Tomato Kumato

May 25, 2010

Ravioli with Fava Beans

Filed under: Beans and Legumes, Pasta, cheese — Tags: , , , , , — emiglia @ 4:35 am

When I was in high school, I was infamous with the girls in my dorm for the color-coded Post-Its lined up along my desk, detailing the events of my days over the upcoming week. As I progressed through college and, eventually, to the dreaded “real world,” I evolved to a very detailed Google Doc spreadsheet, which I could update from any computer, filling and emptying cells throughout the day. It appeals to my sense of organization and my desire to accomplish something tangible with every day.

Now that I’m in Cannes, every morning I make a schedule and promptly ignore it. I forego it for the beach or shopping or an early apéro at Bar à Vins, where everybody knows your name and you can’t take a sip of wine or make it two sentences into a conversation before you recognize someone and have to swoop in for a bise. It’s a lovely way to spend the day, but it reeks of vacation, and, as most people who hang around me know by now, I don’t do vacation.

“This is my life,” I say, somewhat guiltily, as I abandon the people I’m with who are actually on vacation to “accomplish” one of my many tasks, a freelance job that has been laid out for weeks in that spreadsheet that I have finally closed the tab for, although not without some remorse.

It was the Nomad–a dear friend from my first year here in Cannes who has been popping back into my life at perfectly appropriate and somewhat screenplay-worthy intervals–who asked me, finally, “Why do you need to accomplish anything? All you need to accomplish is being yourself, today.”

Good point, I say. When I try to force myself to write, nothing comes out, or what does is, pardon my French, absolute merde. When I wait, when I force myself to enjoy myself instead of to coop myself up in my room and pound out articles or translations, the words flow as freely as wine.

The past three days have been spent at the beach with Scotty and the Nomad, the evenings over three- and four-hour dinners in Cannes, slurping fresh oysters, drinking endless rosé and chatting at Bar à Vins or with Jason and Nigel at Quay’s, the Irish pub that was our home in 2007. I swim in the Mediterranean at least three times a day, and I crawl on the jetties of rocks that protrude from the beach to examine the shore like it’s my domain.

And when we crawl back home, just tipsy enough to laugh at everything, the words come easily. I don’t check things off my to do list anymore… I don’t even tack new things on. Everything gets done, and I am tan at the end of May.

“This is my life,” I say, but I’m smiling this time.

Ravioli with Fava Beans

I don’t have a kitchen, so this is pulled from last year around this time. It’s incredibly easy and a perfect celebration of spring, with goat’s cheese and fava beans. The store-bought ravioli means that the relatively labor-intensive favas are the hardest part of the meal to prepare.

1 bag prepared ravioli
1 lb. fava beans, shelled
1 tsp. olive oil + 2 tsp. olive oil, separated
1 onion, sliced
3 oz. goat’s cheese

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil and place the shelled fava beans in the pot. Cook for 1 minute or until the beans turn bright green. Drain and shock in ice water, then remove the inner shells. Set aside.

Bring another pot of water to a boil and cook the ravioli according to package directions.

Meanwhile, in a skillet, heat the first teaspoon of oil. Add the onion and cook until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the shelled fava beans and ravioli. Toss to combine.

Remove from heat to a serving bowl and add the remainiing oil. Toss to coat. Top with goat’s cheese. Serve with wine and sunshine.

May 20, 2010

Courgettes et Tomates à la Provencale

Filed under: Side Dishes — Tags: , , , , — emiglia @ 9:12 am

If you want to be viewed as a tourist in France, there is one surefire way to do it.

It’s not speaking English loudly, although that helps your case, as does carrying a large map and blocking intersections to read it. Driving too slowly or too carefully is a pretty dead giveaway of a non-local, as is exclaiming over things that are “quaint.” Wearing the “wrong” jeans is seen as a sin here, where the perfect jeans are completely moulant and give you the best-looking butt you’ve ever had, but not nearly as bad as the number one, all-powerful thing not to do while in France.

Eating on the street.

