Basic Week Two

Paris and I still have this love-hate relationship going, and because I was pretty generous with her last week, I have to air a few more grievances:

• Security guards.  Everywhere.  You walk into a store and they will "greet" you at the entrance by staring you down.  It feels a little like entering a maximum-security prison.  They fill their spare time by yelling at people for not putting their shopping baskets back in the right location.
• Cashiers.  Paris isn't known for customer service, but I actually did have some pretty good experiences this week... except at cash registers.  Every time I'm standing in one of their incredibly long lines I feel a tight knot in my stomach as my turn slowly approaches.  In the states I've experienced rude cashiers chatting with other employees while they ring me up, but here it will go on awkwardly long to the point where I almost feel the need to apologize for interrupting.  On Friday a cashier stopped ringing up a customer to reprimand me for resting a light plastic container on top of a box of wrapping paper sitting by the register as I tried to adjust the pile of items in my arms.  It took me a while to figure out what she was saying, but she wouldn't continue her work until I removed the container as everyone in the line stared at me. Cashiers are actually quite good at reprimanding customers.
• Socialism.  Everything is regulated; everything is taxed.  While I was still looking for an apartment, one landlord was trying to explain about how quickly housing goes in the city.  He said, "There is a high level of...," and I attempted to help his English by throwing out, "Competition?"  He replied, "Oh no, we can't have competition."  Later he was explaining a tax that I would have to pay for the sidewalk cleaners (trucks spray down the sidewalks every day - see previous posts about litter, urine, and dog poo) - 400 euros per building per year, a 400% increase from the year prior (my share would have been 100 euros). With the French shrug he explained, "We are just in a crisis and the government needs our money."
• Traffic.  I already said that I had no intention of driving while in Paris, but as a pedestrian I almost got run over by a motorcycle the other day.  One step to the right could have killed me because I don't often think to check behind me for motorcycles trying to bypass heavy traffic... WHEN I'M WALKING ON THE SIDEWALK.  Also, if you think that you have plenty of time to cross at an intersection, just wait for the light.  Traffic will speed up to teach you a lesson.
• Appointments.  You never know when you'll need one, so don't be surprised when you walk into the post office, bank, insurance agency, or pretty much any other business if they turn you away (but if you see a sign that says, "sans rendez-vous," you're probably safe).
• Bacon.  Or rather, the lack thereof.  Not to beat a dead horse (no French cuisine pun intended), but what civilized country doesn't understand good bacon??
• Television.  It's all in French.  What's the deal?  I mean, I know that I'm in France, but if they could just leave the English programs as they are and use subtitles... Watching well-known American movies and shows dubbed in French can provide some temporary laughs, though..

Of course, nowhere in the world are we completely safe from life's little annoyances, and although some of those things will always make us crazy we manage to come to terms with most of them.  C'est la vie.  At least I've finally begun finding enough redeeming qualities in the city to keep everything in balance.  I'll come up with some more pros of Paris next week.

Moving on to the other highlights of this week:

Monday

While the first week of school was made up mostly of introductory elements, the second week started off at 8:30 AM in the kitchen for the second cuisine practical lesson.  We were applying Friday's demonstration of fish stock, fish fillets, and a buttery sauce.  Chef Terrien, a 25-year veteran of Le Cordon Bleu with smiling eyes and a patient disposition, led the charge.

The class had a bumpy start with one girl, simply in the process of preparing for class, poking a knife between two of her fingers enough to cut a nerve and require a visit with a hand specialist and minor surgery the next day.  Filleting a fish wasn't one of my finest moments either, but at least I kept all of my fingers.  My fillets looked a little too butchered, my sauce was too runny for the chef ("This is soup, not sauce!") so I had to recook it, and I went a little too heavy on the salt (my taste buds enjoy it), but we weren't being evaluated and Terrien's unofficial verdict was, "Not too bad."  I'll take it.

Class was over by 11:00 AM and because I had nothing else scheduled for the day, I returned to my studio and stuffed as many items into one of my suitcases as I could before hauling it a half-mile down the road to the new studio.  After dropping it off I took a little tour of the street and found such delights as an Eric Kayser boulangerie, Oliviers & Co., l'Occitane en Provence, and several other places that I will never be able to afford and/or that will cause me to double in weight.  I had already introduced myself to the Amarino shop a couple of weeks prior, but I dropped in again to grab a caramel gelato as my reward for delivering the first 70-pound suitcase.

