Those opposing the new Eiffel Tower “hat” can breathe a sigh of relief. The new hat for the Eiffel Tower is a No-Go. Not only that, it was never a GO, nor part of a design competition; it was never approved for restructuring the famous landmark. WHO invented THAT story??

From nyt:

“David Serero, principal of Serero Architects, said in a telephone interview that his firm’s proposal was merely a spontaneous design it had submitted to the Eiffel Tower management group in view of the tower’s approaching 120th anniversary and, he said, was neither a response to a design competition nor solicited by the tower’s management.

The Guardian’s Web site reported Monday that the Eiffel Tower’s management group, the Société d’Exploitation de la Tour Eiffel, had approved a temporary restructuring of the observation platform, which would alter the tower’s overall shape. After the report was picked up by other news organizations, the management group said that it had never solicited a redesign and that it envisaged no changes to the tower’s appearance.

Mr. Serero said his firm submitted unsolicited designs and put them on the Web, where they were later seen by news organizations.”

Since our friends from the U.S. were visiting, we thought it would be fun to meet in Provence and go wine tasting. Some of France’s finest wines come from Chateauneuf du pape and everyone was up for that, so off we (three Americans and one French guy) went.

We stumbled upon a wine cellar that produced award-winning wine and received an informative presentation from the vintner, who spoke fluent English. We tasted 4 wines, and thought about buying a few bottles. They were excellent wines. While discussing what we would get amongst ourselves, the vintner blurts out that he expected we buy CASES of wine. He said something like, “Hey, I’m not a reseller, you know; I’m the producer.”

Me: “So!??”

Ok, I didn’t say that but wanted to. Yes, he’s the producer but he’s still selling it.

This, of course, made no sense anyway since he knew very well that Americans cannot take much wine back to the U.S. And because our friends just brought carry-on luggage, they wouldn’t be able to take any bottles at all with them. He began to annoy me with his greed. Still, we decided to buy ONE case (6 bottles): all the wines we sampled, including a gold medal awarded wine from 1999.

Things were rolling along and we paid our 104 euros ($159) for the six bottles until the vintner began filling the box with our order. He made sure we saw what he put in the case, then says, “and lastly, here’s the 1998 bottle.”

My sweetie says LOUDLY, “we bought the 1999 bottle, you know, the one that costs 26 euros (about $40). Not 1998.”

The guy tried to rip us off!

Anyway, I found that to be so rude, greedy and annoying, but ultimately pathetic. I mean, I could be recommending his little “domaine” right now but instead I simply can not.

How many Americans did he trick?

That just isn’t right.

The French documentary, “Le Monde Selon Monsanto / The world according to Monsanto,” directed by independent filmmaker Marie-Monique Robin, airs tonight on ARTE.

The film paints a grim picture of a no-holds-barred evil corporation with a decades-long track record of environmental crimes, health scandals and endangering the population of the entire world.

It will open your eyes to many things and you’ll never look at food the same way again.

Read about it at ARTE (in French) More about it here (in English)

See the movie trailer here

As an expat in France, I don’t get to vote in the municipal elections today but my sweetie does and so I was trying to figure out how it works here. It became very, VERY clear that it’s nothing like in the U.S. Firstly, our little city hall has an “aperitif” room where you can have a drink and eat some cake before or after voting. Later in the day they serve wine.

Me: So who’s running for mayor?

Him: Same guy.

Me: Anyone else?

Him: Well, not really. You know, the list.

Me: What list? What do you mean not really?

Him: He could get scratched off the list.

Me: What!? People can just scratch him off the list and he’s out?

Him: Yeah, well if more than 50% of the voters cross him out.

Me: You mean cross his name out…with a pen?

Him: Yes.

Me: But. Oh. Weird. And what about the list?

Him: Since we live in a tiny village, there’s only one list. We’re lucky anyone wants to run for anything. But in larger places, there would be many lists. For example, each list representing a political party. You’re in fact voting for a list of people: The mayor and his municipal counsel.

Me: Soooo. Our village has only one list. That just means they are sure to win. No other lists means no other candidates. Are the people on the list from one party?

Him: No. But only because the village is so small.

Me: Ok, this is strange. So, who’s on the list?

Him: The guy who wants to be re-elected mayor and all his friends.