If you want to be spotted a mile away as a foreigner, be my guest: grab a sandwich from a boulangerie, a piece of fruit from a vendor or, horror of horrors, something pre-packed from your bag and dig in as you walk–after all, that’s more than acceptable back home, where lunch hours are hardly 20 minutes long and you barely have time for a cup of coffee before dashing out the door in the morning. But take it from my first-hand experience of having Frenchmen jovially yet judgmentally wish me “Bon appétit” as I scurried down the Parisian streets with a sandwich in hand or Provencaux with their berets and sets of boules stop playing and watch as I chomp on an apple–if you want to be ridiculed, vas-y, but if you want to appear to be a local, please, find a cozy café and have a seat.

I understand that it’s not easy–there are things to do and people to see. But if you just take a breath and look around as you nibble at your midday meal, you will enjoy it all–France, the people you’re with, your time, and the food–quite a bit more. There is so much to look at here in France, so many things to observe and people to see, and I’ve learned, after quite some time, that the majority is much better seen from behind a glass (or a carafe) of wine at some little table on a café’s terrace.

The only exception to this rule is le quignon, the crusty end of your baguette as you leave the boulangerie. To this, I say go for it: there’s nothing better than hot baguette fresh from the oven. But be sure to save the rest for the juices that these tomatoes will give off.

Courgettes with Feta and Mint

4 globe zucchini
1/2 cup feta
1 egg
2 tsp. mint
1 tsp. herbes de provence
1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1/2 tsp. salt (depending on the feta you use, this may not be necessary)

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Slice the tops of your zucchini off and reserve for later. Place the zucchini on a nonstick baking dish or one greased with a little bit of olive oil. Roast the zucchini 10-15 minutes, until the flesh is soft.

Scoop the flesh from the zucchini into a bowl. Drain of excess liquid and mash with a fork until creamy. Add the cheese, egg, herbs, pepper and salt, and combine with the fork until smooth. Scoop the mash back into the zucchini bulbs and roast until the filling puffs up and turns golden on top. Serve with the reserved zucchini tops.


Tomates à la Provencale

4 tomatoes
1 tsp. salt
1/2 cup breadcrumbs
1 tbsp. herbes de provence
1/2 tsp. fresh black pepper
2 Tbsp. pine nuts
2 tsp. olive oil

Slice the tomatoes in half and sprinkle them with salt. Allow them to sit as you bring the oven to 400 degrees. Combine the breadcrumbs, herbes de provence and black pepper in a bowl.

After five minutes, the tomatoes will have released some of their water. Tip this water off and dispose of it.

Lay the tomatoes in a nonstick baking dish or one greased with a little bit of olive oil. Evenly distribute the breadcrumb mixture, and scatter the pine nuts on top. Drizzle the olive oil over the tomatoes, and roast them until the tops are golden.

May 18, 2010

Purple Endive

Filed under: Uncategorized — emiglia @ 10:54 am

When I first came to Cannes, it was with a study abroad group. We stayed at the Collège International, which granted us, amongst other things, access to the cantine–dining hall. I had never even gone into a grocery store except to pick up bottles of “the Good Stuff”–90 cent “champagne” that exploded when you opened it, or else rounds of gooey cheese that we swiped on bread and ate at the port.

Now, I’m back at the old collège working at the film festival, but the familiar chimes that signal mealtimes don’t have any meaning for me. I stop by for breakfast, which is included in the price for my room–giant bowls of hot milk, which I never drink back home, and tartines of baguette with honey. Lunch and dinner, though, are on my own, with just a bar fridge to keep things in and no way to heat them.

I’ve grown creative: I found prepared purées–cauliflower, carrot, pea, potato, spinach–that I eat cold. Cartons of soup that were Sunday dinner to me when I lived at the Masurels can be dinner here if I drink them out of glasses–I tell myself it’s like gazpacho. And of course, there’s endive, which my aunt was astonished to learn is one of the cheapest things in the grocery store in France–a bag of five or six for just a couple of Euro. I eat them plain or dipped in hummus, and I revel in the fact that what, for me, is a penny-pinching meal, would be exorbitantly priced at home.

