this will take a while, so I’ll list the collections so I can cross them off periodically:  Egyptian antiquities; Near Eastern antiquities; Greek, Etruscan, and Roman collection; Islamic art; sculpture; decorative arts; painting; and prints and drawing).
  • See the Jean-Michel Basquiat show at the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris before January 30th
  • See the Arman show at the Centre Pompidou before January 10th
  • Visit the Musée National Gustave Moreau museum
  • Visit the Musée de l’Orangerie
  • Visit the Musée Carnavalet
  • Tour the Catacombes
  • Take B and M to the Cimitière Montparnasse
  • Visit the Crypte Archéologique in front of Notre Dame
  • Visit the Muséum national d’Histoire naturelle
  • Visit Fondation Dubuffet
  • Visit Fondation Cartier pour l’art contemporain
  • Visit the Musée du Vin
  • Take B to the Musée du stylo et de l’écriture
  • Visit the Maison Rouge
  • Visit the Musée des arts forains
  • Visit the Musée de la vie romantique
  • Visit the Musée Jacquemart-André
  • Go to the top of the Tour Eiffel 
  • Go to the top of the Tour Montparnasse
  • Go to Versailles
  • Go to Chartres with B
  • Go to Giverny with my mom
  • Suck it up and go with B to Parc Astérix

Green Things

  • Ride bikes to the Bois de Boulogne and have a picnic
  • See the tulips in the Bagatelles in the spring
  • Take my mother to Parc Butte-Chaumont and buy her a drink at Rosa Bonheur
  • Take my dad for a bike ride along the Promenade Plantée to the Bois de Vincenne and rent a boat
  • Return to Fontainebleau with B in the spring and find some morels

Movies and Concerts

  • See Nouvelle Vague at the Casino de Paris on November 30th with M, AC, and B
  • See somebody at the l’Olympia, preferably somebody French and venerable
  • See The Gospel According to Matthew, Oedipus Rex, and Accattone! at Accattone, thus completing the project of seeing all of Pasolini’s films on the big screen
  • See 8 1/2 and La strada, thus completing the project of seeing all of Fellini’s films on the big screen
  • See Les Quatre Cents Coups, À bout de souffle, Pierrot le fou, Les Carabiniers, Masculin, féminin, Week End, Vivre sa vie, and Cléo de 5 à 7 on the big screen

Clarence, King of All Things Good and Plentiful

  • Eat as much charcuterie, foie gras, rillettes, truffles, rabbit, duck, rotisserie chickens, and oysters as possible
  • Try as many French cheeses as possible and keep a record of ones I love
  • Try as many French wines as possible and keep a record of ones I love
  • Learn to shuck oysters and do so for my friends on New Year’s Eve
  • Eat at Spring (B snagged reservations on January 6th , probably didn’t need that kidney anyway)
  • Eat at Yam’Tcha
  • Eat at Frenchie
  • Eat at La Gazetta
  • Eat at Rino
  • Have brunch at Rose Bakery with M
  • Go to Marché des Enfants Rouges as many weekends as possible and take my mom there when she visits
  • Eat a Pierre Hermé white truffle macaron and a foie gras and chocolate macaron (if possible)
  • Throw a proper ex-pat Thanksgiving feast
  • Throw a party for Fête de la Musique and make a thousand paper cranes to dump on the crowds for Raidd Bar’s annual block party

Save Me From What I Want

  • Buy an oyster-shucking knife and an oyster-shucking glove from E. Dehillerin
  • Convince B that the only thing we can afford from E. Dehillerin is an oyster-shucking knife and glove, or, price shipping costs for copper cookware and cast iron pots from E. Dehillerin
  • Buy the rest of Lacan’s seminars in French (four to go!), figure out how to ship books internationally on the cheap
  • Find an amazing set of vintage Laiguole cheese knives, preferably with wood or horn handles
  • Buy the perfect beret
  • Find vintage lithographs of our favorite landmarks in Paris (including the Hôtel de Ville, preferably on fire, Tour St. Jacques, Porte St. Denis, Notre Dame, Église de Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and Sacré-Coeur) at le Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen
  • Find a vintage map of the Marais (Saint-Ouen, you’re on notice!)
  • Visit Deyrolle, the famous taxidermy shop.  Resist buying a stuffed bunny.