Me: His friends? Why are his friends on the list?

Him: They want to be part of the municipal counsel.

Me: What if you don’t want some people to be on the counsel?

Him: You cross out their name. And if you want someone else to be on the counsel, after you cross out a name, you can add someone’s name on the list. Same with the person running for mayor. He would be at the top of the list.

Me: What?! You mean you can cross out the name of the guy running for mayor and put ANYONE else’s name???

Him: Sure, and also with counsel candidates.

Me: Ok, so, in fact, someone who isn’t running for mayor, can actually be elected mayor.

Him: Yes. But more than 50% of the voters have to write in his name.

Me: What if that person gets elected mayor and never wanted to be mayor?

Him: He’s mayor. I guess he’d have to resign and the rest of the list would come up with a mayor.

Me: That is so kooky.

More Franco-American Conversations

From Reuters:

“The mayor of a village in southwest France has threatened residents with severe punishment if they die, because there is no room left in the overcrowded cemetery to bury them.

In an ordinance posted in the council offices, Mayor Gerard Lalanne told the 260 residents of the village of Sarpourenx that “all persons not having a plot in the cemetery and wishing to be buried in Sarpourenx are forbidden from dying in the parish.”

It added: “Offenders will be severely punished.”

The mayor said he was forced to take drastic action after an administrative court in the nearby town of Pau ruled in January that the acquisition of adjoining private land to extend the cemetery would not be justified.

Lalanne, who celebrated his 70th birthday on Wednesday and is standing for election to a seventh term in this month’s local elections, said he was sorry that there had not been a positive outcome to the dilemma.

“It may be a laughing matter for some, but not for me,” he said.

(Reporting by Claude Canellas, Writing by Andrew Dobbie; editing by Sami Aboudi)

From the belfasttelegraph:

“Saint Céneri could hardly be more French and yet its rich history has been shaped, for good and ill, by foreign missionaries and invaders. The small settlement, just within lower Normandy, was created in the seventh century by an Italian saint and hermit – Saint Céneri himself – who conjured up springs and parted the waters of rivers by pointing his stick. During the Hundred Years’ War, in 1434, the village castle was besieged for months and then demolished by 15,000 obstinate Englishmen.

After 561 uneventful years, the village fell, willingly this time, into the clutches of another foreigner – a Yorkshireman. For the past 13 years, Ken Tatham has been the mayor of Saint Céneri-le-Gérei, the only British mayor in France.

On Sunday week, 9 March, he is up for election for the third time. There are no opinion polls in Saint Céneri but Mr Tatham, 62, is likely to win by a miniature landslide.

How many voters would that mean exactly? Mr Tatham considers for a moment. “We have a population of 140, of whom 160 can vote,” he said. “This is just like Corsica, although you’d better not quote me saying that.”

Mr Tatham has lived in Saint Céneri for 38 years. He is married to a…”

Read the full article

Collectors of vintage toys and toy cars will feel at home at the Galerie du Jouet Anciens in the heart of Saint Germain in Paris. Find the models missing from your collection or sell some of your own collection. Even if you don’t collect it’s a neat stop to make if you’re in the neighborhood. This shop displays at least 3,500 vintage toy cars. These are like little gems to the antique toy car enthusiast, and one in particular. We’d been told that a bank president of one of the largest banks in France has his chauffeur drop him by the store often to admire them. Then, he steals one each time! He’d done this many, many times and collected quite a few for his home collection, complètement gratuit.

Actually, a friend who knows the store owner told us this story.

Us: Which bank??? BNP? CIC?
Him: No! I can’t say.
Us: LCL? Caisse d’Epargne? Société Générale? Banque Populaire?? Crédit Agricole??
Him: I can’t tell you!!
Us: Well what happened??
Him: The store owner finally got fed up and asked him to bring back all the stolen cars. His chauffeur promptly took the bank president home where he collected all his booty. He finally returned them.
Us: Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww. Weird.