I found these little purple endives–a mix between white endive and Italian Chioggia, according to the package. The instructions say to pair them with prosciutto, cheese, apples or smoked salmon, but I’m enjoying just peeling the leaves off and enjoying them one-by-one.

May 16, 2010

Festival Frolicking and Salade Nicoise

Filed under: Fish, Restaurant Reviews, Salad — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 7:42 am

I’ve been holding out on you all, and I’m sorry. I have a job at one of the most glamorous events in the world, and I haven’t even posted any pictures of famous people or reviews of Wall Street or the new Robin Hood. For shame.

Not-so-famous people climbing the red-carpeted stairs for a 4:00 premiere.
Not-so-famous people climbing the red-carpeted stairs for a 4:00 premiere.

Well, I’m sorry to disappoint… but I haven’t seen any famous people, and the only films I’ve seen have been shorts at the Short Film Corner in the basement of the Palais. You see, my job, as most people who work in entertainment are bound to tell you, is not all that glamorous. I use a fairly ancient internet connection (seriously… it reminds me of my old AOL 2.0, when we had to disconnect the phone to go online) to post videos of red carpet and press conference footage that I get from my colleagues who actually go to these events and film them. They call out the names of famous people to get them to look their way, and I edit the clips into one-minute segments and post them online for the world to see. See? Boring.

So yesterday, I decided I had to do something fun. Well, that, and my roommate here au collège (the same school I stayed at when I passed my DALF almost three years ago), who is at the festival solely for the parties, decided that she was going to do something fun, and I felt lame trudging back to work again. Instead, I took the liberty of a long lunch, as people often do here in France, and walked from the Palais down to the Palm Beach Casino, at the end of the Croisette. There, at the de luxe Pool Beach, you can rent a transat (lounge chair) for 30 Euro and spend the afternoon being treated like a celebrity–or at least someone very, very rich and important.

We started with a bottle of rosé, the perfect beverage for a beach day, even if Cannes is a little bit cooler than it has been in past years (we wrapped ourselves with towels to stay warm and let the rosé do the rest). I then ordered a salade nicoise avec thon mi-cuit, which is a nicois salad with seared tuna–an absolutely delicious meal, especially when eaten off your lap as you stare off into the cool blue Med.

I was lucky that my friends had arrived early to snag us seats by the shore–most of the transats are closer to the pool that give the beachside restaurant its name, where a DJ was spinning electronica and house and dancers were high on platforms near the pool, a pool that people were keeping their safe distance from, as the wind was picking up, and no one wanted to be left in the cold.

We people-watched from our chairs for awhile, as a group of pipol (celebrities (that I didn’t recognize)) came in off a little put-put boat and picked their way carefully along the pontoon until the arrived on the beach, greeted by the hostess who somehow managed to pull off leopard-print high-heeled ankle boots, even two inches deep in sand.

As for me, I was more than happy to remain barefoot, sipping my glass of wine and watching everyone around me, that is, until 4:00, when the grey skies that had been looming to the west suddenly rolled in, bringing a couple of raindrops that had us up and out of there in a hurry.

Some were not so quick to leave, as they created tents of parasols and waited out the storm. We were lucky enough to snag a cab in the parking lot, and so I headed back to work at the Palais, where people were huddled under umbrellas as they watched those ascending the red-carpeted stairs for a 4:00 film. I was more than happy to get back to the safety of our dry office in the basement of the Palais, where my headphones and editing software were waiting for me. OK, so I’m a geek–what do you want from me?

May 15, 2010

Cookbook Spotlight: Seasonal Fruit Desserts

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , — emiglia @ 12:28 pm

I’ve been reading through some of my posts from the past few months, and I must say to any of you who are still reading–I apologize for whining so much. Contrary to what those of you who know me solely from this blog may believe, while living in America this winter and spring, I did, on occasion, do things aside from miss Paris and whine about missing Paris.