One thing that I couldn't shake all day was the smell of fish - it clung to my hands worse than onion. To make matters worse, when I arrived back at the old studio that afternoon and glanced in the mirror, I noticed brown splotches around my nose and eyes and suddenly remembered that moment in class when I dug into the fish's eye socket with a vegetable peeler and a spray of "juice" splattered my face.  The fact that I let it stay there for six hours or so made me feel oddly proud.  I had officially overcome my raw fish phobia!

Tuesday

The relaxed schedule came to an end Tuesday morning.  At 8:30 AM Chef Bogan took us through the finer points of preparing a chicken and cooking it, chicken stock, bechamel sauce, and rice (little-known fact: rice is rarely served on the same plate as the chicken in contemporary dishes).  He also whipped up an egg and cheese soufflé that was divine but sadly not one of the items that we would be preparing in our practical class, which we jumped into shortly after the demonstration ended.

Classic and contemporary chicken presentations and the soufflé

I had never before prepared or trussed a chicken.  It looked simple enough in the demonstration (as does everything), but holding the thing in my own hands was entirely different.  My eyes may have bulged a bit when Chef Cotte whipped out a flaming blowtorch for us to burn off the down, I didn't cut the leg and wing joints off correctly, and I had trouble locating the wishbone for removal, but somehow in the end it was tied.  Remembering Chef Terrien's warning, I backed off on the salt.  Chef Cotte's reaction was that it needed more salt and I learned that presented food should never, under any circumstances, touch the plate's rim.

We had only a three-hour break before the evening class, so after a quick change into my street clothes I came back to the old studio and ironed several parts of my uniform that I had washed the night before (wrinkled or stained uniforms can get one thrown out of class) before returning to school.  Washing and ironing is becoming like a second job to me, but I'm now extremely grateful that I opted for a studio with a washing machine!

Our practical class that evening was our first one in pastry and it involved making the diamants (shortbread cookies) from Saturday's demonstration... lots and lots of diamants.  While waiting for them to bake, Chef Tranchant brought in a giant bowl of butter whipped with sugar for us to practice piping techniques.  As it turns out, piping is not my strong point - nothing artistic is a strong point for me.  I fear this whole "presentation" thing could be my downfall.

Diamants galore

Dragging myself home sometime after 9 PM, I tossed my lifetime supply of diamants into the freezer for future accompaniments to my evening tea, keeping in mind that I would be adding two more pastries to my collection before the week was out.  Then I ate about five of them.

Wednesday

 My first class of the day wasn't until until 3:30 PM, so I set out to explore the wild and wacky world of renter's insurance.  It is required by French law, of course, and my landlord was asking me quite frequently if I had it yet even though I had just signed the lease on Friday and hadn't moved in.  I knew that several banks provide this insurance if you have an account with them, but one of my goals has been to avoid opening a French bank account if at all possible.  Unfortunately, applying for insurance online also required a French account, but I wasn't going to be that easily defeated.

My landlord had provided the name of her insurance company and although it was almost two miles from me and I would pass approximately 87 agencies on the way, I decided to give it a shot.  My fear was that I would need an appointment or that I would get in and not understand for what I was signing.  As usual, the Lord had control of the situation and a very friendly receptionist directed me to an even friendlier agent, a Ukrainian girl who spoke enough English to help me through some of the technical jargon.  They were going to let me pay in cash, too, except that I had to make the payment through the post office.

The post office...  Up to this point I had avoided it as well, primarily because I remembered trying to mail some letters while in Nice one summer.  It was very similar to a trip to the DMV where I had to take a number and sit in a waiting area for a postal worker to call me.  Of course, I discovered this protocol only after several customers and one angry worker glared at me for attempting to "cut in line."  [By the way, for any of you who are waiting for a postcard, cowardice is my only excuse.]

Nevertheless, deciding to get the payment processed right away, I marched boldly inside and looked around.  This French post office had multiple stations - two or three sort of free-standing podiums that sometimes had workers standing behind them, a closed-off counter in the corner with a lady sitting behind it, and an area hidden by screens with a sign saying "sans rendez-vous," which automatically made me wonder if everything else DID require a "rendez-vous."  The confusing part is that the post office also serves as a bank, and the signs are only slightly instructional.

I chose a podium with a worker and got behind one woman in line, apparently leaving too much space because another woman cut in between the two of us.  Normally I would find such behavior rude, but I actually appreciated the extra time to see what other people were doing.  When my turn arrived, I used the five magic words from French or Foe, "Excusez-moi de vous deranger," ("Excuse me for bothering you,") and it worked like a charm.  The worker interrupted me with, "It is no trouble; we are the post office."