Galerie du Jouet Anciens
9 rue des grands Augustins 75006 Paris
M: Odeon
tél (33) 01 43 26 36 75
They sell: Dinky toys, CIJ, Norev-AR-JRD, SpotOn-MatchBox-Tekno, Mercury-Marklin, Cherryca Phenix, Model Pet-Micro Pet, Tootsie Toy, Tour de France

A while back I got my mom a collection of oldie chansons, very famous French songs that many people recognize. Stuff from Edith Piaf, Jacques Brel, Brassens, Charles Aznavour, etc. She’d told me that she used to listen to them growing up as a little girl even though she doesn’t understand any French. My grand dad was a fan, apparently, and she became one too.

So, she was happy to receive my gift and she plays it often. When I’m at her place, I’ll hear her humming along happily with the songs. It’s very cute. I giggle, though, when the Brassens song, “Le Gorille” (the gorilla) comes on. I can’t bring myself to telling her what it actually means. If you don’t understand French, it’s such a happy SOUNDING song (merci, M. Brassens. listen to it here). Now, if you would listen to rapper, Joey Starr’s version of this song (listen to an excerpt), you might guess the song’s about something more serious.

If you do understand French and have heard Le Gorille, you’ll know that the song’s about a gorilla that escapes his cage and rapes a judge.

See?!

A couple of months ago, we spent about a week in the Lyon area and a bit farther south for work, and today, I am still digesting the meal we had down there.

One of our clients wanted to take us out to dinner, which always confuses me a little about our client relationships here in Europe. Aren’t WE supposed to be taking THEM out to dinner? Not complaining! We have the best clients - ever. Anyway, he picks us up at our hotel in downtown Lyon (they are NOT in the Old Town like they advertise) and off we go at bullet speed until we reach the tiny town, Collonges au Mont d’or, which is a couple of miles north outside of Lyon along the Saone River. We enter the parking lot and I gaze up at the brightly painted (pink, red, orange, yellow, green) building that looks vaguely familiar to me.

“I’ve seen this place before on TV.”

Then I see the larger than life painting of Paul Bocuse on the side of the building looking out from a painted balcony window, a veritable study on narcissistic exterior restaurant design (little did I know, that was just the tip of the iceberg.)

“Paul Bocuse! L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges!” (and I thought, doh! I didn’t bring my camera to take food photos for my blog, forgetting temporarily that it was a business meeting.) Paul Bocuse’s restaurant in Collonges au mont d’or was included in Restaurant Magazine’s Top 50 Best Restaurants in the World for 2007.

We’d recently watched a documentary about the life of Paul Bocuse on ARTE, and it became immediately crystal clear that the life of this Michelin starred chef, is a far cry from that of the ordinary French lifestyle - well, from the lives of mostly anyone anywhere.

“Did you know he has THREE wives??!”

Back to the restaurant.

We were brought into a salon for hors d’oeuvres (foie gras or smoked salmon on tiny square inch toasts) and drinks, and later escorted to our table.

Once seated, one could not miss the name, “Paul Bocuse” etched on…EVERYTHING. The napkin holders, the plates, the butter dish, the wine cooler, the walls. Paul Bocuse this. Paul Bocuse that. I get it. You are NOT to forget where you are. Period. I think his name is now indelibly tattooed on my eyeballs.

How was the food? The food was… pretty tasty. I don’t have photos of any of the dishes. Sorry. Needless to say we had little complaints (except the lobster cassolette was a slightly over salted. I’m sorry but is WAS.) from the aperitifs to the desserts (the house ice cream was great). Worth mentioning is the sea bass with lobster mousse baked in a puff pastry shell, which was excellent, as was the cheese cart supplied by La Fromagerie La Mère Richard. You must sample their famous Saint Marcellin cheese, which is to-die-for (to find cheeses from La Mère Richard, go to Les Halles market in downtown Lyon). The Bresse chicken cooked in a bladder with morille mushrooms wasn’t too shabby either. They bring the whole thing out and pop the bladder in front of you. Do you think it would not taste as good if it were NOT cooked in a pig’s bladder?

During our meal we thought we saw Paul Bocuse on the other side of the restaurant. The waiting staff, which by the way, is no short of extraordinary (some of the guys are pretty cute too), confirmed that he comes to the restaurant every day to eat and to make an appearance. Then, I saw this ginormous chef-apron-and-toque-clad man approach our table.

We all say in unison, “Good evening” to this culinary icon.

He just stood there and stared with a half smile. Then disappeared.

