Keeping warm in a wintry Paris

Posted on December 17, 2010 by Parisian Fields

Last week snow was falling, snow on snow, in Paris. The international press (when it hits the Toronto papers you know it is Major News) even reported that the Eiffel Tower was temporarily closed because of it. Unimaginable! Well, actually, not really. Think of all those images of Paris in the snow by painters such as Alfred Sisley, Maurice Utrillo, and Gustave Caillebotte. Quiet streets covered in white. Snow on the bridges and barges along the Seine.

Our all-time favourite image of Paris sous la neige is the print by Henri Rivière, part of his 36 Views of the Eiffel Tower (1902), created in a Japanese style and inspired by 36 views of Mount Fuji.

Paris doesn’t have ice and snow every year, but it happens. The Seine even freezes up on occasion. Here’s an image from 1830 of people happily skating on the river.

So snow is hardly news. We were once caught in a snow flurry in Paris in December, which cut short a planned walk in Montmartre. We beat a hasty retreat to a café where we indulged in a winter favourite – vin chaud. This is the French version of mulled wine, available in most cafés and bistros in winter.

Here’s a recipe for French vin chaud. It will keep you warm inside when it’s cold outside.

Vin chaud

1 bottle of red wine (a fruity type, preferably)
1/3 cup of cognac
1/3 cup of brown sugar (or more…experiment)
Zest of one entire orange
4 whole cloves
3 or 4 cinnamon sticks

Put the wine and cognac into a pan and heat. Once it is good and warm, and if you are feeling particularly brave, hold a match to it and let the cognac flame off. Or leave it be and enjoy the extra warmth. Lower the heat and add the sugar, orange zest, cloves, and cinnamon. Let it heat through for another ten minutes. Strain and taste. If it is a bit overpowering, water it down a bit. Serve it in glass mugs if you have them.

We’ve enjoyed it with lunch, or as a before-dinner warm-up, or an after-dinner wind-down. It goes well with a croque Monsieur, or some savoury appetizers, or dessert (such as gingerbread). Bon appetit!

Meanwhile, the snow has stopped in Paris. We arrived yesterday, and today the sun is shining. We have a flat overlooking the Boulevard de Port Royal, which for some reason functions as 2 two-way streets side by side (that is, there are east and west lanes on the north side of the street and yet more east and west lanes on the south side of the street). We have already seen several close shaves as pedestrians, bicyclists and motorists negotiate the intersection below the windows. Hours of entertainment to be had just watching the scene unfolding.

We shall have more to say about this neighbourhood as we discover it, but for now, we would like to wish a very merry Christmas to all our readers and subscribers. Joyeux Noel! Meilleurs voeux! And for those of you who know about and understand Norman’s fascination with large black birds, here is a special image from our Paris photographs for the holidays.

Text by Philippa Campsie, original photography by Norman Ball.

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Memento mori

Posted on December 10, 2010 by Parisian Fields

The past is ever-present in Paris, and so are the dead. I don’t know of another city in which so many of the top tourist sites are in some way memorials to those who have gone before. There is the Pantheon, with its Great Men (and two Great Women), and Les Invalides, with Napoleon in his marble bathtub, surrounded by the tombs of his family members and military commanders.

The city’s cemeteries are big tourist draws. Père Lachaise, shown in the photograph, is the biggest (both in acreage and in tourist numbers – what is it about the desire to see Jim Morrison’s grave, anyway?), but the cemeteries of Montparnasse, Montmartre, Passy, and Picpus, along with assorted smaller graveyards, attract many visitors who come to see the resting place of celebrities and historical figures.

And for sheer ghoulish weirdness, there are the Catacombs, where the bones of those buried in the city’s central cemeteries were moved in the late 18th century, and artfully arranged in a former underground quarry.

Mind you, just over a hundred years ago, the Catacombs would have come a distant second in the sheer ghoulish weirdness category to the Paris Morgue, the must-see tourist site for all fashionable visitors. This was the place to see and be seen, but mostly to see. In fact, the word Morgue comes from an obsolete French verb “morguer” – to stare fixedly. (The term today has a somewhat different meaning.)

The original idea was to make it possible for people from the city to view unidentified bodies found in the streets or fished from the Seine in order to identify and claim them. But when you read about tens of thousands of people filing past an especially interesting display (children were a top draw), it is clear that the original purpose was left behind. It was free. And it was fascinating.

The first proper morgue, shown above in an etching by Charles Meryon, was built in 1804 on the Quai du Marché on the Ile de la Cité. In 1864, Haussmann ordered the demolition of this morgue and the creation of a much larger building on the Quai de l’Archevêché behind Nôtre Dame, on what is today the site of the Memorial of the Deportation. The photograph below shows this newer building; it’s the long, low building to the left of the bridge.

Inside the building was a viewing room, with huge windows like the windows of the grands magasins. Behind the glass, the dead were laid out naked on two rows of six slabs each. A cloth hid the private parts, and the clothing was hung nearby. Small children were propped up on chairs. The window had a curtain that could be drawn across when the attendants added or removed a body. When the stage was ready – and it was very much like a stage – the curtains were drawn back to reveal the new display.

Women and children drew enormous crowds, along with those who were believed to be the victims of foul play. One female murder victim attracted about 10,000 visitors a day. Another popular event occurred whenever the police brought a murder suspect to “confront” a supposed victim in an effort to force a confession or an expression of guilt.

The morgue was featured on tours organized by Thomas Cook, and mentioned in tourist guides to the city. But its greatest publicity came from press reports about the latest inhabitants of the place. Papers such as Le Journal Illustré often featured photos of some of the more interesting bodies.

One odd story attached to the morgue was that of l’Inconnue de la Seine. In the 1880s, a young woman was pulled from the Seine; she had drowned, but there was nothing to indicate whether she had fallen into the river, jumped, or been pushed. She had attractive features and the hint of a smile on her face. The pathologist at the morgue found her face so interesting that he had a plaster cast made of it.

The cast was copied, and copied again. Further versions were made from photographs of the original cast. These death masks became bestsellers – many artists and writers owned copies. And many of the owners wrote stories and plays about her, offering up varying versions of what might have happened to her before she went into the river.

The original young woman was never identified, but she was nonetheless famous. The photograph of the mask shown here is by Man Ray. Years later, in the 1950s, when some of the first lifelike resuscitation models were created to teach the skills of artificial respiration, her famous, lifeless face was used on these models, known as “Rescue Annie” or “CPR Annie.”