From there he led me to the lady at the corner counter and he began to fill out the paperwork for me.  He was also anxious to show off his English skills, so while she processed my payment, he introduced himself and I responded with, "Enchantée."  He in turn said, "Nice to meet you."  The lady at the counter repeated, "Nice to mees you?"  He corrected her, and then attempted to explain the expression to her in French, which produced only a blank stare, which made him further try to explain "nice."  The French don't really have a translation for "nice" except for "gentil," which didn't work in this context (compare "He's a nice (Fr., gentil) guy," to "It's a nice (Fr., ??) day").  "Friendly" also doesn't translate well (surprise!).

Friendly Postal Worker (FPW) then asked if I danced, "You know, tango, salsa..." as he wiggled his hips and waved his arms, and for a moment I thought that he was asking me to dance right then.  Instead I just laughed and said that I couldn't dance.  Fortunately for all of us another customer interrupted our conversation that was quickly descending into awkwardness and FPW had to go.  My payment being successfully processed, I made a quick exit as well but gave a final wave and another "Merci beaucoup!" to FPW who shouted back, "Good-bye!  I know where you are now!"

At 3:30 PM I joined the other Basic Patisserie students to watch Chef Tranchant demonstrate the art of French tarts.  While we were required only to create a classic apple tart, within three hours he had whipped up an additional tarte tatin (a sort of upside-down apple tart) and tarte normande (apples and custard filling) with amazing speed and alacrity.  We also learned how to fraisager, which is simply smearing dough across a counter with our palms until all of the butter lumps disappear and it coheres.  I really appreciate how much we get to work with dough directly with our hands in pastry classes - it's almost like play-doh.

Classic apple tarts, Tarte tatin, and Tarte Normande

The demonstration ended just before 6:30 PM so we had to rush to grab our aprons, hairnets, hats, and knife kits to get to our practical class on time.  Making the crust was interesting - unlike a regular pie it doesn't use a pie pan, only a bottomless ring mold.  Of course my crimping skills for the crust edge needed work, and being the slowest student in the class I was rushing to place my top apple slices at the end, leaving gaping holes and uneven circles.  The taste, however, was good enough for me to eat the entire thing (over four nights, of course).  Always the presentation...

Nailed it... or not.

Thursday

Chef Vaca introduced us to savory dough recipes.  It was the first cuisine demonstration in which I felt some level of knowledge because I had worked with yeast doughs a good bit already.  I even felt so bold as to raise my hand and ask why we didn't need to proof the yeast before making the dough.  The translator in turn asked the chef who gave an explanation (he said that with more time it would actually be better to proof it), then he said, "That's a very good question! Who asked it?" I beamed like a 5-year-old who was just given a gold star.  I can play this Survivor game, too.

He then proceeded to make an onion, anchovies, and olive pizza.  Anchovies were not in my list of of favorite ingredients; as a matter of fact, I had managed to avoid eating them for 40 years because they reminded me of the house centipedes which used to infest my garage (I do like Caesar salad dressing, though).  But we have to try everything in demonstration that we're making in practical, and although his spinach and ham cannelloni made with homemade pasta sounded like a much better option, I hesitantly took a bite.  It was... delicious, and now I love anchovies (although when I don't get a clean bite and they slide off the pizza and hit my chin I freak out a little).

Onion, anchovy, and olive pizza and Spinach and ham cannelloni

The good-question glow faded three hours later in the practical class as we reproduced the recipe.  In the demonstration Chef Vaca had placed the bowl of dough on a pot of water warming on the stove to make it rise faster.  While the thought did cross my mind that the metal bowl could get pretty hot sitting on steaming water, I did likewise.  Chef Caals, who was leading the class, raised an eyebrow and asked me why I was doing it that way, then simply shrugged when I told him the reason.  Sure enough, the bottom of my dough started drying so that when I rolled it out, small hard chunks began to appear.  At some point I also cut myself again, and found myself once more the last student to complete her dish, so I ran out of time to let the top brown very well.  Nonetheless, it provided a very tasty dinner for two nights.

What it should NOT look like

Friday

We started the morning with back-to-back demonstration and practical classes in choux pastries.  For most of us, it was also our first introduction to Chef Quéré.  Unlike the previous chefs, he seemed to lack a sense of humor, methodically going through the steps and looking slightly peeved when students asked questions.  He made some really beautiful pastries, though, and only broke a smile when we applauded him at the end.

