A Sunday at Chateau de Fontainebleau

      When our friend, who had planned our Fontainebleau visit, came down with a serious case of French cheese upset stomach the morning of our departure, we wished her best, and decided to go ahead and make the journey out to Fontainebleau for the day. 

      With Normandy apple cider, baguette, three cheese, fruit salad, and of course cornichons, we made our way to Gare du Nord and from there to Fontainebleau, only a hour train ride from Paris.  

      Haven't heard of Fontainebleau? Not everyone has.  The chateaux and its immense grounds remain a shadow aside the grandeur and splendor of Versailles.  But that is not to discount the historical as well as visual grandeur of Fontainebleau.  While not screamingly decadent and overtly aristocratic from initial glance, Fontainebleau's layers of history and charm reveal subtle and sophisticated decadence, rivaling, and in my opinion, out-doing, the overt and stand-offish grandeur of Versailles.

      But it is not only the chateau that makes the trek out to Fontainebleau worth a visit.  As a palace most notably used by the aristocracy for its surrounding hunting grounds.  Fontainebleau boasts expansive and lush forests, with hiking trails and rock climbing available.  Many people go out to Fontainebleau just to hike.  I can attest to this; many of the people surrounding on the train were wearing heavy duty hiking boots and sports jackets.  Even before arriving at Fontainebleau, the train stopped in the middle of the forest--no stop, no sign--just to let people out into the forest.  

      In addition to the forests, Fontainebleau remains a lively small self sustaining town, with small restaurants and markets just outside the chateau walls.  Craving the potato chips we left on the counter at home, I convinced John to walk into town, with hope of finding a grocery store open to buy some barbecue chips.  Yes we found the chips, but more importantly, we found a bustling Sunday morning farmers' market.  We were convinced that the town would close up on Sunday, like Paris and many other towns of France.  We could not be more wrong.  Everything seemed to be open, and everyone seemed to be at this market.  

Fresh poultry, fish, and cheese drew crowds and lines.  Charcutterie, fresh fruit, and fresh produce drew the eye as well.  If you wanted something, you could find it, from fresh bouquets of tulips to local honey to local wines.  So a note to any of you thinking of going to Fontainebleau: go on a Sunday, take nothing with you, and buy your picnic at the market, it is worth the experience in and of itself.

   

 Alas, we unfortunately had everything we needed for our warm day of picnicking, so we headed back to the chateau grounds, in search of a place to sit.  The unique and worth visiting aspect of Fontainebleau is the ability to picnic on the chateau grounds.  However, the chateau is still in France, and like many French manicured gardens, the line of where one can and cannot picnic remain clearly marked and enforced.  Well clearly marked according to the man with a whistle on his bike, who forced us to move to a new location twice after laying out our whole picnic, even when there was a lack of signs.  Despite the frustration, found a spot along the moat, like all other families.  The scene looked eerily like two of Seurats most famous paintings.  More than eery, it made me feel French.  Like everyone else on that lawn, we sat there, drinking our cider, eating our menagerie, and soaking the all too rare warmth of the sun.

Our final destination
Remind anyone of this patinting? : 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bathers_at_Asni%C3%A8res

      Two hours and a sunburn later, we trekked our way over to the chateau to take a look inside.  As the most preserved chateau in all of France, I was surprised at how little of a footprint it made in historical must sees for Americans (at least it was never mentioned in my wanderings).  Built in the 12th century and inhabited until the  until the 19th century with the fall of Napoleon (1870), Fontainebleau remained the residence of all the major kings of French history, including Napoleon.  

The chateau is also the most preserved chateau in France: most of the furniture is from the time, and very little if anything has been destroyed or removed.  Due to the multiple royal families living in the chateau (yes Marie Antoinette as well), the chateau's interior reflects the changes in style and power from family to family, providing a fascinating look at the evolution of French aristocracy and the government beyond aristocracy.  Do not be dissuaded by the less than glamorous exterior; the interior is well worth a visit, and I highly recommend the very interesting self guided audio tour available with the purchase of the ticket.

      I will not bore you with the details of each room.  Rather, the following are pictures of the some of the rooms I found most interesting and most jaw dropping in splendor.  The history behind each room can be found in the commentary below the pictures.  Again the photos do not do it just ice, you must go for yourself.