The public morgue closed in 1907. This move caused an outcry among the various vendors who hawked their wares near the building and prompted a petition from 40 nearby merchants, whose businesses declined sharply when the Quai de l’Archevêché lost its major attraction. After 1907, only people who had strong reason to believe they could identify a corpse were admitted.

Today, the same function is carried out in the Institut médico-légal on the Quai de la Rapée in the 12th arrondissement. The tour buses do not stop there.

Text and photograph of Pere Lachaise by Philippa Campsie

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The Parisian Fields playlist

Posted on December 3, 2010 by Parisian Fields

The pile of CDs beside the CD player is threatening to topple. No, we aren’t iPod people with everything neatly packaged in a little white contraption – at least not yet. We have CDs and we listen to the radio, and we like to make new discoveries. Some of the things we like may not even be available on iTunes. But if they were… here is a little playlist of a few of our French favourites, illustrated with some of Norman’s pictures of Paris street musicians in flesh and stone (the one below from the Parc Monceau amuses us, as it seems that the woman is getting a migraine from listening to the pianist).

We’d start with the delicious slow second movement of the Piano Concerto in G major, by Maurice Ravel. performed by Martha Argerich with the London Symphony Orchestra. This piece was the subject of our very first post on “Parisian Fields” in July 2010. You can hear it on YouTube – we recommend putting on headphones and closing your eyes and letting your mind drift with the music.

In order not to break the mood, this could be followed by “La Javanaise” by Serge Gainsbourg. We like the version sung by American singer Madeleine Peyroux. Old-fashioned, a little dreamy, in slow waltz time. “Ne vous deplaise, en dansant la Javanaise.” For a different take, you can see Gainsbourg himself perform it on YouTube, whispering rather than singing, complete with drags on a cigarette, but we think Peyroux’s interpretation does more for the melody, and the accompaniment is less tinny.

If we were to choose a Gainsbourg sung by Gainsbourg on our playlist, we’d go for “Marilou sous la neige.” It pokes a little fun at the French obsession with bandes dessinées (cartoons), and there are some clever jeux de mots about copyright and “tous droits de réproduction interdits.” (The YouTube version begins with a strange visual of a speeded-up 1950s cocktail party.)

Maybe it’s tactless of us, but we’re going to follow up with a song by Jane Birkin, who was Gainsbourg’s lover back in the day (they recorded the notorious “Je t’aime…moi non plus” together in 1969). Norman heard this song, “Madame,” on the radio some months ago and immediately went and bought her album Enfants d’hiver. One of the things we like about this reflective song about getting older (the singer is surprised to be addressed as “Madame” instead of “Mademoiselle”), is the odd way in which the words and music fit together. The phrasing of the music has nothing to do with the phrasing of the words. But together they sound just right. You can listen to it here and see some nice old-fashioned photographs of Paris.

Next up, a song by Thomas Fersen called “Café de la Paix.” An oddly jaunty little song about a man down on his luck (he lives in a cardboard box under Pont Marie), waiting for a former lover in a café. We heard this on a CD given to us for Christmas last year by Norman’s daughter – one of those compilations made by Putumayo called simply Paris. This particular song was originally released in 1995 on an album called Les Ronds de Carottes. Have a listen here.

What next? Well, it isn’t Parisian, but we’re going to throw a Quebecois song and singer into the mix, because we had to go all the way to France to discover her. Our friend Marie, who lives in Normandy, gave us a CD of Lynda Lemay’s – she was shocked that we had never heard of her. Her album, Les Lettres Rouges is a delight. We’ve chosen “L’Enfant au cheveux gris.” At the end of the song, Lemay sings a fragment of an exuberant 1937 French song by Charles Trenet: “Y a d’la joie.” Listen to it here.

And while we’re thinking about Marie… years ago, when Philippa was attending university in France, Marie played her a funny little song about that quintessential French institution: dictée. Singer-songwriter Michel Fugain wrote a little ditty on the subject in 1975, complete with articulated punctuation (virgule, point, point final). The YouTube version has photos of a stern teacher wearing those grey-blue coats (sort of like lab coats) that French instructors used to wear.

We’ll round out this short playlist with another instrumental. Here’s one that we found, of all places, on the website of the Hotel Bristol. We liked it so much that we actually e-mailed the hotel, asking for the name of the composer. The music is called “La grande ourse” (the great she-bear) and it’s by Nicholas Errèra. The original version was written for the 2002 movie Le Papillon, and the composer made a special arrangement of it for the hotel’s website.

While we’re on the subject, several other big Paris hotels use music on their websites. In most cases, it is just vague electronic harmonies or a endlessly repeated riff, which is why the Hotel Bristol music, which is a fully realized piece, stands out. The Hotel Raphael (once Audrey Hepburn’s home-away-from-home) has a slightly sinister theme. As the music plays and the website pans across the various features of the hotel (lobby, dining room, guest suites, bathrooms), I almost expected to see something odd appear, like a spy with a gun lurking behind a pillar or a body in the bathtub.

Some choices are predictable: the Ritz, of course, uses Irving Berlin’s “Putting on the Ritz” in its opening video. Some are not. The Hotel Square, for some reason, has chosen “Life is just a slow train crawling up a hill.” What on earth is that supposed to indicate?

The Hotel Fouquet’s Barrière has a variety of themes in its opening video, ranging from “Unforgettable,” an understandable choice, to “Smile While Your Heart is Breaking,” a perplexing one.

[Later note: The hotel websites have all been altered since this blog was written and now very few use music.]

If you have some favourite French music to add to this playlist, please send in your comments and suggestions. We love to learn about new songs, singers, musicians, and composers.

Text copyright Philippa Campsie, photographs by Norman Ball.

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Englishwomen abroad

Posted on November 26, 2010 by Parisian Fields

I recently came across two oddly similar stories about Englishwomen in Paris. Both women came to the city to work, both became pregnant with men they met in Paris, both had baby girls while living with these men. But the men, absorbed in their work, grew distant. The women found solace in writing; their work was published. Both ended up meeting and marrying other men and having a second child by these husbands.

One is a contemporary story― that of Catherine Sanderson, author of Petite Anglaise, a blog and then a “blook” (book based on a blog). She wrote about the intimate details of her life in Paris, referring to her first child as “Tadpole” and the child’s father as “Mr. Frog.” Her posts were followed by hundreds of readers, who offered advice, consolation, and admonitions as she had an affair, left Mr. Frog, broke up with the other man, struggled as a single mother, and eventually found happiness. You can read all about it on her website. A testament to the strangeness of life in the early 21st century.