Most days, I got up, dragged myself into the shower, dragged myself back out again, put clothes on, poured myself a ridiculously sized mug of coffee and got on the subway, which I rode to Flatiron, where I worked as a translator. There, as one would imagine, I translated things, pretty much all day. Then I filled my coffee cup for the third or fourth time that day and walked the three miles back uptown to my parents’ house, where I ate dinner, shared inappropriate dinner-table conversation with my sisters, and watched more episodes of The Nanny than I ever cared to.

Other days, I freelanced–I write articles that pop up all over the web on all sorts of topics in both French and English. For example, I just wrote a restaurant review for the Olive Oil Times. I’m also in the process of writing a novel, which means that I spent a lot of time staring at my screen and wondering what on earth posessed me to want to write a novel. Since leaving New York, I’ve stopped even staring at the screen, which means that the urge to write said novel will return in a matter of days, leaving me to sit and stare at my screen and wonder what posessed me to write a novel all over again.

And then, of course, when I couldn’t work anymore, I went places with my friends because, regardless of how whiny I can be, there are some people who can tolerate being in the same room with me long enough to actually grab a drink (… or seven), or go to the Brooklyn botanical gardens.

It was actually not my idea, but my friend the Half-Corsican’s. We were lazing around his apartment on a Saturday afternoon, as we often do, although instead of putting on an episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, he decided that we were going to look at cherry trees. Being a native of Manhattan, and thus wary of venturing to the outer boroughs for reasons other than: 1) Mike’s pork shop on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, 2) Yankees games, or 3) Going to arthouse cinemas in Flatbush, I had never been to the Brooklyn botanical gardens and wasn’t sure I wanted to ride a train other than my familiar 4, 5, 6 to get there. The Half-Corsican, though, was adamant, as half-Corsicans tend to be.

He checked some website that informed him that today was the day to go, led me onto the proper train (regardless of the fact that I’m a native New Yorker and he came here from Florida a few years ago), and we spent our afternoon wandering around the trees and flowers that were finally in bloom.

Needless to say, the Half-Corsican was right: the cherry blossoms were in full bloom that day, and the sheer number of cherry trees in the gardens made the entire field pink. It was just warm enough to enjoy the first touch of spring, but not so warm that we could stretch out in the sun–something we quickly remedied by finding a bar and grabbing the aforementioned drink (… or seven).

I like this moment in spring–it’s still happening in Cannes, although I hear that New York has skipped over spring and jumped directly into summer, as New York likes to do. Nevermind, I like summer much better. It’s the perfect time to test out recipes from the book I received in the mail just before flying over here, when the spring days were numbered and summer was pushing in from the edges of the beginning of May.

The book is Deborah Madison’s Seasonal Fruit Desserts, part of this round of the Cookbook Spotlight. It offers recipes, not only for the bountiful produce of spring and summer, but for fruits of every season. I spent days just paging through it, admiring the pictures, and more than once, one of my sisters or my mother tried to squirrel it away for themselves. My sister marked all the recipes she liked with Post-Its–I’ll have to try more when I get home.

As it was, I ended up testing two–pineapple in basil syrup (I couldn’t find the kiwis that are meant to go with it anywhere) and strawberries in red wine. Both were on the simpler end of the scale that you will find within this book, although even the more complicated desserts are not really that complicated at all–I especially want to try a gorgeous raspberry tart, but that will be for another day.

As for the recipes I chose, I loved them both, although we ended up with leftover pineapple once we realized that the strawberries–soaked in wine with a hint of black pepper–made plain vanilla ice cream into something absolutely phenomenal.

My mouth is still watering thinking about the surprising combination of heat and acid and sweet, with the rich complexity of wine to make you feel like a grown-up, even on your third bowl of ice cream in front of the television. I like to be pleasantly surprised… be it by flowers or by dessert.

May 13, 2010

Paella and Cannes

Filed under: Pork, Rice, Seafood — Tags: , , , , — emiglia @ 2:11 am

There’s something really lovely about the beach.