Clarence Heads Outside the Schengen Zone: Turkish Delights in Paris

Our dinner at Al Taglio last weekend was a last minute decision, as we had originally planned to eat Turkish food with our new friend ME, who is originally from Turkey and determined to show us that there is more to Turkish food than döner kebab. This lesson in mind, we reconvened on Friday night at the charmingly cluttered Le Cheval de Troie (71 rue de Charenton, 75012 Paris, Métro Ledru-Rollin). I has dumbly asked B earlier in the night why on earth a Turkish restaurant would be called the Trojan Horse. He responded that Troy had been in Turkey, obviously. Like, why haven’t I been working on my ancient geography? It must be getting embarrassing to be with someone like me. All sound and fury and incapable of situating ancient city-states in modern-day nations. I’m drowning in shame.

Anyway, Troy was in modern day Turkey, dear reader. Did you know that? I suggest you get to your Iliad review pronto if you didn’t.

This whole thing was funny to me because B’s latest project involves mapping early Christian sites onto an enormous Google map, combining two of his most obsessive passions: 1) anything Biblical and 2) anything map. Most days he spends his time crouched over his laptop in what must be an excruciatingly painful position, surveying satellite images and making little whimpering noises of joy when he manages to find ruins of the original monastery run by St. Ambrose the Pallid, now gathering moss behind a gas station in rural Egypt. Or something like that.

Anyway, back to Turkish food.

We met up with ME and his daughter E, who has begun reading this blog and would like to be known as EON, the explanation for which I lost in a flurry of 14-year-old energy. Seriously, Friday night made me feel like I was about a hundred years old.  EON was on fire, cracking jokes about everyone and sketching funny anthropomorphic cartoons of us in her notebook. As the night wore on and her energy level only increased, I was struck by one of those all-too-depressing realizations of aging:  I don’t have the energy-level of a teenager anymore. Not even close. I suppose I should have realized this in one of the many classes full of teenagers that I teach, but those aren’t usually at 11 p.m. Even after a Turkish coffee, I was still yawning by the end of the meal, a fact that astounded EON. You just wait, kiddo.  Give it a decade or two.

We were warmly greeted by the proprietor of Le Cheval de Troie, which I first assumed was because of ME’s Turkish banter, but later realized was just the in-house policy.  As per usual with ME and B, we ordered waaay too much food, but everything was delicious and it was fun to try some new things. (Do I sound like a blithe orientalist yet?  No?  It’s coming.) I was particularly psyched about the large jugs of Ayran (sour yogurt drink) that we ordered, as I’m a fiend for yogurt products of all kinds.  The Ayran at Le Cheval de Troie was a lot like buttermilk – tangy and totally refreshing. I could drink it every day.

Eager for us to try everything, ME ordered everyone a plate of Kiymali Lahmacun, a kind of flatbread spread with spiced ground beef.  Really yummy, and quickly devoured by all.

B, M, and I all ordered menus, which were reasonably priced at about 20 euros for an entrée, plate, and dessert.  My entrée was kizartma, roasted eggplant and bell peppers served with a spicy garlic and yogurt sauce:

B ordered sarma (which I know better as dolmas) heavily-spiced rice wrapped in grape leaves and served with garlic yogurt sauce:

M, brave little bird that she is, ordered arnavut cigeri, or lamb livers. Usually a big fan of organ meats of all kinds, I was out of my league with this one and had a tough time getting my bite down. But M was delighted by her entrée, which as usual made me wonder why someone as cool as her still deigns to keep company with me.

