Farewell Farm & Paris Pleasures (part 2)

by: Nicholas
...A chime over the train's PA system awakened me from my dreamy reminisce. A slew of melodic French words past through my ears and I recognized only one, Paris! The next three days were filled with site seeing, food eating, and moments only offered by the City of Light.


Sites:
I am a New Yorker.  I have commuted through Times Square, floated out to Lady Liberty, walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, and have seen images of the Eiffel Tower for as long as I have known I am 1/8th French.  With this kind of experience I entered Paris with no excitement for the glorified monument which over looks the city.  This unenthusiastic state did not last long. 


The Parisian flat that we called ours for the weekend housed my first sighting of the Eiffel Tower. Three windows looked out over the obviously Parisian neighborhood; not a hotel room, we were one step closer to the city's life than the average tourist.  Viewing the floral balconies of the street, a light dashed across my visual field. Giving my attention to the source of the light I saw, between the buildings, The Eiffel. Her light penetrated my eye and her spirit entered mine. Feeling grounded as if I too were a monument, a smile separated my lips and joy became associated with the sight of her. 
She followed me throughout my stay in Paris. If she wasn't watching from a distance or looking straight down upon me, her precence was felt like the closeness of a lover. 

With only three days in Paris many must-visit sites were not properly seen. The Louve and Notre Dame were passively viewed and documented as we moved to our next destination.  By walking all weekend we were able to absorb the history that swept the streets.  Although facts of the past went undiscovered, the remnance of an out-dated society was felt like a breeze in the air. 

Food:  
Three days, nine meals, and over a dozen courses accompanied this mini vacation. Four of these dishes still linger in my memory and on my palate. I would have them all in one sitting for the perfect Parisian meal.


The feast would commence with a cheese plate that I myslef constructed. Consisting of five cheeses, one of which was left over from a log of chevre (goat cheese) that Jennifer and I enjoyed under the Eiffel tower. The other four were from the pervious night's dinner. This plethera of rich cheese was served with grain mustard, jam, strawberries taken form the farm, and a warm-from-the-oven baguette. Also, a stick of butter that our waitress added to our doggy bag with the frommage (cheese). 

The place we bought our frommage

Next, a pate from land and sea. This slice was pale grey with a pinkish hue topped with a yellow that yelled in contrast to the neutral base; buttery egg was the taste of the noise. The rest was a blend of flavors that were obviously not from the land.  The salt-flavored, smooth-textured pate was spreadable over bread. It was made from a blend of salmon, caviar and foie gras. 

Mmm...

Following the sort of surf and turf a hollowed out bone was presented. Inside, a hot marrow produced steam that crept above the plate.  When placed inside my mouth, the marrow dissolved into my tongue giving the impression that I was consuming a liquid meat. As it sank into my taste buds, I sank deeper into oneness with the food.  This dish set a benchmark for anything else labeled savory.  


The finale, a dessert of course, was none other than chocholate. Le dome au chocolat was a baseball-sized dome of the most delicouse truffle-like chocholate. The dark delight was immobilizing on its own, but still the core of the gluttonous globe was filled with warm banana; thought evaporated and only pleasure remained. Red currents topped the dessert for a refreshing burst, and mint cleansed the pallet readying your mouth for the next bite of the multi-layer dish. 

Posing for Jen's sketch before indulging in le Dome 

Moments:
Of my time in Paris there were two events that no other city in the world could replicate. The first came after walking the alleys of Musee d'Orsay, where the art affected me in a way that art hadn't before. In the past I tended to study paintings in a museam as if searching for something. One by one, I would inspect each canvas looking for the beauties of each work. This day was not the same. Seeing from Jennifer's style of museum-going I shared space with the paintings from a new perspective. We walked down the halls filled with art only stopping at  paintings that reached out to us, almost inviting us to share a moment with them. As I follwed her lead I felt the power of the collection as a whole. The energy projecting from the walls overcame my body. It was not an idividual that moved me, but an entire genre that sent warm vibrations through my body, and deeper. All other museum-goers disappeared; my vision was tunneled with a continuum of color.  I was drawn past the Monets and Van Goughs, the lighting of the works combined, pulling me onwards. 


It was le place outside the Musee d'Orsay that I shared a moment with a living master of art.  His studio was the street, his instrument a scissor, his canvas black paper. Precision and these photos explain the rest...

5 euro, in under 2 minutes 

All the pleasures I enjoyed in Paris were unique to the city, but any tourist could have had the same meals, seen the same tower, and participated in the same street art any day out of the year. Paris found me to be a special guest and wanted to reward me for my visit. Without coordination, the Sunday I was in Paris was the finale of Le Tour de France! I perceived this as a once in a lifetime gift and planned to see the climax of the race. 


I showed up to the Champs-Elysees three hours ahead of time. It is tradition that before crossing the finish line each competitor completes eight laps through the Triumphant Arch, along the Sianne river and around the Champs-Elysees. I found a spot right at the entrance to the square and made preperations for the grand finale. 