The other woman’s experiences constitute a testament to the strangeness of life in the 1790s. The Revolution had broken out, and the massacre of prisoners in September 1792 had scared off most expatriates. Yet one Englishwoman, a sufficiently unusual one that she worked as a freelance writer, headed for Paris to find out for herself what was going on and to send back a report to her publisher. Her name was Mary Wollstonecraft, and she was the author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Mary arrived in December 1792, only to find that the friends she had planned to stay with had left Paris. Fortunately, they left a message that she could live in their house on the rue Meslée (today the rue Meslay). Unfortunately, the servants were unhelpful (they put her in a remote room on an upper floor), and Mary’s spoken French was not very good. An unpromising start.

The rue Meslée was close to the Temple fortress, where King Louis XVI was imprisoned. Mary saw him pass in his coach on the way to his trial on December 26 (shown in the image below). She was frightened and disturbed by the event and wrote to her publisher:

I cannot dismiss the lively images that have filled my imagination all the day―Nay, do not smile, but pity me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have seen eyes glare through a glass-door opposite my chair, and bloody hands shook at me. Not the distant sound of a footstep can I hear. My apartments are remote from those of the servants, the only persons who sleep with me in an immense hotel… I wish I had even kept the cat with me! I want to see something alive; death in so many frightful shapes has taken hold of my fancy. I am going to bed―and for the first time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.

She was still staying in the house when Louis went to his execution nearly a month later.


Why didn’t she leave? For one thing, she had begun to make some new friends in the group of expatriates who gathered at White’s Hotel in the passage des Petits Pères. For another, she was invited to contribute to a plan for education in the new republic. And third, she fell in love with an American businessman, Gilbert Imlay. In the upheaval of the Revolution, life was precious and the normal rules of relationships did not apply. She embarked on an affair with Imlay.

By the summer, English residents of Paris were in danger. The English had denounced the execution of the king and the two countries were on the brink of war. Mary’s hosts from the rue Meslée owned a cottage just outside the city in Neuilly-sur-Seine, and sent her there, with a gardener to look after her. She lived in Neuilly during the summer of 1793, working on a book about the Revolution, and waiting for Imlay’s visits.

To visit Neuilly, he had to pass through the barrier in the wall that encircled Paris in those days. On his visiting days, Mary would go to meet him, and she later spoke of his “barrier face” ―his expression of pleasure at the sight of her.

Writing a book on the Revolution without being in central Paris wasn’t easy, but Mary was able to do some on-the-spot reporting when she visited the Palace of Versailles, now an empty, echoing shell, filled with ghosts:

How silent is now Versailles!—The solitary foot that mounts the sumptuous stair-case rests on each landing-place, whilst the eye traverses the void, almost expecting to see the strong images of fancy burst into life.—The train of the Louises, like the posterity of the Banquoes, pass in solemn sadness, pointing at the nothingness of grandeur, fading away on the cold canvass, which covers the nakedness of the spacious walls—whilst the gloominess of the atmosphere gives a deeper shade to the gigantic figures, that seem to be sinking into the embraces of death.

That autumn, she returned to live with Imlay in Paris in the St-Germain area (probably the rue Jacob). Shortly thereafter she became pregnant. To protect her, Imlay registered her as his wife, which gave her the status of an American citizen. (The United States supported the French Revolution, so she was no longer an enemy alien.) When all English residents were rounded up and imprisoned, she remained free, able to visit them and keep them in touch with the outside world.

The Revolution was good business for men like Imlay. He saw opportunities in rising prices and trade embargoes. When he moved his base of operations to Le Havre, Mary went with him. She finished her book there, and gave birth to a girl―officially named Françoise, but generally known as Fanny―in May 1794. The three lived together as a family for a few months before Imlay went to London on business and Mary returned to Paris.

Mary’s return journey to Paris was difficult (the coach overturned four times) and her future was uncertain. Although the Terror had ended in July 1794, most of her English friends had left the city after being released from prison. Mary had little money and single motherhood left her no time for work. That winter was also one of the coldest Paris had ever experienced―the Seine froze, food was scarce, and some Parisians starved to death.

Mary’s relationship with Imlay had become strained, and she suspected there was another woman in his life. Nevertheless, Imlay asked her to return to London.

Once again, why did she stay? Mary wanted to bring up her daughter in France. Although the radical feminism of the early Revolution had been crushed during the Terror, women in France were still better off than women in England. The tide of English public opinion had swung against equal rights, as part of a strong reaction to the Revolution. On balance, Mary felt that republican Paris offered greater freedom than repressive London.

But she had no money and no resources, so she gave in and reluctantly went back to England in April 1795. She must have regretted leaving Paris. Imlay had indeed met another woman, and Mary was so unhappy in London she attempted suicide. Twice.

Eventually, she met and married the writer William Godwin, and had a second daughter by him in 1797. But Mary did not live long after the birth of her second child, another daughter, christened Mary Godwin, who much later went on to elope with Percy Bysshe Shelley and write Frankenstein. But that is another story.

Mary Wollstonecraft is buried in London, but I suspect she left her heart in Paris.

Text copyright Philippa Campsie

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Paris, City of Reflections

Posted on November 19, 2010 by Parisian Fields

The words Paris, reflections, and mirrors conjure up images of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. But Paris holds many more mirrors and reflections. The streets and shops of Paris are a City of Reflections best revealed to the unhurried flâneur who is willing to experience small pieces of Paris slowly.

Bare tree limbs and spidery branches against a bright blue sky. Is this late fall or early winter in the country? Or a setting for an Edgar Allen Poe story? What is the faintly visible extension near the bottom left of the image? What are the nearly invisible initials in the bottom right? This is no ordinary photo. It is scene changer. Something I saw when I brought a slow walk to a halt, then looked.

It started out with a small street scene. I moved closer and peered into a rearview mirror. I stood still, moved my head and upper body side-to-side, then up-and-down. Every movement rewarded me with small, reflected scenes of Paris. It was my little game, and in the snippets of the Paris of Reflections I was seeing what was not visible to those who looked directly. And the initials KYMCO? Kwang Yang Motor Company, founded 1963 in Taiwan.

My Paris is a city of shops. My dominant mental maps of Paris are about where I find certain types of shops. I love the wonderful collection of camera shops on Rue Beaumarchais. I look at shop fronts and, oh yes, I often go inside, too. In the 4th arrondissement, my wandering often brings me to Miroir Brot, 15, boulevard Henri IV, a venerable French institution.

Miroir Brot (depuis 1826) on boulevard Henri IV has the quintessentially elegant Parisian shopfront one expects from a purveyor of fine goods. Pause to take it in. The blue is rich, deep, well-maintained. The mirrors on display—each an object of beauty—are so elegantly grouped they look as if there is no other way for them to be and yet each is an individual, giving its own reflected image of the street and its environs.