Among the many delicious main plates that we ordered, I especially liked my icli peynirli köfte, heavily spiced ground beef topped with melted Kachecaval cheese:

M’s adana kebap, a brochette of ground beef spiced with garlic and parsley, was particularly lovely (no picture).  B had an amazing leg of lamb that was wrapped in roasted eggplant and falling off the bone tender:

They only serve it on Friday and Saturday nights, but it would definitely be worth the trip for on a weekend.

For dessert, we shared orders of baklava, sesame halva, dondurmali sütlac (Turkish rice pudding), and rosewater lokum (commonly known by idiots like me as Turkish Delight). All were really terrific, but the buttery-sweet baklava was something truly special.  I could have eaten an entire tray of the stuff by myself, and only begrudgingly shared my portion with my friends. Sometimes I’m such an only child.

* * *

Let’s say, for a moment, that you are one of these regressive Westerners who think that Turkish food means nothing but döner kebab, preferably eaten late at night while hammered.  In that case, I will humbly recommend what I find to be the two best kebab places in all of Paris. I’m sure anyone who cares about these things will argue that this is not a particularly great town for kebab (you’ve got to head for Berlin for that).  However, we’ve found two places that more than get the job done.

The first, Délice Dégustation (8 rue de Faubourg Saint-Denis, 75010 Paris, Métro Strausbourg Saint-Denis), is in B’s old neighborhood, the, uh, “atmospheric” Strausbourg Saint-Denis. B spent his first year in France living on rue Blondel, one of the oldest streets for prostitution in France. There have been brothels operating on this street since the Middle Ages, including the famous Aux Belles Poules (The Beautiful Chicks), a legendary Belle Époque whorehouse that counted Henry Miller among its regular patrons. Saint-Denis is still bustling hotspot for prostitutes, johns, and men who hang out in betting parlors all day. That said, rue Faubourg Saint-Denis is also a bustling, lively market street at all hours of the day. If you find yourself in the neighborhood, make sure to grab a cheap pint at Le Sully (13 rue de Faubourg Saint-Denis, 75010 Paris, Métro Strausbourg Saint-Denis), B’s favorite bar, before heading across the street to Délice Dégustation (disregard the large pizza signs that seem to trump the kebab, they don’t). Once there, grab a tray and order a veal or chicken kebab in a pita, which here is flatter and more tortilla-like bread that what I’m used to in the States. Make sure to ask for extra harissa, which is made in-house and one of the first genuinely spicy things I’ve eaten in Paris. You’ll get a giant tray of fresh-from-the-fryer fries and a döner kebab that you could easily make two meals from. Sit outside and gaze at the Porte Saint-Denis and watch the riff-raff go by. You might just see B, soaking up “the real Paris” before he scuttles back to his new digs in the Marais.

Or, should you find yourself in Belleville after a late-night concert at La Maroquinerie, La Bellevilloise, or Café de la Danse, may I recommend a stop at the inimitable Döner Burger (52 rue Ménilmontant, 75020 Paris, Métro Ménilmontant).  This place takes fast food to a whole new level. Served sandwich-style in a fluffy bun, their signature döner burger is my bar-none favorite drunk food in Paris.  Or, you can get a spicy, totally satisfying köfte burger.  Either way, make sure and also order an ice-cold two-euro Efes beer, one of the best deals in town. The guys who run the place are really great and seem to be rather obsessed with watching episodes of Dawson’s Creek that have been dubbed into Turkish. I don’t need to tell you that this alone would seal the deal for someone like me.

* * *

We saw the newest Woody Allen flick You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger this weekend. I really enjoyed it, but that of course is kind of a no-brainer for someone like me. B has recently noted that I have kind of a limited taste for genre and tend to gravitate only towards films about neurotic upper-class urbanites. In an effort to counteract this, he has been making me watch Battlestar Galactica, which I wanted to hate but am now entirely obsessed with. This is a big step for me, as I’ve always detested sci-fi or fantasy of any kind. I’ll admit that I still get pretty anxious about how quickly the narrative can spin out of control when you set your television series in “a possible universe,” rather than limiting the scope of the action to the island of Manhattan. But regardless, I’m hooked. B woke up in the middle of the night a few days ago to me yelling “Oh my god!  The fence isn’t real!  The fence isn’t real!  The Cylons are coming!” When he woke me up and asked what I was dreaming about, I apparently eyed him suspiciously and declared that I was confused, but it was still possible that he was a Cylon. I have no recollection of this interchange, but still find it pretty funny. Before long I should be playing Dungeons and Dragons and reading the Wheel of Time. Or not. Maybe I’ll just stick with New Yorker-endorsed sci-fi series for now. Gotta take the long dark path into real-dorkdom nice and slow.