Squinting and in unison again, “Why didn’t he say anything?!”

“Were we supposed to say ‘Oui, chef!’ or something??!”

The other strange thing was that in our section of the restaurant, there were other tables but he only came to our table. Very odd, indeed.

Maybe….maybe it wasn’t really Paul Bocuse!! You know, the restaurant borrowed wax Paul Bocuse from Madame Tussauds and he rolled away on tracks…

Paul Bocuse Restaurant - L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges
40 Quai de la Plage
69660 Collonges au Mont d’Or France
Tél. : (33) 04 72 42 90 90
Website: Paul Bocuse

Note: The waiters gave me a menu to take home with me and if you want Paul Bocuse to sign it, you can ask him while he’s in the restaurant. Also, I went back to the restaurant on our way out of town to take some quick photos. I know. I’m such a nerd.

While we were out shopping and looking for our scary movies (which we couldn’t find), we missed the trick or treaters!!!!! I wanted to see French kids going door-to-door because everyone around here said they do - and I only halfway believed them. I wondered what they’d say at the door. According to my mummy-dearest-in-law, they say this…. drum roll…..

On veut des bonbons!  / We want candy!

That’s so pushy.

“…The joint suicide of André Gorz, the French philosopher and founder of the magazine Le Nouvel Observateur, and his British-born wife Dorine, who was suffering from a fatal disease, has turned the love letter that he wrote to her into a surprise bestseller.

Gorz, 84, a friend of Jean-Paul Sartre, and Dorine, 83, committed suicide by lethal injection at their home in the village of Vosnon, east of Paris, on September 22. Two days later a friend found them lying side-by-side in their bedroom.

Gorz’s 75-page Lettre à D. Histoire d’un Amour (Letter to D. Story of a Love), published a year earlier, was a tribute to his wife. One French critic described the work, which won him a wider audience than his essays on ecology and anti-capitalism, as his “intellectual and emotional testament”.

The couple met by chance at a card game in 1947 and married in 1949. “You will soon be 82. You have shrunk six centimetres and you weigh just 45 kilos and you are still beautiful, gracious and desirable,” the book starts. “It is now 58 years that we have lived together and I love you more than ever.”

Gorz goes on to describe finding out in 1973 that Dorine, who managed foreign rights for the publisher Galilée, suffered from an incurable condition…”

Read the rest at TimesOnline published for the first time in Britain

Watch the clip with Conan and James Lipton on YouTube.

Here’s a fun and silly reading by David Sedaris talking about
the French healthcare system. Click here to listen

Old Man: I bought bread in the supermarket bakery and gave it to my rabbits. But they wouldn’t touch it!

Baker: I don’t blame them.

Old Man: I wonder why they didn’t eat it.

Baker: That stuff is filled with chemical sh*t and other unnatural ingredients. I wouldn’t even call it bread.

Old Man: Many people eat that chemical sh*t. It’s a shame.

Baker: Well, they shouldn’t. They should come to my bakery. (wink!)

Pop Quiz. What do talking incessantly and taking a vow of silence have in common? Answer: The nun we met on Saturday.

Standing in line at the train station to buy some tickets for a future trip, we noticed a nun a few people ahead of us and panicking at the ticket window.

Nun (talking to no one in particular): OMG! What am I going to do. (Ok, she didn’t say OMG, but that would have been good.)

No one answered.

Nun (still talking to no one in particular): Why didn’t they tell me I had to transfer to get to Autun? Now what am I going to do? I mean, how was I supposed to know I had to transfer? The person obviously was inexperienced - I mean she was very young and well she probably forgot to tell me - but now I am stuck and have no way of getting to my meeting with the bishop on time - oh dear me - and the soonest a taxi can come is in an hour and a half - too late for my meeting with the BISHOP.

No one responded.

Nun: He will be so disappointed that I couldn’t make the meeting and then maybe it’ll be a long time before I have a chance to meet with him again - so hmmmm I’m not sure what to…

Us: Ma Soeur! (In France, you must always address a nun as “My Sister”) We’ll drive you to Autun. It’s only 30 minutes and you’ll have 15 minutes to spare.

The 30-minute drive might have been the longest 30 minutes I’ve ever experienced and entailed a kooky nun talking the entire time nonstop. I’m not kidding. We didn’t even know when she took a breath. She talked in one LOOOONNNNGGGG sentence, a “Sister’s Monologue.”