The plate glass windows also attract my attention. After all, I am a historian of technology with an interest in the 19th-century improvements in glass-making technology that led to bigger and bigger pieces of glass. These in turn helped to create the kinds of shops that made Paris a global shopping destination. But my window-shopping at Miroir Brot takes in more than history and the elegant display of fine products.

The artistic array of mirrors is a show in itself. More than that, the plate glass window temporarily holds a golden semi-transparent reflection of the building on the other side of boulevard Henri IV. This juxtaposition of seemingly disparate elements is one of the most important characteristics of Paris. The reflections make the scene look more expansive. But at the same time, the reflections bring things closer to me and help me see Paris in different perspectives. While the reflections in the mirrors and plate glass are intriguing, the visible part of the interior becomes more mysterious.

But let us look more closely. Look at the mirror and the reflected image in the mirror in the lower left of the photo above. The photo below is of the same mirror, but when I moved to a slightly different position, it changed the world held in that mirror.

The mirror has turned the view upside down and yet I see more. Perhaps it is simply because I have to work more to understand the scene, simple as it is. Reflections allow me, or perhaps force me, to see with different eyes.

With the image below we return to a grouping of mirrors that Miroir Brot has so kindly provided the flâneurs of boulevard Henri IV.

As with so many of the window displays I have admired in Paris, it offers the eye so much, because so little has been arranged so artfully. Each mirror captures and projects ever changing images as one walks by or simply with the passage of time. Let us look more closely at the image in the mirror on the upper right.

The reversed mirrored image seems to have concentrated the richness of the architectural heritage. It is the visual equivalent of what we do in cooking when we concentrate the flavours in, say, a red wine reduction. I pay particular attention to the bus, because it took me a moment to figure out what it was. I am more aware of the trees. Then another mirror and its images distract me.

Here the smaller image of the upsidedown chimney superimposed on the larger view of the right-side-up chimneys forces me to think about chimneys. I pay attention to the details. I have to assure myself that indeed these are the same two chimneys in each part of the mirror. Would I have noticed them were it not for the mirrors? Probably not.

Paris is many cities. One of mine is the City of Reflections.

Text and photographs copyright Norman Ball.

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How to Make a Surprisingly Enduring Film

Posted on November 12, 2010 by Parisian Fields

It’s not the best movie ever made in Paris. Nor is it the best movie made by either of its stars or its director. And yet, with its stylishness and wit, it remains watchable when so many other movies from the 1960s seem hopelessly dated.

I am talking about How to Steal a Million, 1966, directed by William Wyler and starring Audrey Hepburn and Peter O’Toole.

For one thing, of the various movies that Audrey Hepburn made in Paris (such as Funny Face, Love in the Afternoon, Charade, or Paris When it Sizzles), she finally got to act with someone close to her own age. Fred Astaire, Gary Cooper, Cary Grant, and William Holden were all much older than she was; but with Peter O’Toole she had a believable love interest.

For another, the movie doesn’t try to be more than it is – an enjoyable romp. There is no violence (as in Charade) or singing and dancing (as in Funny Face) or hectic fantasy (Paris When it Sizzles) or torrid affair (Love in the Afternoon) to spoil the enjoyment. It’s just an amiable caper – a heist that is not really a crime, with some light-hearted romance woven in.

The plot is quite simple. Audrey plays Nicole Bonnet, the daughter of a gifted art forger, Charles Bonnet. Charles Bonnet makes the mistake of lending a forged sculpture of Venus to a famous museum for a blockbuster exhibit. Meanwhile, a specialized art detective called Simon Dermott (O’Toole) is closing in on Bonnet. Nicole surprises Dermott one night when he sneaks into the Bonnet mansion to take a paint sample from a forged Van Gogh. She assumes him to be a burglar.

When the museum tells the Bonnets that the sculpture must be subject to expert scrutiny before it can be insured, Nicole contacts the man she thinks is a professional thief to help her steal it back. Dermott is falling for her, so he agrees to help her.

The small statue is protected by a sensitive burglar alarm and Dermott conceives a plan to set off the alarm repeatedly, until the guards assume that it is malfunctioning and turn it off. The plan works. Dermott grabs the statue. Dressed as a cleaning lady, Nicole smuggles it out of the museum in a bucket. Dermott sells the statute to an eccentric collector who agrees never to display it in public. Then he and Nicole head off in his pale yellow E-type Jaguar to live happily ever after.

Audrey Hepburn was happy to work again with director William Wyler, who had brought her to fame in 1953 in Roman Holiday (another delight, but with another older man). For his part, Peter O’Toole was hoping for a break from the intensity of his previous films, Lawrence of Arabia and Becket. In preparing for How to Steal a Million, he watched Cary Grant movies to get the hang of the debonair man-about-town character.

Although the movie starts with an auction, followed by the delightful sight of Audrey dressed in head-to-toe white Givenchy, driving a tiny red Italian convertible (Norman tells me it is an Autobianchi Eden Roc) across the Pont de la Tournelle, the first scenes to be filmed were, in fact, those in which Audrey and Peter are scrunched up in a museum broom closet as they carry out the heist.

This part of the film took eleven days to film, and according to one of Audrey’s biographers, the two stars kept getting fits of the giggles and spoiling take after take by laughing.

Fortunately for everyone’s nerves, the film was shot on the “French schedule.” In Los Angeles, filming starts at 9 a.m. or earlier and usually wraps up in the early evening, with a break for lunch, largely so that the technicians involved can keep regular hours. In France at the time, filming never began before noon and continued until 7:30 without a break, to allow for a civilized dinner at 9 p.m. William Wyler found this arrangement congenial and added, “Who can play a love scene at nine o’clock in the morning?” No doubt O’Toole, a notoriously heavy drinker, also appreciated the schedule.

Audrey never drank on the job, but at one point the weather turned chilly during an exterior shoot, and O’Toole offered her some brandy. The next scene called for her to roar off in the Autobianchi, which she did, knocking over several large lamps and sending the lighting crew diving for cover.

This scene took place outside the museum in which much of the action takes place. It is, from the outside, the Musée Jacquemart-André at 158, boulevard Haussmann. In the film it is called the “Musée Kléber-Lafayette.”

The interiors are a different story. They were constructed on the studio lot at Boulogne-Billancourt. The set designer, Alexander Trauner, who lived in Paris, contacted several Paris painters to create the “masterpieces” that line its walls. For $100,000 he amassed a collection of fake Renoirs, El Grecos, Goyas, Rembrandts, Rubenses, Van Goghs, Monets, Cézannes, Tintorettos, and Picassos. For another $50,000, he bought authentic antique frames. The fake artwork was so attractive that real thieves helped themselves to several objects during the filming.