The Pope's Bedchamber (Apartment)
Only the bedroom actually of the whole of the Pope's apartment.
Yes, it looks grander than this in person.

Trinity Chapel
The royal entrance to the Chapel, from the second flour (only aristocracy had access to this entrance).

Enter, Francois I Gallery. 

Francois I Gallery.
King Francois had this gallery made so he could attend mass without having to walk outside.
This gallery broke boundaries; Francois hired Italian artists to complete the hall.
Notice the fresco paintings on the walls, the roman inspired marble figures, and the carved wooden ceilings.
Aspects of this room were not only Italian, but also French, also breaking boundaries through such a melange.

The Salamander: the symbolic animal of Francois  I,  decorating his gallery.
The salamander is resistant to fire.

The King's Bedchamber (Apartment)
(The picture does not do it justice)

The Queen's Bedchamber (Apartment)
This room illustrates the evolution of personal design from queen to queen.
The bed and bed canopy are the design of Marie Antoinette.
The foot stools as well as the wall paper are of previous and varying queens, hence the lack of uniformity.
Notice the hidden door to the left of the bed; this led to the children's chambers.

Throne Room
The last remaining throne room in France.
A number of kings were thrones here.

"Palmier" chair, named after the artist Palmier.
One of the many royal family apartment rooms.
Notice the uneven arms of the chair, this is what made the Palmier's unique.
The higher armed guarded the seated from the cold air of the windows.
The lower arm allowed the fire of the fireplace to warm the seated.

The King's Office.
And of course no office is complete without a catnap of a bed.
Notice also the very hidden doors to the right and left of the bed.
The right one leads to a private bathroom.
The left one leads to a staircase, leading to a private library below.

Trinity Chapel: Public Access Point

The walk back to the train station.
Yes that is us, we were there that long.

Independent Wine Makers Expo: A Must See! (and drink)

      Typically I am not very good at seizing the moment.  However, when a fellow student in French class on Monday told me about a wine expo in Paris that had only a couple more hours of life left, I decided to seize the opportunity and have a look.  While I expressed hesitation, due to my not so firm grasp of French, as well as flying solo when talking to wine makers, I eventually stopped eating the bowl of pineapple from my fridge, put on some decent clothing, and headed out.

      The effort? Well worth it.  When I arrived, I walked directly to the table distributing wine glasses explaining my student status, to receive a reduced rate. The woman gave me a typical French confused look, asked if I had paid and upon my "no" answer, gave me the glass and entrance ticket for free.  For the first time my naive American  stamp on my forehead came in handy.

   

 Upon entering, I did not know where to begin, or really what to do.  Rows and rows of booths lined the room, each booth manned with winemakers and six to ten of their wines.  People were tasting wines, discussing wines, and dragging along crates of wine on dollies: it is amazing how much wine people purchased.  Not knowing where to begin, I initially walked and watched.  I stopped at one, timidly asked about her wines, at received a taste.  Not to my liking I drank the three generous pours and moved on.  It was not until the fourth of fifth tasting that I noticed the black barrels in front of each booth.  This is not America.  People were tasting  for taste, not to get drunk.  And that god, because at the rate I was going, a hangover was in its nascent stages of development at five in the afternoon.

      It was difficult to know where to begin or what to try.  Yes, I had heard of Cote du Rhone; yes I had heard of Bordelais, but Corsican wine? Or Provence wine? Very interesting varieties.  Signs also displayed whether a producer was organic or not; but being small wineries, the best way to know remained asking, in my broken and puzzling French of course.

     

While initially frightful and timid about speaking French, a couple glasses of wine got me flowing.  I asked about taste, region,and  differences as best I could.  When I got stuck, I expressed my new learning status.  There was no doubt to any winemaker that I was not French.  And actually most of the people walking around were French.  I did stumble upon a group of American college girls, in their typically loud form of communicating.  Like a rock in stormy waters, I grabbed on and started talking to them.  However, they had a different agenda.  At a Loire wine stand at which we all stopped, the four of them held out their glasses and asked for a white wine, in English.  After being poured, and drinking it quite quickly, they moved on.  I asked the winemaker about the differences, had a taste of one, then slowly had a taste of another.  The girls moved on, I said I would catch up and never did.  In typical American fashion, they were there to drink, may be not to engage, and definitely not there to use the black bins below each stand.  