Paris Brest, four variations of Saint-Honoré, and the chef's own special creation

In practical class we were assigned the Saint-Honoré, a cream-filled pastry with a bottom tart crust and the puffed choux pastries around the edge.  Chef Quéré was in charge of this class as well.  We were already starting late because his previous class went over, and things went quickly downhill from there.

Because the practicals have no translator, most of us have to rely on our limited knowledge of French and the chef's limited knowledge of English.  Chef Quéré's English was particularly limited, and when his instructions weren't properly followed he began to slam the counter and scream obscenities at us in whatever 4-letter English words he did know quite well.  The faster students had started heating the milk and water for the choux pastry which sent him completely over the edge, and for once I found that my slowness gave me an advantage.

At one point we were expected to have all of our ingredients for the choux pastries measured out, but only about half the class caught this instruction (and I was not one of them).  Chef began yelling at students to put the flour, sugar, and eggs back in storage, so I found myself trying to inconspicuously grab what I needed before he saw me.  I proceeded to burn my fingertips in boiling caramelized sugar and I had blood coming from somewhere on my hand or wrist, but being too afraid to let him know, I continued working. Our caramel was also hardening faster than we could dip the pastries, but his screams to go faster  prevented us from trying to reheat it and soon I was haphazardly throwing the torn and half-dipped balls into place.

Then came the moment for the cream filling.  For one thing, I had never whipped cream by hand without a mixer - I wasn't even aware that it was possible.  The sound of 14 students frantically hand-whipping cream in metal bowls did actually make us laugh (because the chef was out of the room).  But then we had to pipe the cream onto our pastry, and I still hadn't quite mastered the technique, so when I saw Chef Quéré approaching me my blood ran cold.  He took the bag from my hands and did a row for me, then took the bag again when I still wasn't doing it correctly and showed me again, but surprisingly he was very calm about it.

My Saint-Honoré, or as I like to call it, my Dishonoré

The honeymoon ended about five minutes later when he said, "Clean up your stuff off the counter!  I'm pouring the water on in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1" and he proceeded to dump a bucket of water down the length of the table as we scrambled to box our pastries and grab our knife kits.  Most of us had lost items (e.g., my paring knife, measuring bowls, and scraper) in the chaos but we took everything down to the winter garden to sort things out because nobody was staying in the kitchen.  We exited in stunned silence as if we had all just witnessed a massacre.

To prevent myself from eating the entire pastry as a source of comfort, I stuck it in the fridge at the new apartment and headed off in search of bed linens, towels, a pillow, and a hair dryer.  A friend told me about a store called Tati, a lower-priced place that carries a wide range of products (by Paris standards), and they did indeed carry all of the linens that I needed.  My color choices for sheets were red, orange, brown, black, and a bluish-gray (no white).  The last choice was the least offensive to my senses and I began searching for a bed pillow.  But of course, this is Paris.  Why would I expect a store that sells sheets, pillow cases, duvets, duvet covers, and mattress covers to carry anything other than decorative pillows?

My shopping list still incomplete, I wasn't quite ready to move into the new studio so instead I returned to the old one and called my bank to set up a wire transfer for the remainder of the nine-months' rent payment (if you'll recall, I had to pay the full amount because I have no guarantor or proof of income).  At least this part of the day was successful despite the bank's criminally high exchange rate.

Saturday

Still recovering from Friday's hilarity, I was quite happy that Saturday contained no practical classes.  We were back to one of the more personable instructors, Chef Jordan, who walked us through pound cakes and madeleines, the small shell-shaped cakes that are so popular in France (and after tasting one, I understood the reason).  That class was followed by a theory class in which we learned everything that we could ever hope or want to know about dairy products and sugars.  It was also when I realized that I'm going to need to bring coffee back into my diet if I don't want to sleep through anymore classes.

Lemon pound cakes, fruit pound cakes, and madelines

Sunday

After trying out the church near Montparnasse last Sunday, I decided to stick with the Saint Denis church for the present and I spent the morning there.  When I got back to the studio, I packed up whatever remaining items that I could find into my second suitcase, my backpack, my satchel, and my purse and headed to the new studio, determined to spend the night there even without a pillow.  Ecstatic to finally have a place to call my own, I unpacked everything, hanging up or shelving all of my clothes and finding places to stow away all of my toiletries and other small items.  For the first time in almost a month I was able to shove my now-empty luggage into a corner and stop living out of a suitcase.  It felt really, really good.