While in Paris, Wyler took a house on the rue Weber, where he and his wife could entertain. Audrey Hepburn stayed at the Hotel Raphael (returning to her family in Switzerland on weekends), and O’Toole bunked at the Hotel George V. But the hotel featured in the movie was the Ritz, where Dermott stays while investigating Charles Bonnet. When Nicole finds out he is there, she figures that he must be a very successful burglar indeed.

They begin to plan the heist at the hotel, in a scene in which Audrey wears a black lace Givenchy number with black lace stockings, a black lace eye veil, and glittering silver eye shadow. Peter O’Toole’s character does a double take when he sees her. (That dress later sold at auction for £600,000.) More of the plotting takes place in the gardens beside the Champs-Elysées. Another scene takes place in Maxim’s, where the eccentric millionaire, played by Eli Wallach, tries to woo Nicole Bonnet.

(A sidelight: The part of the millionaire was first offered to Walter Matthau, but he wanted too much money, and then to George C. Scott, who failed to show up on set when he was needed and was fired. William Wyler settled on Eli Wallach, who was both affordable and dependable.)

The other important location is the Bonnet mansion, a three-storey, nineteenth-century pile with a large forecourt, and a double staircase leading up to the front door. Where is it? It took me a while to find out, until I discovered that when Peter O’Toole puts Audrey Hepburn in a taxi and tells the driver to take her home to “38 rue Parmentier,” that is, in fact, the address – in Neuilly. Today the house has disappeared, replaced by an apartment block. The wall and the gate of the forecourt are still visible, however.

The film’s capable supporting cast included the Welshman Hugh Griffith as the Frencher-than-French Charles Bonnet, the notable French actor Charles Boyer as a gallery owner, and a comical character known only as “Moustache,” playing a museum guard. The chirpy soundtrack is credited to Johnny Williams, who turns out to be John Williams, of Star Wars fame.

When it was released, the movie received only lukewarm reviews. It was derivative (the critics sneered). It was not even funny. It was time Audrey Hepburn stopped playing ingénues. Time has been kinder to How to Steal a Million. I must have seen it a dozen times, and it always delights.

Text by Philippa Campsie

Acknowledgements: Thanks to Michael Schurmann, author of Paris Movie Walks, who identified the museum in the movie as the Musée Jacquemart-André. His book is a useful guide to movie locations throughout Paris. For more information, go to: http://parismoviewalks.co.uk/

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A Flâneur’s Advice on Parking in Paris

Posted on November 5, 2010 by Parisian Fields

Baudelaire’s nineteenth-century flâneur explored the city by strolling. A flâneur walked, observed, listened, and had no destinations, appointments or deadlines. With due respect to Monsieur Charles Baudelaire, I have proclaimed myself un flâneur de la circulation et du parking when I am in Paris. What have I seen?

Paris, like nature, abhors an unoccupied small space. The smallest spaces seem to have the most in them. And the flâneur finds the treats in these spaces by walking the centuries-old narrow streets and alleys that wiggle through Paris. I will leave the driving to others.

If you must drive and park in the city, I suggest you follow this link. The authors “strongly advise most people not to drive in Paris,” but for those who must it provides advice on parking.

Paris is no place for drivers who are used to parking only in the wide-open prairie-like vastness of North American shopping malls. The scarce, almost impossibly small, on-street parking spots have elevated the art of parallel parking to an urban survival skill in which a small car is essential survival gear. Although I know a bit about where cars come from, the two Parisian Smart cars shown above seem like a breeding pair.

You might have a small nimble car. What about the other drivers? They might not be as careful or skilful as you. Safe parking requires protection from drivers of the crunch-and-grind school of parking. I was struck (so to speak) by the colour-coordinated foam and duct tape on this Citroën 2CV, an eloquent reminder that ingenuity and individuality are alive and well in Paris.

And thinking of Citroëns, a chosen few get parking spaces that are both well-protected and elevated above the common mass of cars. The luckiest ones are at C42 (C for Citroën, 42 for the street address) on the Champs-Elysées. Since 1927, when it acquired the property, the Citroën showrooms have added to the Champ Elysées’ reputation for elegance.

On 27 September 2007, a new building emerged on the site as the Citroën Flagship Showroom. This astounding showplace, the first new building on the Champs Elysées in 30 years, is the work of French architect Manuelle Gautrand, who won this honour through an international competition. “The central focus to the building’s interior are eight rotating turntables each topped by mirrors, each featuring a different Citroën model, that rise up vertically through the building to create a spectacular column of cars.”

But don’t take my word for it. You have to visit it.

Before we leave the Citroën Flagship Showroom, look closely at the rear bumper of the impeccable Citroën 2CV in its amazing parking spot in C42’s column of cars. Note the stylish curving upright element near the end that emphasizes and protects the tail light. Such an elegant touch might be fine for a protected—or even polite—parking world. But what of the street level world of bump-and-grind parking?

Remember the foam protectors on the front bumpers of the blue Citroën with red and blue duct tape. Now we see the other end of the story. And once again, my compliments to practical ingenuity.

While we’re on the Champs Elysées, let’s take a short walk to L’Atelier Renault. This is a place to linger. Aside from the boutique and exhibit space for both cars and art, the main attraction is the restaurant bar above the showroom. We have sipped, eaten, talked, rested, and even written there many times.

The memory of our first visit to L’Atelier Renault is the most intoxicating. From our table overlooking the Champs Elysées, we could see the banner for the 2006 Paris Auto Show (Mondial de l’Automobile) that we had visited a few days before. Dating back to 1898, the formerly annual show, now held only every two years, is the oldest and (for us) the best automobile show in the world. In addition to displays of the newest, latest, fastest, most famous, most futuristic, most exotic and perhaps dreamiest cars, it was also the site of a large well-presented collection of historic French vehicles.

Try to imagine our excitement a few days after the Motor Show when we visited L’Atelier Renault to find an exhibit about the Renault plant and its workers at Boulogne-Billiancourt. The photographer? Robert Doisneau. Long before his photographs of lovers at the Hotel de Ville, he was photographing workers at their stations in the assembly plant, as well as at the company’s cafeteria tables, where a bottle of wine awaited each worker.

The Champs Elysées is not the only place with one-of-a-kind parking places. One day as I walked along the Seine, I took the image below. I call it the “bring-your-own” parking spot.