Cities are great and I love skiing, but when it all comes down to it, there’s something pretty magical about going to sleep and hearing waves outside your window.

Before anyone asks, yes, I do still want to live in Paris. No question. But no one ever said I couldn’t make weekend jaunts down to Cannes, especially when the sun is out and the beach is warm and everything seems absolutely perfect, like it did around this time three years ago, when I had just spent four months living in Cannes.

But I don’t want to talk about that today. I’m here for three weeks–there will be more than enough time for strolls down memory lane. Today, I’m actually going to talk about food. I know… it’s rather shocking. I’ll let it sink in.

…

OK? Food. This is a food blog, after all.

I’m not sure if I mentioned it here before, but in the four months leading up to this epic traipse through Europe, while I was living in New York, I was working at Weight Watchers, translating articles. Translating articles as a trade means that you read a lot of articles, and I read a lot about Weight Watchers over the past couple of months. It really started me thinking about approaches to eating–a lot of us, especially in the food blogging community, sleep, breathe and live for food. Even if we’re not actively consuming all the time (that would be a little bit ridiculous), we are thinking about it, jotting down notes for later or taking pictures of things to post on our blogs when the time is right.

I remember reading an article once that said that obsessing that much over food makes weight loss or having a healthy weight in general nearly impossible. I disagree… but I do think that a change in the way that we Americans as a culture, and I personally, view food is necessary… and it’s something I thought about a lot today as I walked the promenade in Cannes watching people eat their lunches at outdoor cafés.

If we can say that a culture in the world is obsessed with food, it may be the French. They are, after all, the masterminds behind such classics as boeuf bourguignonne and coq au vin, not to mention all the especially southern French dishes like salade nicoise and bouillabaisse and soupe de poisson. But as I strolled past the tables, couples sitting facing the beach and smoking endless cigarettes over their cups of coffee or cutting delicately into cracker-thin pizza, I realized that just because the French have all of this heavy, wonderful food, it doesn’t mean that they gorge on it.

I have a bit of paper where I scrawled something in a somewhat inebriated state–I don’t know where it came from, and I don’t remember writing it down, but I keep it because of how true it is: “It would be quite unpleasant to binge eat foie gras.”

Think about it: when you have those moments of shoveling food into your mouth (don’t even pretend you don’t have those moments) what sort of food is it? Is it roast chicken or chips? Beef stew or pretzels? Steak tartare or ice cream? There are certain foods that you just don’t need that much of to be satisfied, and most, if not all, of the French foods are this kind: the kind that is best eaten seated at a table instead of on the couch, with company instead of in front of the television. French food seems suited to three-hour dinners, and when you’ve eaten your fill, there’s no reason to eat anymore; the French don’t snack, so why should I?

This paella is actually a Spanish dish, but it’s very popular in the south of France, especially with all the abundant seafood everywhere. Besides, the Spanish are not that much different from the French, in that respect: the Spaniards may sit down to dinner at nine, but they often don’t get back up until midnight. It’s my mother’s version of paella–very different from the versions you’ll find in Spain, but delicious nonetheless.

Paella

6 T olive oil
7 whole sticks pepperoni, cut into thick slices (you could also use chorizo–my mother uses pepperoni because when we were kids, we wouldn’t eat chorizo. Now we all like it better this way.)
6 chicken breast halves, cut into chunks
3 onions, diced
1 lb. shrimp
2 lbs. clams
2 lbs. mussels
1 lb. scallops
2 jars artichoke hearts
1 package frozen peas
1 jar roasted red peppers
4 cups rice
8 cups chicken broth
a few pinches of saffron

3 tomatoes, sliced into rounds
2 lemons, sliced into rounds
1 cup kalamata olives
fresh parsely, chopped

In a large, heavy-bottomed skillet, sauté sausage and remove to a paella pan or large stockpot. In the fat left by the sausage, saute the chicken and remove to the side. Add oil if needed, and brown the onions. Remove to the side. In this fashion, adding oil as necessary, brown the scallops and the shrimp.