       I stayed, and began a conversation with two older and very knowledgeable French men about the differences between Borugogne wine in France and pinot noir California.  I could not believe how easy it was. Of course, when the conversation dipped into heavier topics, I got lost.  But there I was tasting wines, asking questions, and discussing wine, in French!  For five minutes, I truly felt a part of French culture.  I envied the way these men were able to converse and talk about the subtleties of wine with the winemakers, and the ways in which the winemakers were both flattered and impressed.  

      After not being wowed by any of the wines, I moved on, pretty typical in my wanderings from stall to stall (and in my liking of French wine in general).  I eventually stopped at a Mediterranean wine stand.  While the reds remained too tannicy, the man was nice, and he took out a pink dessert wine for me to try.  It was outstanding.  I thought the price would be ridiculous since dessert wines are usually pricey.  But seven euros I could handle.  

The three wines I eventually chose.  The Mediterranean dessert wine is to the left.

    When I thought I was done, I headed outside, only to notice three more rooms, even bigger, of more winemakers.  I had already spent an hour in a room full of over 100 vignerons, but now hundreds more, and where to begin? I narrowed my search, out of time and tipsiness, to organic (agriculture biologique) stands.  Provence sounded interesting, I seized the moment.  

Notice the winemakers names on the label, the same women I talked to  at the expo.  Also the  French organic stamp of approval to the right : AB (Agriculture Biologique)

What started out as a broken French discussion of their wines turned into a full scale English discussion on EU regulation on organic in France and the rest of Europe.  It was fascinating, hearing how much EU regulation is putting such a stranglehold on traditions.  Like all large bureaucracies, the need to have uniformity in standards means peculiarities and customs get pushed aside.  For these two women, regulations have added more red tape and paperwork.  When importing their wine to the states, they no longer put organic on the label.  The amount of paperwork to be considered organic by American standards is too costly and too time consuming.  While their wine is pushed as sustainable when sold at Whole Foods in New York, they are finding ways to get around the official organic stamp of approval.  

       The discussion evermore reinforced the complexity involved in knowing where you food comes from and what you are actually eating.  The entire expo reinforced, for me the importance of asking farmers about their food, rather than blindly trusting signs and stamps of approval.  But in an increasingly global society in which communication occurs through small screens rather than word of mouth, this strategy proves difficult, challenging the very movement of reducing pesticides, eating local, and feeding the world in an ethical manner.

The 2008 Provence wine, simply delicious

      After three glasses of very good Provencal wine, I decided to buy their 2009 bottle, the last of anything they had (everything else was sold).  The wine maker could tell I liked the 2008; out of kindness, she gave me the rest of the opened bottle,  pretty much full.  Three days later, and I am still drinking it.  The great thing about heavy wines is they age beautifully even when opened and getting minimal amounts of oxidation.  

      I meandered for another 20 minutes (met a French girl, woohoo French friends!) eventually headed home with my three wine bottles and a head full of new wine knowledge, in French and English.

Antique Broccante: The Parisian Garage Sale and Flea Market

Even chocolate can have style.

      This question inevitably arises for many tourists, temporary residents, and globetrotters deciding to experience the city of lights: will this outfit fly in Paris?  It is a legitimate question, and truly one I toggled with before packing my bags.  Parisians do dress to impress, in subtle and classy manner.

      But even if one decides to pack light and buy Parisian when in Paris, the price tag defers most travelers.  In the land of cheap everything (ahem USA), America habituated me to the shopping at used clothing stores, with gem articles of clothing, marked way down and still great quality.  These types of stores have remained far and few between in my wanderings through Paris...that is, until I discovered the  "Antique Broccante".

A cross between a flea market and a garage sale, the Antique Broccante is a one weekend only outdoor market, in which local residents and a handful of professional sellers display their goods for people to bargain for and purchase.The objects range from vintage clothing, to scrappy old books, to real antique French furniture.  What makes the Antique Broccante so distinct from other flea markets is its fleeting and continually changing nature.  In Paris, each  neighborhood reserves a weekend to have their Broccante.  For each neighborhood, their Broccante happens once a year.  While professional vendors may sell at multiple Broccantes, most individuals selling at Broccantes are from that neighborhood, reflecting the flavor of the community and reiterating each Broccante as a unique and fleeting experience.