Booze or Lose: Le Baron Rouge

So school started for reals this week, or at least as “for reals” as it ever really is at the husk of a university where I teach. Part of the problem is this rather large strike that has been going on for the past five days with no signs of abating. This means that getting to work has been a veritable hell, with only one train in every three running on the major commuter transit lines. Upon arriving at campus, the buildings may or may not be barricaded by stern-looking policemen or angry students. If I am so lucky as to get in to one of the classrooms, I’m usually greeted by one or two confused students, whom I chat with for a while before letting them leave. On Thursday, the one day that I actually had dozens upon dozens of students show up for my classes, it became clear that a major registration faux-pas had taken place and that nobody (myself included) was in the right place. Unfortunately, all of the administrators and secretaries are also on strike, so I wasn’t able to do much besides take attendance, play half-hearted rounds of the cannibal game (my favorite ice-breaker in which students gradually cannibalize one another on a desert island), and send everyone on their way. Basically, I was a glorified attendance-taker this week. I’m so glad I’ve had 9 years of higher education. Livin’ the dream, baby.  I’m livin’ the dream.

Add to that some other minor irritations and this was the kind of week that warranted one serious after-work happy hour. B and I fantasized all summer about organizing a kind of weekly get-together at one of our favorite wine bars, Le Baron Rouge (1 rue Théophile Roussell, 75012 Paris, Métro Ledru-Rollin).  Think Thirsty Thursday all grown-up, complete with charcuterie plates and witty banter. We “discovered” this place (I’m like Christopher Columbus over here, discovering places that other bloggers have already written about ad nauseum) with BC and J last spring and quickly became devoted patrons.  Le Baron Rouge is seriously awesome. They have an amazing selection of wines available by the (cheap!) glass, listed on large chalkboards. You can give yourself a rather comprehensive lesson in French wines just by gradually working your way down the chalkboard, as B has been methodically doing. Or, you can be a crusty old creature of habit like yours truly and just order a glass of the Pic Saint-Loup over and over again, because you like it, and because the true madness of modernity might just be forgetting what you actually like because you want to try everything.  Or so us crusty old creatures of habit tell ourselves.  Either way, the wines are lovely and the bartenders are both knowledgeable and generous in their pours.  At between two and four euros a glass (and you are getting some pretty knockout wines at the top end of that spectrum), you can afford to have a few glasses to blow off some steam. And, if you really like something, you can take home a bottle for less than you’d spend at your local wine merchant.

Let’s say for a moment that you’re more serious drinker, or perhaps you like boozing at home, or feel a wide-eyed sense of wonder and value when you stroll the aisles of Costo.  You might want to purchase a few liters of wine from one of the big barrels that line the walls of Le Baron Rouge. You pay a one-time fee for the plastic jugs, and then return whenever you want to refill for bargain-basement prices. I like it when my bulk drinking is green. Take that, Leonardo di Caprio. Have fun cruising around in your Prius, you know, the feel-good hybrid with the hideous environmental footprint? I only take public transportation and drink my wine out of reusable plastic jugs. Now who is feeling smug?