Add the artichokes, peas and peppers to the paella pan. In another pot, steam the clams and the mussels, and add these to the paella pan.

Cook rice in scant 2 to 1 ratio with the saffron: 2 parts chicken broth to 1 part rice. Toss everything together in the paella pan and reheat in the oven at 300 degrees, if necessary. Garnish with kalamata olives, lemon slices, tomato slices and parsley. Serve with hot sauce.

This paella reheats well: my mother always makes piles of it, and we eat it for lunch for days afterwards.

May 11, 2010

Goodbye Paris

Filed under: Pasta — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 4:15 pm

There are two things that are integral to my personal happiness:

1) The time, inclination, environment and inspiration conducive to writing.

2) The availability of things to do–people to see, errands to run, laundry to do, appointments to be upheld, other people’s problems to solve–when the desire to write has escaped me.

In theory, I should be able to write anywhere, and I have: all the cities I’ve lived in (and some I haven’t) have seen some variation of my well-intended, if not always meaningful, insightful or even good, prose. But it’s Paris I want. Voila, c’est si simple: I love New York, but I love Paris more.

I’m in Cannes now–it was here that I decided to move to Paris from Toronto in the first place. Stepping out of the train station was like stepping into my past, and I spent the day pointing gleefully at everything I remember, like a giddy child. But now I’m back in my room–the same room, oddly enough, that I once shared with the Canadian… God it feels like forever ago–and my thoughts have turned to Paris. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to hear about the place I’m currently resting my head.

I was only in Paris for four days, and hardly that, but it was enough to remind me of everything I love about this city. I went on long, ambling walks, first with the Almost Frenchman, and then by myself: I ambled through the stalls of my old market, remembering with shock the things I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten: the giant asparagus as big around as a pepper grinder and bright, bright white. I don’t even know what I would do with them if I bought them… God knows I was itching to; I would have bought asparagus and peas, poulet fermier and 30 eggs. I would have bought without abandon to stock my fridge, if I’d had a fridge to stock or more than three days’ worth of meals to prepare.

Yesterday, the sky turned grey and cold, I made the two-hour trek to Stalingrad, where I met my cousin, the Actress, to pick up ingredients for a goodbye meal. As I waited for her in a small café, I was struck by that overwhelming urge I feel sometimes, the one where paper doesn’t appear fast enough, where the pen won’t etch the letters quickly enough. Scribbled on the back of my bank statement is the outline of the book I’ve been finding it impossible to write for the past year. Suddenly, it all made sense, and I spent four hours on the train down to Cannes today typing it up, hoping that the feeling wouldn’t disappear, but I know it won’t.

For the past few months, New York has been what Paris failed to be when I left: I had a job, a place to live, people I loved surrounding me. I had enough things to do with my day that by nightfall, my fingers itched to type, my brain craved dumping the experiences I’d had and the things I’d seen into word documents scattered across my desktop. But it’s not enough–it’s Paris I want, Paris that inspired me in that café, where I could have just stared at the sidewalk and waited for the Actress to emerge from her meeting, could have just read the Marcel Pagnol novel I’d toted along with me as I sipped my impossibly perfect café crème, but instead, I wrote.

The Actress did appear, in the end–the perfect person to snap me out of a reverie if only because she’s just as enthusiastic about her projects as I am about my own. We browsed in the international supermarkets–no well-stocked Food Emporium for fish sauce and tamarind paste here, and we went home to create pad thai for a handful of Parisians I had to say goodbye to in the wee hours of the morning, after hours of conversation and laughter.

Rice noodle pad thai with chicken, broccoli, corn and mushrooms.

Rice noodle pad thai with chicken, broccoli, corn and mushrooms.

Shirataki noodle pad thai with tofu, egg and snap peas.

Shirataki noodle pad thai with tofu, egg and snap peas.