It was no ordinary parking spot and no ordinary car. Having once been a car-crazed teenager, I recognized it instantly as an Amphicar.

I like cars and I like driving. One of my summer jobs as a university student was loading trucks on the night shift. When the trucks were loaded, I made obstacle courses out of oil and gasoline barrels and practised backing up and parking in tight spots, a skill that has served me well. If I ever find myself with a car in Paris, I’m ready.

Text and photographs copyright Norman R. Ball.

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“A vile business clumsily done”

Posted on October 29, 2010 by Parisian Fields

In 1847, the year that Charlotte Brontë published Jane Eyre, Paris society was riveted by a similar triangle –a wealthy and prominent man, his unbalanced wife, and a young governess. Their story, however, had a very different ending.

In August of that year, the Duc de Praslin murdered his wife and shortly thereafter committed suicide. The governess (that’s her in the photograph), who like Jane Eyre was a nearly friendless orphan, was imprisoned and questioned about her role in the murder and her relationship with the Duc. Were they lovers? Had she pushed him to kill his wife? Just what was her position in this strange household?

But I am getting ahead of my story. Let’s start at the beginning.

In 1824, Théobald de Praslin, aged 19, married Fanny Sébastiani, aged 17. The wedding caused something of a sensation because these two young people, both descended from aristocratic and wealthy families, actually appeared to be in love.

They started a family immediately. In retrospect, perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. Over the next fifteen years, Fanny gave birth to nine surviving children, and suffered a few miscarriages as well. By the time she was 32, the willowy girl had become an obese and unhealthy matron whose husband had lost interest in her. Yet she still loved him passionately, and the more she tried to cling to him, the more he distanced himself.

She poured out her heart in letters and diaries, sometimes writing to her husband several times a day with entreaties, recriminations, apologies, demands, and expressions of longing for him. As the rest of the household slept, she sat at her desk, scribbling these cris de coeur. Even though they lived under the same roof, she had a footman deliver notes to her husband, sometimes several a day. One can only imagine what she would have done if she’d had access to e-mail.

Her frequent emotional outbursts unnerved Théobald and the children, yet much of the household staff was devoted to her, and she still moved in society. The aristocratic show must go on – there may be screams and scenes behind closed doors, but appearances are to be kept up. She was no Mrs. Rochester in the attic; she was a public figure.

Théobald also had little in common with Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester. He was a quiet man, cold and somewhat inert, and his usual reactions to his wife’s outbursts were silence and withdrawal, with occasional bursts of icy rage. He was wealthy and idle and had little to occupy him until the death of his father in 1841 made him the duke. He immediately set about restoring the family seat, today known as Vaux-le-Vicomte – the huge chateau that had once made Louis XIV so jealous that he created Versailles to rival it.

In that same year, the family hired Henriette Deluzy, the latest in a series of governesses. Did she know what she was getting into? Before she arrived, Théobald had insisted that his wife sign a paper stating that she would not see her children unless someone else (such as a governess) were present. It is not clear whether he considered his wife an actual threat to them or simply a bad influence.

And Henriette Deluzy arrived at the family’s house on the rue du Faubourg St-Honoré (the Hôtel Sébastiani, shown in the picture) with her own baggage. She was an orphan – worse still, illegitimate – and dependent on her grandfather, who resented her very existence. She had once studied art seriously in the studio of Pierre Claude François Delorme, a historical painter, but had become a governess when her mother died and she needed to earn a living.

Henriette seems to have impressed many of those who met her with her charm and intelligence, but she was no Jane Eyre – she was more vivacious and outgoing, and at times bossy in her new position (the other servants never warmed to her).

In the six years she was with the family, the growing distance between the husband and wife, and the Duc’s obvious preference for spending time with his children and their governess led to inevitable speculation. The gossip increased when the family (minus the Duchesse) travelled to Italy. Big mistake. By then, all society agreed that the Duke and the governess were lovers.

For the record, it probably wasn’t true. Henriette may have been in love with her employer, but her employer doesn’t seem to have returned the feeling, although he was fond of her in his rather distant way.

Nevertheless, the duchess believed the rumours and started divorce proceedings, planning to take the children from their father. She probably would have succeeded. Although it was common for men to have mistresses, keeping them within the household and giving them charge of one’s children was simply not done.

In June 1847 she dismissed Henriette, who was distraught at being separated from the charges she had grown to love. Henriette found a position in a girls’ school, but wrote some unwise letters to the family she had left, pouring out her misery and loneliness at the separation. Another mistake.

Nobody knows what really happened in those weeks after Henriette left the household, but the Duc seems to have snapped. On an August night when the family was in Paris between returning from Vaux-le-Vicomte and embarking on the family’s annual trip to Dieppe, he tried to cut his wife’s throat while she lay in bed. He didn’t kill her immediately. She woke up and struggled with him. He then tried to bludgeon her, first with the butt of a pistol, then with a candlestick. Her screams awoke the household before she collapsed. Meanwhile, the duke retreated to his rooms and attempted to burn his blood-stained clothing in the fireplace.

It was an inept murder. The police investigator who entered the Duchess’s bedroom and saw the blood and damage said immediately, “This is not the work of a professional thief or murderer. It is a vile business clumsily done. It is the work of a gentleman.”

After her murder, the papers printed details of the condition of the house, including a lurid diagram of the scene of the crime with the location of bloodstains carefully noted. I will spare you that, but show you the floor plan of the vanished Hôtel Sébastiani, published in the Illustrated London News. It’s an odd L-shape, and the Duc and Duchesse occupied rooms on the ground floor (hers was right next to the main salon).

The duke was placed under surveillance. He couldn’t be taken into custody right away because he was a French peer, and his arrest could only be arranged with the agreement of his fellow peers. Despite the close watch, he managed to swallow arsenic. It took him six days to die. He was questioned repeatedly, at home and after being taken to the Luxembourg prison, but he did not confess.

Henriette was also arrested, and kept in solitary confinement, so she would not obtain any outside information about the investigation. She did not learn of the duke’s suicide until three weeks after his death. She was repeatedly questioned, and her thoughtless letters to the family were scrutinized, but she was never charged and was eventually released. She went to the United States and married a clergyman.

The story is interesting in itself, but this was more than just an appalling domestic tragedy. The affair was the last in a string of scandals that undermined public confidence in the court of King Louis-Philippe and it contributed to the revolution of 1848, which brought the Louis-Philippe’s reign to an end.

Today, Vaux-le-Vicomte still stands, lovely as ever, but the site of the murder has been erased completely. In the 1840s, it stood at 55, rue du Faubourg St-Honoré (now the address of the French President). It was demolished in the early 1850s and the rue de l’Elysée (shown in the photo) was cut through its gardens. I wonder – does the ghost of the murdered Duchesse haunt the street by the President’s residence?