The stage was set, but empty. Thousands stood anticipating the cloud of cyclists. As the time drew near a buzz grew of exciting cheers and people fumbling with their cameras. The commotion grew louder until the street was filled with an all out roar. Around the bend a streak of red appeared. It was a line of teammates out in front. The intensity and vigor was pouring down their faces in the form of sweat. I could feel their pride as they powered through the historic finish. Before I could fully experience the sight a wave grew in front of me. A formless mass, I only assumed were bikers, pulled the attention of everyone as it passed. A physical pressure was expelled from the street as they rushed by. Like the force of thunder, it was gone instantly and no trace was left behind. All the waiting was not for this one moment. I witnessed this explosion seven more times as the two-wheeled warriors fought their final battle. Each lap a smaller group was further ahead of the main pack and a larger group lagged behind. First, last, or lost in the middle, we the spectators cheered each man as if he was the champion. It is not a feat for one man to complete the Tour, but for the group. The glory is in the collective charge that storms as one throughout the country and across the finish-line. 

Your generosity was appreciated, Paris...

The Clumsy American Chef

by Jennifer

I walk into parked cars/trees/lamp posts. There's a little background for you. My second day in France, in Villeneuve Loubet, Nick and I decided to take bikes to le plage for a dip in the méditerranéen sea, but the bike was too big for me, and though I tried to ride it anyway, I only got to the first gravelly and hilled sharp turn before I fell off and dinged myself up. My knee was scraped and bleeding from the thick gravel combined with the high speed, the bike something had cut my foot, and trying to prevent my fall, I had gashes on my hand as well. And I hadn't even started working.

I have aprx. 20 cuts on either hand from the little knife I take with me everywhere on the farm to harvest vegetables and to tie tomates to show them the way to grow (one of which I cut to the vein in my wrist by a vast over exaggerated attempt to harvest an eggplant). I have blisters on the insides of my thumbs from raking. I have scrapes up and down my forearms from harvesting courgettes and about 10 splinters (most of which are still inside the skin) on my thumbs and fingertips from the eggplant. I'm bad at not getting hurt. During a break for lunch one day Markus the English farmer said to me, "You look like you've been on the frontlines".  All this plus a freak accident in the kitchen when a colander fell off the top of the fridge and cut my nose open. My body needed a break.

So I started spending less time in the fields and more time in the kitchen. At first I just made courgettes sauteed with onion, garlic, olive oil, and herbs de provence with the eggplant fries I've perfected and some nice strawberry salads. But everyone seemed to love my cooking...and I was happy to be  in the house where less bad things could happen to me (although the kitchen can be a dangerous place...proceed with caution). I decided to be more creative and really use all the ingredients on the farm. I made tomatoe sauce from scratch for the first time in my life. Nothing came out of a can, and better yet it all came from the farm. I made a strawberry tart out of practically nothing, on a celcius oven no less! Everyone was complimenting my cooking and I was eager to try new things. When our host had some friends over for lunch, me trying to keep up with the conversation in French, they looked at me and said, "c'est bon, this is very good. You made this?" and I was beaming that an actual French person complimented my cooking.

Sensing my adventurous culinary attitude and love of a challenge, the farmers started bringing me things to cook with. Peppers, tarragon, mint, and the biggest challenge of all: a giant, overgrown zucchini that was now a sort of...butternut squash? It had been sitting in the garden for months. I had passed over its girth many times and thought 'why don't they put this rotten thing in the compost?' Apparently they were waiting for the perfect chef. Markus brought it in to me and said, in a thick London accent, "Can you make like a pumpkin pie with this or something nice?". At first I thought he was joking. A pumpkin pie with an old zucchini? Turns out he wasn't.

I set off on the task after staring at the giant thing for a while. I decided to make a meal out of it, with a savory plat and a sweet pie dessert. I started cutting it up and boiled half of it, in small pieces, with some fresh ginger and sel de mer. The other I started cooking in a big pot with tomatoes, basil and garlic. When the boiled squash was soft I used a salad spoon to mash it like potatoes. I added sugar, cinnamon, butter, and nutmeg. I made a crust of oats with egg and flour to bind and popped it in the oven. I cleaned the seeds, added some salt, and toasted them.

Over the next few days I made many meals out of scratch: chili with eggplant substituted for meat, salads with sweet and savory dressings, gazpacho, and a 9 person feast starting with a hot and spicy tomato soup for an amuse bouche, with cous cous, courgettes with herbs and oil, eggplant Japan (an Asian inspired baked eggplant dish invented by Rhea), a grated carrot salad, and a chocolate brownie for dessert, drizzled in strawberry juice and ripe strawberry slices with mint leaves. It was decadent and amazing. I was proud. This day was the first of a new wwoofer, Nadej, from the north of France. She said to me, "I thought Americans were horrible cooks. You must be the best American chef." I beamed, knowing that I am not by a long shot the best American chef, but it's nice to hear all the same.