She even continued to talk as she exited the car. We left her with some caretakers of the estate and she then thanked us and mentioned that she would surely tell the bishop about how we saved their meeting. My sweetie asked her to ask the bishop not to ring the bells too early in the morning so people near the cathedrale could sleep. She said ok (!) and one last thing.

Nun: “Perhaps we shall meet again if you are ever near my convent. I took my vows and the oath of silence at the Order of Saint Bruno…”

Us: “WHAAAA!?” (We didn’t actually say that out loud. We just thought it.)

She said some other things that we didn’t catch because we were so hung up and shocked by the fact that she’d even admit to us that she took a vow of SILENCE…

France’s 1st round of presidential elections is today, so I decided to tag along with my sweetie to the polls. But before that, I said, “Hey, but it’s lunchtime. Are they open?”

“Of course, they’re open,” he says as if actually saying, “duh.”

“OMG. Something in France is open during that sacrosanct hour, lunchtime??!”

“Ha. It’s probably the only day in the year when THAT happens, huh?”

So we arrive and I felt all excited even though I don’t get to vote. It’s just fun to see how other countries do this I guess. Here’s what you see if you’re from a village like ours. (it’s probably a lot different in large cities. maybe.) A few guys at a table in a room at the Mairie with nothing decorating the walls except a very new no smoking sticker and a photo of our current leader, Jacques Chirac. I then realize at this moment that this is definitely NOT an electronic voting system.

I ask the gentlemen if they’d mind if I take some photos. “Why?” (as in “Why on earth for?”) But then they say ok. We were lucky to find happy officials. It could easily have been 3 surly old geezers, staring you down with eye daggers.

My other half begins to gather all of his slips of paper as I tell the officials that he doesn’t yet know who he’s going to vote for. (which was true). They chuckle politely.

He proceeds to the booth to put his slip of paper into a blue envelope. (Damn! I forgot to take a picture of the booth. I know, I’m a nerd.) He takes a while as he tries to come up with his lesser of the evil choice. As I wait, I ask the men which one of them will say, “A Voté!“? The guy in the middle, as if embarrassed says, “That would be me.”

Finally, he comes out of the booth to drop his vote into the urne, and the middle guy meekly says his little spiel quickly (see how embarrassed he looks?).

Polls close at 6pm. Now. Does this method seem, well, flawed? It would be so easy for small villages like this to stuff that ole ballot box. Who’s watching them, afterall? Yep, always the conspiracy theorist. But you know, there are somewhere around 6,000 villages in France. A collaborative cheat session could result in a strange and fatal conclusion.

The French 1st and 2nd round system also seems like it could use some improvement. Especially this year when so many people are split between several candidates. For example, say your first choice is Besancenot (yea, the revolutionary communist mailman), your second choice is Bayrou, but Royal and Laguiller (I know, this is extremely hypothetical) make it to the 2nd round and Bayrou doesn’t. And if all people’s 2nd choice was Bayrou, he might’ve had a chance to win the 2nd round if he’d made it to the 2nd round. Like, what would happen in the 2nd round if you could vote between 3 candidates. You know? Anyway.

That’s the process if you were wondering. It is history in the making, as it could and will surely result in dire consequences for the hexagon.

You know how in France, there’s a hair salon or shoe store on every corner? In L.A. there seems to be a donut shop on every corner (next to a Starbucks, of course).

Me: “Let’s get some donuts!”
Him: “Beurk. No way. American donuts are gross.”
Me: “What do you mean, yuck, American donuts are gross?”
Him: “I hate them.”
Me: “But you don’t hate French donuts?”
Him: “French donuts are awesome!”
Me: “Why do you hate American donuts?”
Him: “They’re disgusting, that’s why.”
Me: “Why!!!?”
Him: “OK, if you must know: they give me these nasty donut burps. Then, they give me heartburn. I never get heartburn. There’s something wrong about American donuts, I swear.”
Me: “Eiuw. You don’t get donut burps with the French ones?”
Him: “Nope. The French donuts are good and don’t make me feel sick.”

I went out and bought some donuts anyway, and he decided to take a few bites of one. I ate one too.

