Blog Shout Out: Et si on se promenait...à Paris!

This is my first time doing this.
People who know me will tell you that when I love, I love. For real. A lot. I came across this little gem of a blog on Twitter and fell head over heels for it.

This is amazing.

"What about taking a stroll in Paris?" (rough translation of the title) is not really about the text content, rather minimalist (even though you can still find some very useful information in some entries). What makes it all are the PICTURES.

They are fabulous. Gorgeous. Fantastic.
And make you discover a secret, out of the beaten path Paris. Little alleys, small squares, hidden gardens and cours intérieures, shop windows, restaurants - this is all worth it, and breathtakingly beautiful.

Since all the pictures are copyright material, I cannot share any here with you but GO AND SEE THEM.
http://beegirl.squarespace.com/

Enjoy!

Restaurant Review: Brixie's, Brookfield, IL

OK. To qualify Brixie's of 'restaurant' is totally overkill. And people who know the place have probably chuckled.
It is not a restaurant.
Brixie's is a bar, pretty divey at that, that serves food. Bar food. Not gastro-pub fare, nothing elevated, elegant and refined. No. Bar Food. Fat, greasy, artery-clogging, heart-stopping, hip-fattening and fingers-dirtying.
YUM.
(At least they haven't put 'deep fried butter' on their menu yet; only in Texas. I really need to go and figure out for myself what's going on over there....there must be something in the water...)

From the outside, Brixie's look like a warehouse or a garage. Not very inviting. But don't be fooled and push the door: you'll be rewarded by the best beer selection around, nice and welcoming people, darts, pool and "The Hotter than Hell" burger that deserves by itself the trip to the 'burbs. And with them being open until 4am, there is really no reason for you not to go.

Review written on Yelp 8/25/2010:
"History of Brixie's, fine drinking establishment in the lovely town of Brookfield, IL - according to Mister Aurore L, former resident who used to haunt the locale on a regular basis between 1987 and 2005:

1 - in the beginning, the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
2 - the plot of land used to be a watering hole where bison came to quench their thirst by the thousands, even breaking the ice in the winter to achieve that purpose. 'Break ice' is actually the etymology of the name Brixie's (deformed and transformed over time. See rules of historic phonetics for more details)
3 - in 1934 a family of immigrants lost their construction business because of the economic crisis and decided to open a bar. They decided to call it Brixies to honor their past (brixies = brick + ksi - ksi being a pressure unit: kilo per square inch).
They heard later the rumors about the watering hole, and thought it was a very happy coincidence.
4 - in 1987, Mister Aurore L discovered the place. At the time it was licensed as a package goods store and had shelves and shelves of liquors and a tiny bar.
5 - M. A. L. became a regular, got drunk and sick for the first time within its walls and learned how to become a pool shark feared by the most ferocious players.
He will tell you of his exploits on occasions, when he's in the mood and doesn't feel too hungry.
(Tip: you can buy him off with fried chicken)
6 - M. A. L. took A. L. one night to meet his friends and when she wasn't impressed with it (she had some perception issues at the time), decided to cut all ties and vowed to never come back. He cried for days. Brixie's would have too - if it could have.
7 - A. L. made her debuts at the pool - under the patronage of the former hero of the place.
She totally flipped. That was a flop.

8 - M. A. L and A. L. went to Brixie's one night after hearing marvels about their burgers. They discovered much to their surprise that the place had had a face lift, and lost a couple of pool tables but had definitely gained a lot in the 'appeal' department.
Among its charms:
- a juke box
- two dartboards
- a super cool retro looking little booth in a corner
- 32 beers on tap
- more than 100 beer by the bottle!!!!!!
- late opening hours, we are talking about 4am during the weekend, 3am otherwise (kitchen hours differ)
- $8.50 for the Hotter Than Hell burger served on a pretzel bun with jalapeno slices (13 of them on mine), smoked gouda, chipotle aioli and a big, thick, juicy patty of meat. KRAZY DELISH. Perfectly cooked meat, pretzel bun - I am in paradise.
- $5.50 for make you own mac'n'cheese
- pretty dilapidated bathroom stalls - it's a must.Totally worth the trip kids.
Be a part of history, go to Brixie's!"

In Need of Daily Bread

You know these questions that people inevitably ask you?!?
"When are you getting married?"
"Are you planning on getting a kid anytime soon?"
"How long before you decide to move on?"
blah-blah-blah..........I have a few of my own to deal with. Sweet, huh? And here they mainly have to do with my being French. Ohhhh....this accent. I can't quite pin it down....
Yeah. I am learning to be ok with it and accept it as a 'charming asset' of mine. After all it is So cuuuuuuuuuuuuuute. But then - once my country of origin is figured out - come the following duet, as exasperating as a solitary mosquito trapped in your bedroom on a hot summer night:
- what are the differences between France and the US?
- what do you miss from France?

Zen.
It's not a coincidence if I started yoga recently.
I have a lot to learn.

I am usually so annoyed by the first question that I want to scream. There is a silent nuclear explosion going on in my head every time I hear the words. You want to know? Jump on a transatlantic flight and see for yourself.
Just. Leave. Me. Alone.