More importantly, and lest you think I actually do anything beneficial for the environment besides begrudgingly sort my recyclables and ride Vélibs when drunk, let me tell you about the charcuterie plates. Oh man, Le Baron Rouge is like cured meat nirvana.  Their large charcuterie plate is one of the best parts of my week, with slices of spicy dry salami, tangy garlic sausage, and two of the biggest mounds of foie gras paté and creamy rabbit rillettes you could ever hope for in your life. Most charcuterie plates leave a group of four wild-eyed and lusting after those final cornichons. But the charcuterie plate at Le Baron Rouge is totally satisfying and perfect for a table of four. Party of six?  Add a mixte, which pairs an amazingly smoky Tomme de Corse with more of that great salami. You also then get the pleasure that comes from the opening of the cheese fridge at Le Baron Rouge, a most glorious stink that wafts through the entire joint and causes the Americans to glare suspiciously at their companions.  Don’t worry newbies! It’s just cheese stink, magnificent, tremendous, old cheese stink. If they bottled it in perfume form, I’d be the first girl in line at Sephora.

We gave our Thirsty Thursday plan a trial-spin a few weeks back with much success, with a half-dozen friends showing up to drink and chat around the enormous barrel in the center of the front room.  This past Thursday was less successful, with B and I drinking alone until our table was gradually hijacked by the hoards of French workers that show up after 7 p.m.  We left, disappointed that we weren’t living in our own version of Cheers and resolved to do better next week. So, Paris denizens, Le Baron Rouge next Thursday? I get done taking attendance at 4 p.m., so we’ll aim for a prompt 6 p.m. arrival time. How about it guys? The charcuterie plate is on me.

Clarence Gets Down and Dirty with the Kimchi: Hang-A-Li

Let’s talk about Korean food in Paris, shall we?

Many moons ago I recommended one Han Lim as a possible venue for getting some “spare but functional” Korean food in Paris. It was kind of a throwaway entry – stock photo of some kimchi, a few offhand remarks about how sick of French food I was, and some rather lukewarm praise of the place. Would you believe that this is one of my highest ranked entries? I literally can’t tell you how many people arrive at this site from googling “Korean food in Paris” or “kimchi.” If Han Lim has seen any kind of spike in their Anglophone business in the past six months, it’s entirely my doing. I can be thanked in soju.

Worse yet, I believe the picture of kimchi that accompanies that totally lackluster few paragraphs is now one of the top Google images that comes back from searching “kimchi.” I stole it from some poor (now-anonymous) bloke’s Flickr or something and never even thought of giving credit where credit is due. I’m a jerk, you unnamed-yet-brilliant photographer of spicy fermented cabbage! Contact me and I’ll send you a special Keeping the Bear Garden in the Background thank you gift!

As an aside, I keep telling readers to contact me for their special Keeping the Bear Garden in the Background prizes and they never do. And it’s a shame, because all of these amazing champagne stoppers and lenticular postcards are just gathering dust, when they could be keeping your leftover Prosecco bubbly and your children amused.

All of this is to say that I’ve since found much better Korean food in Paris since I started frequenting the Asian district of the first arrondissement. I’m still nuts for Higuma, but have started branching out to other restaurants off of rue Sainte Anne since their kimchi ramen left me a little bit cold (I’m still a rabid loyalist to their yakatori, however). Anyway, a recent stroll led B and I to discover the nearby Hang-A-Li (7 rue Louvois, 75002 Paris, Métro Quatre-Septembre), a warm and friendly Korean restaurant that is doing some serious and scrumptious cooking.

First of all, their banchan is much closer to what I’m used to from eating Korean food in Southern California. While it’s varied from night to night, you can expect to see baechu kimchi, dongchimi (cabbage in a white brine), oijangajji muchim (pickled cucumbers), sigeumchi namul (blanched spinach dressed with soysauce, sesame oil, and garlic), kongnamul (bean sprouts with sesame oil), and musaengchae (julienned white radishes in a sweet vinegar sauce).  A rather thick, but lovely pajeon (savory pancakes with spring onions) can be ordered as an entrée.

Our first visit, we launched headfirst in the barbeque and weren’t disappointed.  We shared the bulgogi, which was everything that you want it to be and satisfyingly so, and a spicy, peanutty pork dish that uses samgyeopsal (unsalted strips of pork belly).  I’d never eaten anything like it in the States, and oh man, was it delicious.  It was all of my favorite things in one dish:  salty, spicy, nutty, and fatty. For about 14€ a dish, with soup, banchan, and a lovely little dish of lychee-heavy fruit salad included in this price, Hang-A-Li is a good bargain, especially compared to Han Lim (which is much more expensive and not nearly as tasty).