(Later that day)
Him: “I have the durps. Donut burps.”
Me: “Me too, and heartburn.” (I also never get heartburn.)

So, what is the difference? We’re pretty sure it’s the oil. In the U.S., donuts are fried in hydrogenated oils, oil that is, for all intents and purposes, bad for you. It is basically oil, where its fatty acids have been chemically altered into trans fats so the oil will have a longer shelf life. (See Hydrogenated Oils: The Silent Killers)

Why are donuts different in Europe? Answer: They don’t use hydrogenated oils

[From Recovery Medicine]
“…Many European countries have either banned hydrogenated and partially hydrogenated oils altogether or have instituted future dates for elimination of their use in foods. These government actions concerning the trans fatty acids (hydrogenated and partially hydrogenated oils) is directly related to studies that link trans fatty acid (hydrogenated and partially hydrogenated oil) consumption from processed foods to the development of diabetes, cancer and cardiovascular disease.” (read more on hydrogenated oils)

Trans Fats and Heart Disease

[From Westonaprice.org]
“The food industry justifies the use of trans fats with the claim that the alternative, saturated fats, raise cholesterol and contribute to heart disease. This premise is completely false. Before the introduction of transfats into the food supply, Americans consumed large amounts of saturated fat in butter, lard, tallow, coconut oil and palm oil, yet myocardial infarction (heart attack) was unknown. Today, the European countries with the highest level of saturated fat consumption (France, Switzerland, Netherlands, Iceland, Belgium, Finland and Austria) have the lowest rates of heart disease and the countries with the lowest level of saturated fat consumption (Ukraine, Macedonia, Croatia, Moldova, Azerbaijan, Tajikistan and Georgia) have the highest rates of heart disease. Saturated animal fats provide many nutrients that protect our most important muscle, the heart, including cholesterol, which is vital to the function of our muscles. A recent study found that saturated fats can actually reverse atherosclerosis (Am J Clin Nutr 80 2004 1175-84).” [read more from this letter published in the Wall Street Journal]

What is Hydrogenated and Partially-hydrogenated Oil?

Campaign to Ban Hydrogenated oils

Tags: france, french, donuts, american+donuts, trans+fats, hydrogenated+oils, heartburn, obesity

My French sweetie and I had the weirdest conversation just the other day.

Him: “Waaah! Look at that truck, it’s oomungoose!”

Me: “Yeah. So?”

Him: “You know, here in L.A. nearly everyone drives an SUV.”

Me: “No, not nearly everyone. Everyone.”

Him: “And the bumpers are all different places even if they are about the same size SUV.”

Me: “I’m totally lost.”

Him: “Americans never take into consideration how a car will damage a person if they hit him.”

Me: “What? You mean hit them with their car?”

Him: “Yeah.”

Me: “Usually when people get him by a car here, they don’t survive.”

Him: “EXACTLY!”

Me: “I have no clue about what you are talking about.”

Him: “In Europe, when they design cars, they design them so that in the case where someone gets hit by this car, their bones will break in places that will be easy to heal. That is, if they survive. For example: it’s easier for a body to heal with a bone fracture on the thigh (the femur), rather than getting your hip broken. You know? Or, it’s better to get hit on the tibia (shin bone) and have the bone fracture there, than getting it cracked right on the knee. Etc.”

Me: “But people are all different sizes.”

Him: “True, so they base their calculations on averages.”

Me: “I get it. So a short person like me would have a bone broken in a bad place.”

Him: “Probably. If you survive.”

Me: “That’s lovely.”

Him: “See how thoughtless Americans are?”

Me: “I guess. Where did you learn about all this happy information?”

Him: “From a documentary on ARTE.”

Me: “I’ll make sure to watch more of ARTE when I need some cheering up.”

Dear Sick Woman on an Air France flight from Paris to L.A.:

I hate you. You freaking whore. You’re an inconsiderate biatch. A thousands curses to you over and over again for the rest of your life.

Because you were ill yet decided to go out into the world to spread your vile germs to take the same flight as me, you, as a result, spread your illness and got me and my sweetie extremely sick. I’m sure a majority of the people on that flight got ill. Because of YOU! Don’t deny it. I know it was you. I heard you sneezing and coughing on the shuttle from the terminal to the plane, then later on the flight. A day after we landed in the U.S., we started to feel terrible and it was downhill from there for a few days after that. You see, because of you, my short trip to the U.S. has been ruined.