Pad Thai

Note:  The key to this pad thai’s success is really the sauce. After that, you can add whatever you like: I’m including suggestions I’ve used, but feel free to toss in your own mix. Just be aware that proteins need to be cooked fully before adding the sauce to avoid contamination, as the final product does not cook for a very long time.

1 package rice noodles (I’ve also used 2 packages of Shirataki noodles, for those watching their carbs)
2 tsp. vegetable oil, separated
1 onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 chili pepper, minced

Proteins (choose any or all of the following)
4 chicken breast halves, cut into chunks
1 package tofu, diced
2 eggs

Vegetables (choose any or all of the following)
1 head broccoli, cut into florets
1 cup frozen mushrooms, thawed
3 scallions, cut into pieces about two inches long
1 jar baby corn, drained
2 cups snap peas, cut into strips

3 Tbsp. tamarind paste
1 Tbsp. soy sauce
4 Tbsp. fish sauce
2 Tbsp. brown sugar

4 Tbsp. peanuts, chopped
2 limes, quartered
a handful of cilantro, roughly chopped

Prepare the noodles according to the directions. Toss with a teaspoonful of oil and set aside. Mix the sauce ingredients together and set aside.

Meanwhile, in a wok or heavy skillet, heat the other teaspoonful of oil. Add the onion and saute 1-2 minutes. Add the protein you are using (except the egg) and cook until nearly cooked through. Add the vegetables you are planning to use and cook 2-3 minutes. (Note: if using raw broccoli, I like to add a bit of water to the pan at this step and cover for a minute to steam).

Add the sauce and noodles to the pan and toss until everything is well-coated and the noodles are hot. Transfer to a serving dish and top with peanuts, lime wedges and cilantro.

May 9, 2010

Steak Tartare

Filed under: Uncategorized — emiglia @ 8:04 pm

The past few months in New York have been some of the most multicultural of my life–I may have been living in my childhood home, but I was working for a French Canadian site, hanging out with the Almost British One, who moved to England the same year I moved to France and never came back, and I spent most of my weekends hanging out with French people (yes, I found myself some French people in America).

One of them, the Country Boy, came to New York from the middle of nowhere in Ile-de-France. He spoke no English, but he soaked everything up, Times Square a delight instead of a nuisance, the idea of a giant park in the middle of a city like New York simultaneously ridiculous and incredible. I spend most of my weekends walking him up and down the island and revelling in hearing French again. We didn’t know each other very well–he’s a friend of the Parisian–but somehow we found things to talk about, especially when it came to Paziols, where he’ll be a counselor this summer.

One afternoon, while talking about our boss, he said something that stuck with me. Elle a une vision de la France qui n’existe plus. She has an image of France that doesn’t exist anymore.

I understand what he meant–our boss left France when she was my age, and after several decades, policy changes, the end of the franc and the entry of the Euro… I’m sure certain things must be different. I can only imagine what it would be like to leave America at the beginning of the 80s and come back now to see what has changed. I see why her France, the France she hangs onto in her head, may not exist anymore.

For awhile, I considered myself as having a different problem entirely: my version of France isn’t so much a version that doesn’t exist anymore, but one qui n’a jamais existé, one that never existed. My vision of France, the France I miss so much, even when especially when I’m back, walking these streets again, is cobbled together from homestay programs where I had a built-in family and university life when everyone is your friend, of falling in love, not only with Paris, but with the Canadian and then the Parisian. Tossed in, especially now, are snippets of other people’s Frances: Peter Mayle’s Provence, Christophe Honoré’s Bastille, Francois Truffaut’s Saint-Germain, Paul Mayeda Berges and Gurinder Chadha’s quais de la Seine. I can force-march my friend, the Almost Frenchman, back to le Centenaire, where Emese and I used to go for steak tartare when we couldn’t make a decision on dinner. It’s still as good as I remember, but not nearly as perfect as when it was just another option, just another night in the city. I can’t get over the feeling, even as I’m here, living and breathing Paris, that it doesn’t belong to me anymore, and it stings.