Further reading: The best book on the subject is Stanley Loomis’s Crime of Passion (1967). But well before he did his meticulous research in the official records, a popular novelist, Marjorie Bowen, used the same story for a fictional account called Forget-Me-Not (1932). Then Henriette’s great-niece, Rachel Field, wrote a 1938 novel about the murder called All This and Heaven Too, made into a 1940 movie with Bette Davis in the role of the governess. There’s just something about governesses that spells drama and passion.

Text copyright Philippa Campsie

 

Update (2015): The comments have yielded a lively correspondence about what happened to Théobald, who may not have died of poisoning after all, but may have been smuggled out of the country. According to some accounts, he fetched up in Central America. A reader has contributed the following photograph of him in later life. Will we ever know the truth about what happened on that night in August 1847?

Theobald

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Parisian cats

Posted on October 22, 2010 by Parisian Fields

Le Chat Noir is undoubtedly Paris’s most famous cat, or at least its most commercially reproduced cat. But it is only one of many cats who are part of the city’s story.

Countless millions have seen Le Chat Noir on posters, postcards, T-shirts, coffee mugs, coasters, napkins, and umbrella stands. Far fewer have seen the rare 1896 original lithograph by French artist Théophile Steinlen.

Born in Lausanne in 1859, Steinlen arrived in Paris in 1878 to work as a technical draftsman, moved to Montmartre in 1883, and two years later drew the first of several hundred lithographed advertising posters. Théophile loved cats and they became a common motif in his work. However, none are as famous as Le Chat Noir and for the origins of that image, we must turn to Rudolphe Salis—painter, poet, and son of a wealthy brewer.

In the 1880s Montmartre was a poor district more famous for prostitutes and pickpockets than artists. But artists were being priced out of the Left Bank and the Latin Quarter, and more and more came to take up residence on the Montmartre slopes. Rudolphe Salis was one of them.

Artists and writers like to hang out with others like them, to talk, drink, and solve the problems of the world. No one is quite sure how it happened—more chance than planning, it would seem—but by 1881 Rudolphe’s small apartment had become a regular meeting place. He had the family connections to provide a steady stream of drinks; thirsty artists temporarily short of currency gave him their pictures to put on the walls. After a while, he moved to larger quarters next door (84 boulevard Rochechouart, in the 18th arrondissement) and called it the Chat Noir.

What was the Chat Noir? Rudolphe Salis called it a cabaret, an antiquated word for a tavern or wine cellar (only later did cabaret carry the promise of public entertainment). The place attracted leading artists and musicians such as Claude Debussy, Guy de Maupassant, and Henri Rivière, as well as Erik Satie, who worked there for several months as pianist. The bourgeoisie—always on the lookout for new experiences and places—came to see the artists. In 1882, the regulars even started a magazine called Le Chat Noir. But nothing lasts forever, and in 1897 Le Chat Noir closed. (The current bistro of the same name on the Boulevard Clichy is a modern creation.)

Meanwhile, the Steinlen lithograph Le Chat Noir grew even more famous. At one level, it is the image of choice for many tourists. But its real importance is as an example of the how lithography changed printing, advertising, and tourism.

In the 1860s, most commercial posters were black-and-white, but by the 1880s they were colourful and more dynamic, often featuring well-endowed ladies, no matter what the product. The innovation was so popular that as early as 1891, the Parisian art dealer Edmond Sagot issued a 112-page catalogue of colour lithographic prints. He knew that what sells in galleries defines what is art. So he worked with printers to buy the overruns that ordinarily would have been thrown out. Later, posters were made and printed in quality purely for sale to art collectors, and Sagot became an art poster publisher as well as art gallery owner. It was a turning point in art.

Lithographic posters were art for the masses, just as railroad trains offered mass transportation and the international exhibitions (such as the one in 1889 for which the Eiffel Tower was built) spurred mass tourism. And Le Chat Noir? Along with the Eiffel Tower, it became one of the most famous representatives of the city.

Le Chat Noir is a much-beloved cat, but love and affection for cats can sometimes lead to jealousy and misadventures. Historian Robert Darnton, a Chevalier of the Legion d’Honneur (1999) reveals what must be one of the world’s most bizarre worker protests ever. Even the title of his book is unusual: The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History.

Historically, apprentice printers not had a happy life and have often been at the forefront of organized protests. In the 1730s, some apprentice printers on Rue Saint-Severin in Paris felt particularly hard done by. They lived and worked in squalid conditions and were fed mouldy food, while the neighbourhood cats their master’s wife doted on were offered much better fare. The apprentices longed to be treated as well as those cats.

To protest the maltreatment, one apprentice hit on a bizarre and ultimately cruel plan. He spent several nights imitating the howling of a cat. The sleep-deprived master printer and his wife were driven to despair. The printer ordered the apprentices to round up and dispose of the cats. The massacre was carried out. Did it improve the apprentices’ lives? That’s another story.

In today’s Paris, cats seem to have a rather happy lot. And in the opinion of Paris blogger Fred Moussaїan, perhaps none have a better life than those in “Les Villas de la Mouzaїa.”

In our travels in Paris we have seen a number of rather contented cats doing what cats seem to do best.

They sit in sunny spots, watching the world go by. They know there will be food and they will eat it when they feel like it. Sometimes a cat sitting in front of food reminds me of what my mother told me I would do as a little boy. As I sat at the table I would inform parents or visitors: “I wouldn’t be in the least offended if you fed me.”

Cats will let you intrude on their territory if you have some potential amusement value. This black one had been sitting looking into a little playground in a park. It paid attention when two shopping bags arrived along with their owner. Perhaps the latter would be kind and the bags be interesting.

There are also plenty of out-of-the-way spots where a cat can enjoy some peace and quiet. This one was enjoying the sunshine on the tracks of the old Petite Ceinture, sheltered from the hustle and bustle, with no fear of traffic or tiresome humans.

One of our favourite bookshops, Le Dilettante, uses an image of a cat snoozing peacefully on an open book as its logo. We’re not sure that it is the most commercial of images (it suggests that the books are not all that stimulating, and might be better used as cat beds), but the drawing is certainly endearing.

In our walks, we have also found evidence of cats needing special care or owners who are particularly tolerant of feline idiosyncrasies. As I wandered down a narrow street in the 14th, this door sign caught my attention.

Too many late nights, carousing with the artists, perhaps.

Text copyright Norman Ball; original photographs by Norman Ball & Philippa Campsie.