Where I got the sweater

Our happenstance encounter with the 11th arrondisement Broccante not only filled the afternoon with the greatly missed bargain hunting of American garage sales, but also soothed my craving for vintage clothes shopping.  At a stand full of 80's coats and dresses, I landed myself a Ralph Lauren French cashmere sweater.  The man would not bargain below 30 euros, but it being Paris, the center of fashion, I believed it was a good deal, and I was slowly on my way to looking more French, be it an American approach.

Pappa al Pomodoro: the solution to decrepit crotchety French bread

      With a boulangerie at every corner, and delicious loaves of bread costing no more than 2 euros, how does the hungry traveler (or resident) not overbuy bread?  For me, its a weekly occurrence.  I love the fresh bread of boulangeries, and even the grocery stores, but rarely can you receive a piece for the solo cook.  And, like all fresh bead, it doesn't stay fresh for long.  This is where this recipe come in handy.  Both the texture of French breads as well as the difficult of finishing a whole loaf in one night only enhance the textures and flavors of this soup.  I must confess it is not my recipe; I credit Diana Ross Worthington and her book, "Seriously Simple", providing seriously simple yet incredibly savoury recipes for beginner, advanced, and bored cooks.

      I have made this soup twice already and I am sure to make it again, now that I have a new loaf of bread sitting on my kitchen shelf .  Feel free to change the recipe how you want...bon appetit!

Serving: 2 persons

Ingredients 

--1 12z can of diced tomatoes (or can of whole tomatoes that you can cut up)

--handful of chopped fresh basil  (can use dried basil just put a tablespoon or two in instead)

--half a handful of chopped fresh sage  (can use dried sage as well, tablespoon or two)

--2 garlic cloves (Note: Garlic cloves in France are Strong, capital S, use half the amount of garlic if you are cooking in France, unless you can't get enough of it, comme moi:)

--olive oil(thinly fill the bottom of a small pot; more for garnish in bowls as at end)

--2 cups vegetable or chicken stock  (canned or bouillon will do)

-quarter to half loaf of some sort of day old French bread, cut into 1 inch cubes.  You want it chewy and un-edible when it goes into the soup, because the broth will soak it up.  You can also use frozen bread, but I prefer a drier bread for soaking purposes.

(Note: if you do not have old bread, wait, lol, leave it out without anything on it.  Or, ask about old bread at your grocery store, or see if there is any discounted bread which also works).  

--Garnish: salt, pepper, a cheese you prefer (parmesian, creme fraiche, sour cream are all delicious)

Directions:  

--Heat olive oil in a medium pot.

--Add chopped garlic, sage and basil and let it aroma out for a minute

--Add the tomatoes and broth and bring to a boil, then let simmer for ten minutes covered

--Add bread cubes, enough so that they cover the surface area, but don't overcrowd the pot: they will expand

--Let simmer for another five to ten minutes covered, depending on how much soaking you want to get done.

--After serving, add whatever suits your fancy: I usually add pepper flakes, creme fraiche (sour cream), and olive oil.  The creme fraiche creams it out if the soup is too acidic for your taste.

Our First Neighbor: Filou

      After six weeks in our apartment, we still have not managed to not conduct the meet and greet so appropriate for new arrivals in a complex.  However, one neighbor has insisted on meeting us on multiple occassions.  Our first morning in the apartment we were greeted with his stealthy camoflouge.  His name is Filou.  He tends to hang around the courtyard a lot, and his stealth as well as lack of stealth (as you will see) has inevitably lead to this montage:

Poulet Roti

      After a successful stint at a high end chocolatier (former blog post), my desire to try new things continued.  While veggies were an easy solution to the oncoming dinner preparations, I instead put on my running shoes and shorts, grabbed a sweater (too much seizing of the moment to actually change my shirt and bra, and not laziness of course) and headed out the door, with a ziploc bag of keys, phone, and euros in one hand.  Halfway down the stairs, I realized I had left one vital object necessary for this trip to be a genuinely delicious: my bon maman jar.  I quickly ran up the stairs, grabbed the jar, and bolted out the door, sprinting up rue de chemin vert (street of the green smoke: what a great name, right?) to my destination: the poulet roti.