But I realized today, as I wandered from my second steak tartare lunch in Paris, that a second problem has edged its way into my perfect vision of this city–it changes. Unlike New York, where buildings are torn down and thrown back up in the blink of an eye, Paris changes slowly, fading and morphing so subtley that you don’t realize it until the place you love–in my case, my favorite bakery, home to the best palmiers in the city–has become no more than a cheap shop for tourist trinkets.

The Almost Frenchman and I wandered all over the city today–more than two hours of walking, along the quais of the Seine, along the Saint-Germain I’ve seen in the films. Here it all is for me, tangible and real. I want it to be mine again, and yet I worry about how much it has already changed, how much I have already changed. Relationships are impossible to relive the way they once were. I’m a strong proponent of the theory that no one ever changes, not really, but the paths that lead people and places away from one another hardly ever lead you back to where you started; to try to fit into the mold of what you were before things ended is a fruitless endeavor. To live in Paris–to live for Paris the way I remember it is a silly thing to even attempt to do. So instead, I’m mulling over the idea of a new Paris, a fresh start for the both of us. Maybe it’s in the cards? Who can say… for now, I’ll have another glass of vin du pays d’oc, and allez, maybe one last steak tartare lunch, pour la route.

My steak tartare from Le Centenaire, 7e.

My steak tartare from Le Centenaire, 7e.

The Almost Frenchman ordered duck confit with pommes sautées.

The Almost Frenchman ordered duck confit with pommes sautées.

May 8, 2010

I’m Home

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , — emiglia @ 7:51 am

I like New York.

I swear, I do. I like my new apartment. I love my new roommates. I like being near my parents. I like the 24-hour Subway, 24-hour Duane Reade and 24-hour digital cable. It’s all very nice and very comfortable, and I had myself convinced, until yesterday morning, that it was where I wanted to live.

So I was more surprised than anyone when, upon getting on the RER B bound for Paris, I had the strange urge to hug the city. It could be the sleep deprivation talking, but all I wanted to do was to lie down on the concrete, to meld with it, to wrap my arms around it and feel the city surround me and never let go.

When I finally emerged from the RER C Pont de l’Alma station–my old home–I saw the Eiffel Tower. And I laughed out loud. Like a crazy person.

I went out to a bar in Levallois last night with my cousin–a friend of hers was playing a gig. The bar was tiny and cramped, the music American and delicious. It was packed to the brim with people who didn’t make sense: former international school students, people who weren’t French but somehow made Paris their home, as I had tried to do for so long. I drank glasses of red wine and collected names of people and schools that would get me a visa from other displaced Americans like me–one had figured it out and was here for good, the other was being shipped off in two weeks. I recognized myself in her when she told me. I remember what that’s like.

There’s something about this constant back and forth between Paris and New York that has been my life for the past three years that does this to me: I feel fine where I am, until I get back to the other. I feel like Paris is winning, and maybe it is: I don’t feel this sort of physical yearning when I get back to New York. I don’t look wistfully at métro stops as I pass them on the train, wanting to jump off my car at each one and touch everything: run my fingers along the dingy sign like it was the face of a lover I’d never see again.

I read what I write, and I know it sounds overly dramatic, but I swear, there is no hyperbole today: I spent last night running my hand along the edge of a stone building on my block as I walked home, wishing I could force myself to remember everything, to be able to relive Paris in my head every day.

Who knows what the future holds… I’ve stopped trying to pretend I have any idea. I have to admit that I’m hoping and praying that there’s some way I can stay, but I know that I have a whole other life back in New York, and it’s hard to imagine leaving it, especially now that it’s morning and I’m thinking more clearly without the Eiffel Tower’s revolving light muddling my vision. Until I leave, though, I’m making the most of it–it’s French espresso and real European cantaloupe (no muskmelon for me)–perfectly sweet and bright orange, and just the right size for one person. I had it this morning at my former home in the 7th, remembering days when this was my normal and it was meant to last forever.

Powered by WordPress