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Paris piquant

Posted on October 15, 2010 by Parisian Fields

I’m going to swim against the current here (the Salon du Chocolat is, after all, coming up at the end of October) and state that if you are the sort of person who goes to Paris merely for the boulangeries, patisseries, chocolatiers, and salons de thé, and the vast array of sweet, pretty, pastel-coloured edibles so enticingly displayed in their windows, then you are missing most of the fun. (If that describes you, you can stop reading now.)

Paris is piquant. It is sharp, sour, spicy, savoury, not just blandly sweet. Its young chefs combine a range of flavours in delightfully unexpected ways. I remember a lentil salad with a sharp vinaigrette that included tiny crumbs of gingerbread for contrast, and a another salad made entirely of nearly black foods – dark red lettuce leaves, black radishes, purple carrots, and black beans, in a deep chestnut-coloured vinaigrette that looked and tasted amazing.

So when we go to the food-emporium-to-end-all-food-emporia, the Grande Epicerie at the Bon Marché, you’ll find us in the aisles devoted to the products of Delouis, Pommery, Amora/Maille, and Edmond Fallot, looking for the ingredients for vinaigrette and pork chops piquant (recipe below).

And we well remember the day we had the good fortune to stumble across Goumanyat/Thiercelin in the 3rd arrondissement and its amazing collection of spices, saffron, and fleur de sel. Izraël in the Marais is like Aladdin’s Cave, filled with delights never seen before, or elsewhere.

We discovered Banyuls vinegar in a wine shop when we were looking for something else entirely. And we’ve spent hours at street markets, investigating unfamiliar-looking mushrooms, cheeses, cuts of meat, and varieties of seafood.

Even the most pedestrian Monoprix store can be a treasure trove of the unexpected. Once when we were looking for plain black pepper, we found a heady mixture of pepper, coriander, and cardamom (“Poivre Saveur” by Ducros), that is now a staple in our kitchen.

So many tastes to try, so few meals a day. But here are a few of our favourites.

Ready-made entrées are so ubiquitous the French take them for granted, but we can’t get enough. (Note that when the French use the word “entrée,” they mean the first course or appetizer, not the main dish.) Even a run-of-the-mill of French supermarket provides a range of ready-to-eat options that would be considered sophisticated in North America, including our all-time favourite, céleri rémoulade. This consists of julienned celery root (celeriac) in a mustardy mayonnaise that we find irresistible. (Norman has been known to eat it for breakfast.)

Many butchers sell choucroute, the French version of sauerkraut, brought to Paris via Alsace (the part of France on the border with Germany). Purists insist that the native white Alsatian cabbage known as quintal is the only proper basis for this dish, which is delicious hot or cold, or with chopped-up Alsatian sausages, when it is known as choucroute garnie, a common offering in traditional brasseries. And if you see “à l’alsacienne” on a menu of main dishes, chances are choucroute is involved somewhere. The secret ingredient? Juniper berries (genièvre).

Every market abounds in shallots (échalotes). These smaller, richer and more flavourful offshoots of the onion family are essential components of traditional sauces such as béarnaise (white wine, vinegar, shallots, chervil, tarragon, thyme and bay leaf, to which are added eggs yolks and butter; this is often served with steak). The Romans apparently considered shallots an aphrodisiac; maybe this contributes to the French libido.

Most people have heard of Dijon mustard, which is smooth and pungent, but France has many other mustards. Meaux, once made by monks, is grainier and a bit milder and was Brillat-Savarin’s favourite (look for the Pommery earthenware containers with the red wax-sealed tops). One exception: The version called “Pompiers/Firefighters,” which is hot enough to cause damage to the unsuspecting.

Mustards use grape juice or must from the wine-making process, so you will find variations from the wine regions of Bordeaux, Beaujolais, and Champagne (the latter is sometimes called Florida mustard). “Moutarde à l’ancienne” is mild and grainy. Traditional flavourings include tarragon, fennel and (curiously) violet, but these days, you can find mustards flavoured with everything from lemon to lavender. One day I shall write an entire blog about mustard.

Wine and herb vinegars (such as tarragon vinegar) are everywhere, but more distinctive versions, such as Banyuls, are gaining popularity. This dark concoction is the French answer to Italy’s balsamic vinegar. It comes from Banyuls-sur-Mer (on the Mediterranean coast, close to the Spanish border), and is less sweet than balsamic, but with a slightly nutty flavour. It is made with a sweet wine from that region.

Cornichons are little pickles, often bottled with a few pickled onions. They are sharper, crunchier, and more flavourful than the large, flabby pickles generally sold in North America (Maille cornichons are available in some specialty stores in Canada and the U.S.). In England, cornichons are known as gherkins. French restaurants often serve these with charcuterie. Norman, as you can see, eats them simply, with bread.

The following recipe, one of our favourites, brings together the flavours of shallots, mustard, vinegar, and cornichons with pork. We make it whenever we are in France, and frequently when we are at home. It calls for a simplified version of the traditional “Sauce Piquante,” found in most standard French recipe books.

We ran across the recipe in Saveur magazine c. 2002, described by a fellow who had learned to cook when he was living on a houseboat in Manhattan. He had mislaid the original version, which he had discovered in a 1970s paperback French cookbook, but had recreated a version of the original that uses some of our favourite flavours. We have tweaked it a bit. This was what we made for Canadian Thanksgiving last weekend, as an alternative to the blander turkey. Here’s to Paris piquant and flavours that make our mouths pucker.

Pork Chops Piquant

Ingredients:
5 tbsp. olive oil
2 lbs. thin-cut pork chops
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 shallots, peeled & diced
6 tbsp. red wine vinegar
1 cup white wine
8 cornichons, chopped into small pieces
2 tbsp. Dijon mustard

Method:
Heat half the olive oil in a heavy skillet over medium-high heat. Season chops with salt and pepper. Brown chops on each side, about 1-2 minutes per side. Transfer the chops to a plate, and cover to keep warm.

Add the rest of the oil, over medium-high heat. Sauté the chopped shallots, until they begin to brown. Add vinegar and stir for a minute or so. Add wine and cook for a few minutes, until it thickens. Stir in cornichons, mustard, and any juices from the chops. Lower the heat and stir until the mixture makes a thick sauce. Put the chops back in, warm them through, and serve.

This recipe serves 4 people. For 2 people, use less pork, but about the same quantities of the other ingredients, because the sauce is what it’s all about.

Me, shopping at the Marché des Enfants Rouges, in the Third Arrondissement.

Text copyright Philippa Campsie; photographs copyright Norman Ball

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