Corner of rue parmentier and rue de chemin vert.  Also the boulangerie that is open on sundays, a divine and rare  luxury in France

     

       The day before, I took a cold sprint in the rain up rue de chemin vert, trying to clear my head.  Although I tried to stare  hypnotically ahead to keep my face dry, my nose wandered.  First the boulangerie with their freshly baked bread for the evening.  Then the boucherie (butchery), with their giant rotating outdoor oven of poulet roti (roast chicken).  It was 6:30, and like the bread next door, the chickens were fully cooked and ready to be picked up.  With potatoes simmering and picking up the juices at the bottom of the glass case, I could not help but slow down and salivate a little. 

Le jus ou gravy

    Fast forward a day, and there I am, standing in front of the boucherie.  With one chicken left in the glass case, I quickly run inside and ask for a chicken in my broken french.  One of the butchers comes with me outside to describe the chicken I am about to partake in.  I nod and continue answering oui.  I had no idea if he was telling me to cook it some more, or if its mother was a goose, all I hoped was that “oui” was the right answer.  The only word that I actually committed to memory was “fermier”.  As the butcher opened the case to take out the last chicken of the day (yay mine!), he also noticed my empty jam jar.  "Pour le jus?" "Oui" I responded.  I took the advice of John: bring your own jar, and reap the benefits.  After grabbing the chicken and some yummy dripping soaked potatoes from the bottom of the case,  he generalously spooned the rest of the days drippings into my little jar.  Sealing it, he assertively stated "gravy".  "So I have an American accent?" I asked.  "A little bit" he replied.

Voila!

      After our English conversation dwindles, I paid,  said goodbye, and was on my way home with a delicious poulet roti.  Yes, I was responded to in English, yes, I did not understand the entirety of what I had just purchased, but I had I had been given a welcome to always return, and my attempts at communicating in French were understood enough to bring home a fermier (farmed I found out!) chicken.  Slowly this neighborhood is becoming my own.

Butter Buns

It has been five weeks.  Five weeks since I arrived in Paris,  moving life into an apartment in the 11th arrondisement and living with my boyfriend.  It has been five weeks of adjusting my habits, rituals, ma vie quotidienne, to a new drumbeat.  For most days, I am the window licker, walking past the many intersting shops in Paris, but never growing the pair to enter and actually try something new.  Thursday was different. 

   

It has become a ritual.  After every other week of  French phoenetiques class, Kate, Frank, and I walk meander through the city to our French language course.  This Thursday, we happen to walk by seven or eight chocolate shops.  After licking the windows clean in awe, one has to try at least one shop, right?  After stepping out of Patrick Roger, a  very pricey but very beautiful shop (http://www.patrickroger.com/en/index.php) we happen to walk by one of Kate's favorite shops: La Maison George Larnicol http://www.chocolaterielarnicol.fr/.




For any caramel lovers, this is your shop.  Geroge Larnicol is from Bretagne.  Bretagne lies on the northeaster coast of France, famous for its crepes, cidre, butter (buerre), and logically following butter, caramel.  You may also know Bretagne from the little gem of a tourist destination to the right: Mont St. Michel.

Okay so from an island with castle to chocolatier...right, caramel, that is the connection.  Georges Larnicol, specializes in caramel.  Upon Kate's suggestion, I loaded up on one of his many varieties of butter buns.  True to Bretagne, these puppies of his are densely packed with butter and sugar.  When baked, the combination leads to a lovely salted caramel chewiness.  In classic form, I chose caramel buerre sale (salted butter), among the many offerings seen below.

 

The deadliest aspect of this chocolatier is not the waistline doubling bundles of buttery love, but the self service style in choosing your chocolate.  Like the Candy Factory, one can just grab a bag and go for it.

Only, don't really go for it.  Katie reminded me that her wandering eyes landed her a 45 euro bag of goodies.  I tried my hardest to be be Parisien.  I took small amounts, landing me a 3 euro bag.  I savoured the small bites, with my waistline, wallet and tastebuds in bliss.  

 The day of discoveries did not end with these little treasures, but more to come in another post. A tout a l'heure!