Did anyone ever teach you to COVER YOUR MOUTH when you sneeze and cough? Apparently, no. Perhaps that would’ve been futile in an airplane with recirculating air. Who knows - but you shouldn’t have been there in the first place! Really, did you HAVE to get on that plane? Maybe you could have worn a mask or something. You know, like in Asia.

Even though I don’t know you at all, I can say with honesty the very opposite phrase once sung long, long ago by David Cassidy from the Partridge Family - and that is: I think I hate you. Being ill has meant that I could not spend as much time visiting my family as I wanted. Why? Because unlike you, I didn’t want to spread my germs, so I stayed in bed until I got better. If you had done the same and stayed at home in bed until you got well, no one in that plane would’ve gotten sick. And neither would the people that got in contact with those on the plane, etc. I wonder just how many people you infected? Hundreds? Thousands?

That was so evil and inconsiderate of you. You made make me sick.

May you burn in hell forever and ever and ever and ever,

Sincerely,
PT Ford

A recent post on the Gristmill blog that recounted a conversation with a butcher reminded me that way too many people simply…have no idea. I might have to shamefully admit here that if I didn’t live in Burgundy, I would have no idea as well. Let me explain. The U.S. based blogger (Julia Olmstead) asked a butcher for grass-fed beef and he replied, ” I don’t think you could feed grass to cows…because they need vitamins and minerals and stuff.”

Um.

This brought me back to a conversation I had with my brother just a few months ago in California. He’s an avid foodie and loves to cook. We were talking about beef and I’d mentioned that Burgundy is very well-known for their Charolais beef. When you’re in our area, you can’t miss the white cows grazing on the verdant hills all around.

He said he’d come across some beef from northern California that was exceptional. “Why is it so good?” I asked. He said, “they feed it….GRASS.” And he said “grass,” I swear, like it was some sort of contraband, revolutionary forbidden feed.

“You mean weed?!” I stupidly asked. (but he said it as if it was illegal.)

“What?! No, silly. Grass, grass.” he said.

“Well. You know cows are SUPPOSED to eat grass and hay, right?” I said matter-of-factly.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess.”

The only reasons why industrial cows eat corn and “feed” is because it’s cheap and the cows get fatter quicker, so they reach slaughter months before a grass-fed cow will. Also, cows are crammed in warehouses or areas where there is no grass. Bottomline: the bottomline.

When cows are fed corn, soy and certain grains and feed (chicken manure, pig and fish proteins, bovine blood meal, pesticides), it usually results in a myriad of health problems for the cows. This is the reason why this kind of beef is pumped with anti-biotics: to keep the cow relatively healthy until slaughter time. Also, when cows are fed corn, e. coli outbreaks are more common.

Tags: france, french, cows, eat+grass, charolais, beef, mad+cow, e+coli+outbreaks

Him: “What’s the saying in English when a guy has muscles on his stomach?”

Me: “Do you mean like a guy who’s in great shape and has muscle definition on his abdomen?”

Him: “I guess.”

Me: “Abs of Steel or I think some people say 6-Pack Abs.”

Him: “Like a 6-pack of beer? That sounds so…you know: weird.”

Me: “How do they say that in French?”

Him: “Les tablettes de chocolat” (chocolate bars)

Me: “Chocolate bars! Of course it has to be food-related. That’s cute.”

Mailman: Do you want a duck or a pheasant?

Me: No mail? Wha?

Mailman: Duck or pheasant?

Me: Are they, you know, dead?

Mailman: Yes.

Me: Do they, like, have all their feathers and heads and feet?

Mailman: Yes.

Me: Eiuw. I don’t know what to do with that.

My sweetie: I’ll clean ‘em. I sort of know how to do that.

Me: You know how to do that?!!! You are my hero. Cool. Pheasant, thank you.

Did anyone ever tell you that pheasant tastes a lot like chicken? It doesn’t.

Anyone want to know how to prep the bird? I took photos of the whole process but it’s pretty gruesome, so I’m not sure. Maybe in a separate page. Then again, I think I saw a deer’s leg sticking out of a pot of beans chez David Lebovitz. Talk about getting weak knees.

