The French word for today is pêle-mêle, which translates into "higglety-pigglety". This describes why I don't have any images for this weeks travel log. In fact, a floppy disk failure killed the entire log for this week, which is why I've decided to do a potpourri log, and cover some miscellaneous topics.
First of all, I've been promising to talk about food for a while. The French and their food is a topic that could support a doctoral thesis, so I'm going to limit myself to a single topic -- the cafeteria at work. (I'm sure you could also write your thesis on The French Cafeteria as Microcosm: The Gastronomical Milieu Compared and Contrasted to The Canadian Cafeteria).
Every employee has an account at the cafeteria, which can be accessed using the security badge. Thus, the first thing you see when entering the foyer (the cafeteria is in a separate building) is a bank machine specially designed to take your non-Canadian debit cards and transfer to your cafeteria account. When you go to the cashier, your account is debited.
The first room of the cafeteria is the hors d'oeuvre room, which is where you find your plates of arranged egg slices, carrot salads, patés and your various thinly-sliced cured ham. There are four or five serving tables full of these types of items. I have to admit that this room scares me a bit -- I can recognize the egg and tomato, but what's in the multicoloured paté-like substance, and how am I supposed to eat it? I will start dealing with this room later in my exploration of the French culture. The hors d'oeuvre room also has examples of the five or six entrées available that afternoon.
The main room has several serving areas around the periphery, where you can pick up your main plate. The meals are well-prepared, and there is an excellent variety. I have experienced ray (as in the big flat fish) and beef bourguignon. For now, I have avoided the lapin (rabbit), but they aren't safe for long. You don't have to worry about eating loup in France -- it's probably bass (the fish) rather than wolf.
The centre of the room has a cheese bar, where you can select from a variety of cheeses to accompany your meal. In this centre island, you can also pick up a plate of lychees or clementines (the fruit), or take one of the dozen varieties and flavours of yoghurt. On the way to the cash, you pass the dessert bar, where you pick up one of the dozen varieties of pastries, flans, cakes, parfaits and puddings. Thursdays seem to be the official crème brûlée day. This is also where you pick up your wine for the midday meal, although in practice, I haven't really seen anybody drink wine at lunch. As you slide your tray towards the cashier, you pick up your water glass, your cutlery and your bread. As they swipe my card, I usually buy a ticket for my café sans amandine (coffee without a chocolate on the side).
Some interesting points about eating in the French cafeteria -- I have been told that the French eat 'continental style', which means keeping the fork in the left hand and the knife in the right hand while eating. I felt odd eating like this for about five minutes -- I'm used to putting the knife down and transferring the fork -- but I quickly got used to it. In fact, I haven't bothered to verify that this is how everyone else eats. The dessert is eaten with a spoon regardless of the type -- which seems natural for a parfait or île flottant (a meringue block floating in a dish of custard), but can be awkward with an an eclair, or with a chou chantilly (cream puff pastry).
Everyday, the cafeteria offers a pizza as well. The personal size pizzas are freshly baked (four at a time), and have a chewy, bready crust. You are likely to find ingredients such as turkey, salmon, or a big slice of blue cheese on your pizza. In Canada, tomato sauce is a key part of the definition of a pizza. In France, however, if it is not explicitly listed, it might not end up on your pizza. I made this startling discovery in my second week after ordering and picking up a pizza from Domino's. In France, although you use a knife and fork to eat your pizza, you are freed from the monotony of the triangular pizza slice. One can start from the left and eat to the right, start from the centre and eat out, or make up your own patterns as you please.
My final piece of advice: the best part of the crème brûlée is supposed to be the carmelized (i.e. burnt) stuff at the top. If you want to hear your table gasp in unison, you should scrape it off because it tastes a bit off.
My meal today was the escallope à l'ancienne (turkey in a slightly mustardy sauce) with a side plate of three cheeses, a fresh bread, a chou chantilly, water and my café. The total came to about six canadian dollars.
Oh, I nearly forgot the best part of lunch. After you're finished and you've taken your tray to the conveyor belt, the next room is the cafeteria, in the literal sense of the word. This is the room with the little round tables and benches. You place your coffee ticket on the coffee bar, and you watch the amazingly adept workers make coffee in what looks like an espresso machine. When you get your coffee, it is merely seconds old, and quite a bit stronger than american coffee (which is amusingly referred to as jus de chaussettes).
Speaking of clever French wordplay, this last weekend I had the good fortune to see Dom Juam, a play by Molière. Despite my generally poor level of French, it was very interesting. We had very good seats, and I picked up enough that I could follow the plot, even if I missed most of the nuances. Dom Juam is one of Molière's heavier pieces, touching on aspects of religion, hypocrisy and morals, and it is written in old French (in the 17th century). This weekend, I've decided to go see Le Médecin Malgre Lui, which is the same author and period, but should be lighter, more comedic, and hopefully more visual.
The métro station on the way to the theatre was right outside the Moulin Rouge. The real one is substantially different than the movie -- it kind of reminded me of a strip club in a strip mall, with a big neon windmill on top of it (moulin rouge, by the way is French for red windmill). In fact, the area was kind of seedy altogether, in a not-just-neon-but-porno-neon kind of way, and pretty much every store was, in fact, in the porn business. Regardless, there are some nice sights just off the main streets. Montmartre is said to have a nice view of Paris (it's one of the highest points in the city, excluding the towers), and I'm probably going to devote another day to the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur.
This last weekend, I also went to Les Halles, which is a shopping centre that starts at ground level and digs five or six levels down. I believe that Napoléon had a hand in their original construction, which only goes to prove that his military successes were due to an unholy pact with the mole-people.
And speaking of unholy alliances, watch out for the Borg at Centre Georges Pompidou museum of modern art. This building looks as if it has kilometres of pipes serving as an exoskeleton on the outside. On the other hand, many French thought the Eiffel tower was a modern abomination at first, but they were eventually... assimilated.
My final story occurred outside this building. This is a high tourist traffic area, so there were some caricaturists on the side of the road. I was accosted, but as usual, I said non, merci, désolé. In fact, he didn't want to sell me anything, but he found my nose to be intriguing, and he wanted to draw me for his own personal collection. This is a fairly transparent ruse, but probably pretty effective. Who doesn't want to sit down for five minutes and be complimented by an artist? He insisted that I didn't need to buy it (unless I really liked it). So I sat for about five minutes, and had my portrait (caricature) drawn. When it was finished, he asked if I liked it, and offered to sell it to me for only 20 euros (thirty canadian dollars). At this point, I laughed and told him I would give him my pocket change (which turned out to be two euros). He offered ten euros, but I made a shrewd counter-offer -- two euros. He insisted he couldn't go below five euros, but I still had my ace in the hold -- two euros. How could he argue with that? But, argue he did, and we had to settle for a compromise. Two euros.
The moral of the story is: the caricaturist isn't really intrigued by your nose. He just wants his two euros.
Posted by The Inaccurate Tourist at February 1, 2002 12:00 PM