Last night we returned to Hang-A-Li with M.  It was a chilly night and we were all still dressed for late summer. By the time we were arrived, nothing sounded better than a cold Hite beer and a kimchi jjigae (kimchi-based hot pot with pork and tofu). This is one of my comfort foods par excellence, and Hang-A-Li’s version lived up to my high expectations. M, who also ordered one, kept quietly murmuring “I love this soup. I love this soup.” She has much less bombastic, and far better taste than I do, so I’ll leave you with that as the best review imaginable.  B ordered his spicy pork samgyeopsal and spent the rest of the evening with what I’ll call the “blissed-out pork belly face.”  We’ll definitely we spending a lot of time at Hang-A-Li as the weather gets colder, and so should you.

Details: Disregard everything I’ve said about Korean food in Paris until now and scoot over to Hang-A-Li for dinner.

My 100th Post!

I was going to write about a museum today, but when I checked my WordPress statistics, I noticed beneath the line graph of my declining popularity that I had posted 99 entries, making this little bugger the century mark here at Keeping the Bear Garden the Background.

The last few weeks have gone by in a bit of a haze.  I’m in the stupidest, most juvenile sleeping schedule imaginable, staying up until the wee hours of the morning and sleeping until morning coffee must be accompanied by a “Good Afternoon.” I’ve always loved to stay up and sleep late. Even when I’ve had jobs that necessitated rising early on a daily basis, I never really got the hang of it. This natural proclivity is exacerbated by the fact that I live across the street from the loudest bar in all of Paris and the warm summer months means that the bar patrons are outside squawking until 4 a.m. and my windows must open or the apartment is stifling. I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to, because the minute I dozed off, someone would start singing a rousing Madonna number on the street. At any rate, I’ve been waking up everyday resigned to the fact that I have already failed at being a grownup.

Upon waking, I immediately check my e-mail, which allows me to troll the listserv for my academic department and read about the many accomplishments of people that I know, a group who has become annoyingly prolific in their acquisition of fellowships, grants, publications, and tenure-track jobs lately. By the time B has made the coffee, I’m convinced that I have become a withering failure. I’m a burnout, a wash-out, a hoser, a flop, a late-life lemon.

The most significant thing I’ve produced in the past year is this blog, which, if the WordPress statistical counter is correct, actually becomes significantly less popular on the days that I post something. My biggest Google hits are for kimchee, Sàlo, Aperol, and anchovies. Every day or so someone Googles “bear in garden,” which I suspect has more to do with a wildlife containment problem than my musings on Parisian restaurants.

Even so, this silly little blog is one of the best things in my life. For the first time in my life, I’m writing on a regular basis and putting that work out into the world for people to see. I’ve always wanted to write, you see, but have been crippled by the fear of not being smart enough, or serious enough, or avant-garde enough to deserve an audience. While cocktail recipes and Pasolini films are a million miles away from the kind of writing that I really want (and need, from a professional standpoint) to be doing, this blog has gotten me into the habit of sitting down on a regular basis and producing something with other people in mind. Moreover, having this blog has made my life more interesting, as I am compelled to try new things so that I can tell you all about them.

I know that some people probably think this blog is stupid, or a waste of time, or merely a symptom of my malignant narcissism. But a few people don’t, some of whom have been coming here from the beginning and a some who have joined me along the way. I guess what I’m trying to say, in my usual longwinded way, is thanks for coming here, for reading, and for commenting. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you are supporting this silly project. This place is starting to feel like something that isn’t just mine anymore, as evidenced by the fact that I feel guilty when I haven’t been here in a while. To those of you that read regularly enough to chastise me if I haven’t posted in a few days, thank you for being the best friends and interlocutors a gal could ask for.