Tags: france, french, mailman, pheasant, hunting, gross

I found a store that sells these cute mice sculptures made my the local Burgundy artist, Jerome Champenois - and had to take a photo of their window display. We met Mr. Champenois about a year ago during our adventure in search of his home and workshop. We eventually found it. Did you miss that story? Here it is:

Hidden Gems in Burgundy: Of Iron Mice and Eccentric Men

I’m not much of a collector of anything but these are tempting because they are so adorable. Plus they would remind me of how much I loved living in Burgundy later on when I may no longer be living in France.

Dancing with the Stars, a celebrity dance contest, aired on American TV a few months ago and I was telling my s.o. about how an ex-NFL football player (and 3 time Superbowl champion), Emmitt Smith won, with Mario Lopez losing to him and coming in second.

Him: “Who?”

Me: “Who, who?”

Him: “I don’t know the footballer, but who lost? Do I know him?”

Me: “It’s not ‘footballer,’ it’s ‘football player’. American Football, you know. Anyway, the guy who lost was Mario Lopez. Remember Slater from Saved by the Bell? Did you have that show in France? You know, with Zack, Screech, Jesse and Kelly, Tiffani-Amber Thiessen before 90210?”

Him: “Yeah! I watched that show here. And it was Sleh TAIR, not Slater, ha!

Me: “Weird. What was the show called in French?”

Him: “Sauvés par le gong.”

Me: “Saved by the GONG?! You gotta be kidding. That sounds so un-French. I mean, gongs aren’t really a French thing, if you know what I mean. It’s more ancient Asia. Man, they just pulled that out of left field.”

Him: “I’m serious, that’s what it was called.”

Me: “Is it the same for the expression, ’saved by the bell’?”

Him: “Yup. Saved by the Gong.”

Me: “That’s insane. ‘Bell’ makes sense for the expression and the show because who on earth has a gong? And for the show it works especially because they’re in school and it refers to the school bell. Do they call the school bell in France a gong too?”

Him: “No, silly. That’s ridiculous.”

Me: “That’s what I was about to say about Sauvés par le gong.”

When I’m visiting my family in California, one of my rituals is to go to Costco with my sister to buy an enormous box of Reeses for my sweetie. Those are not available in France. Once, my sister grabbed this huge bag with about 10 heads of Romaine lettuce in it. I’m like, “What are you gonna do with all that lettuce?” She casually says she and her family (of 4 which includes 2 very little girls) would eat it of course. Me: “I know that but how long will the lettuce last?” She says “About a month.” Me: “OMG A month??! Eiuw.”

In France, whenever I buy a head of lettuce at the market, I will be lucky it if lasts three days. Though, rarely it lasts even that long. Seriously. Doesn’t it makes you wonder how on earth the lettuce from Costco lasts an entire month? That is insane.

Back to this post. During the winter in France when her potager (veggie garden) freezes, my mother-in-law resorts to buying lettuce in the markets. The same freshness rule applies: lettuce freshness = 2 days. That means that you would really need to eat an entire head of lettuce quickly if you don’t want to waste anything. Or eat rotten lettuce. Do-able, I know, but sometimes you don’t want a salad but you need just a few leaves of lettuce. And no, eating rotten lettuce ISN’T do-able. What to do?

My mother-in-law does this: say she just needs a few leaves for hamburgers or something. In the market, she picks a leaf off a lettuce here, and another leaf off a separate lettuce there, etcetera; that way it doesn’t make much of a dent. She then puts her stray leaves with a bag a radishes (tops still on) or other vegetable and so the lettuce SORT OF gets camouflaged. She goes to the cashier buys all her stuff, and voila! No rotten lettuce leftover and problem solved.

Though not exactly stealing, I only consider my mummy-in-law commiting a half of a crime because she does pay for the radishes which would include the weight of the lettuce.

If you think about it, it is sort of practical - but that isn’t to say I’m recommending that you do the same. Really!

So, don’t go crying to the police when you get arrested for shoplifting, and say something like, “but officer, other people do it! Look it up on this blog…”

Tags: france, french, lettuce, secrets, tips, shoplifting, mother+in+law+steals