As for the second one - that's easy. And I have to say that I were just a tad religious I would be pretty upset with you, peeps - because you are failing me as a Christian.

You - are not giving me my daily bread.
Therefore I am a lost soul.
Shame on you.

I miss BREAD. Good bread.
I used to live above a boulangerie.
A very nice one. A few steps above the ground, two nice windows filled with cake displays and other goodies, a wonderful aroma escaping from the wood-burning ovens in the basement. People were coming from all around the neighborhood to buy their award-winning bread.
They were closed on Sunday afternoons and Mondays.
I was inside every single other day of the week.

Because it's just what we do in France. We buy our baguette, pain de campagne or pain aux céréales daily. EVERY DAY. Rain or shine. Snow or hurricane.
Fresh. Crunchy. Moist. Odorous. Magic.
It is a ritual, a delightful one, a happy pause that doesn't belong to the long list of chores one has to accomplish during one's day. To me walking in and asking in a cheery voice: "Une baguette pas trop cuite, s'il vous plaît" was a definite highlight of my routine. I liked my baguette not over-cooked: the outside crust still has a very blond, soft yellow color, reminiscent of the wheat it is made of; the crunch is soft and delicate, and the crust slightly gives in without breaking.
Perfection to me.

So yes, the joy of using a serrated knife in the morning to cut and open your tartine, and then spreading a nice sweet butter from Normandy on its still slightly warm mie is unparalleled in my world.
But I haven't known such a feast in a very long time.
And you wonder why I am always in such a bad mood.

As heartbreaking as it is to admit - most French people buy nowadays their bread in supermarkets and desert their beloved bakeries. Cheaper, more convenient and sometimes even better quality. Shocking?!?!? Good bakers are like good husbands - hard to come by, and they would be a hot commodity on the market of 'wanted goods'. I was lucky but that type of love is not equally distributed among the population.

So massive production it is. If you cannot get quality, shoot for quantity.

But even in the most intimidating, 30,000 sq. ft. store where everything looks robotic, soulless and sterile - you will never, EVER find bread that can stays in the back of your dark cupboards for weeks on hand and still be 'good'. Let's say - consumable. Without one single speck of mold. No green to be seen on the horizon. Just.....slices of carbs.
Because this cannot be bread.



Yucky?!? Hell yeah.
But NA-TU-RAL. Just the way things should be.



Have you ever wondered how such a culinary prowess is possible?!? Seriously - this requires some sort of genius. A very twisted, devious, oblique type of genius sure, but genius all the same. I wouldn't know how to achieve such a result.

My guess? They - the wicked - load their loaves with sugar. How do you think diners can keep their ketchup bottles on tables for weeks?!?
Saccharin, fructose, corn syrup and sucrose are the A-Team of the American food industry.
Hallelujah.

Good bread around the 87th meridian (that would be Chicago) does exist. I saw it. And tasted it. But mainly in restaurants. When I come across such a miracle the following usually happens:
- I pinch myself really hard to check that I am not dreaming - you never know.
- you can then see frozen on my face the most stupid, idiotic smile you'll ever seen. Just enjoy live but no picture please. I do have some pride left in there.
- I empty the basket, ask a refill and butcher whatever spread comes with it.
- I sing the praise of the baker to the waiter/waitress and usually don't find anything more about him/her.
- I keep thinking about this moment of pure ecstasy for weeks.

Yup....not easy to be me.

All hope is not lost though. Since I am not planning on going back to France and since I need good bread in my life to be consistently happy I decided to track my carbs bliss high and low and relentlessly. Lucky for me someone decided to make my life easy; Vincent Colombet French (ha! who would have thought?!?!), already owns a whimsically-named catering business (Cook au Vin) and is all set to open - ready?!?!?! - a bakery in Logan Square at the end of the summer.
Its name?!?
La Boulangerie.
He is even going to set up a Bread Delivery system on his bike. You can get fresh bread to your door twice a week.
And no, this is not a dream.La dolce vita.
Pane, amore e fantasia (Bread, love and dreams. A Italian romantic comedy from the 1950s with Gina. And next on your Netflix list).
I wouldn't be married already I would totally ask his hand.

We have come to full circle.
Stay tuned, and don't forget - always stay gourmands!

You Don't Choose Your Family....But You Love It Anyway

I am not gonna lie: every time I am being asked if I miss my family back home, I have the immediate tendency to say: NO.
A big, fat, emphatic no.
Probably shocking to a lot of my interlocutors.

The run down?
My parents are divorced since I am 6, I haven't talked to my father since December 1999 (that was still last millenium!) and my relationship with my mom has always been....stormy. My younger brother grew up without me. My grandparents are all deceased and uncles, aunts, cousins and company have never fully been in the picture.
Not really Seven Heaven, Full House or Cosby Show material.
Our family is definitely not modeled on the Ingalls whom I wanted to adopt as a little girl. Who cared if they were semi-fictional, American and long-time dead.

I am fine with it. No need to be sorry, hand me a handkerchief, or revise your will. I am 34, had plenty of time to get over it and decided a long time ago that family is really an open concept anyway.

Then I met my husband. And discovered that the whole family idea was damn itching all of a sudden. I was given, right there and then, a second chance. A possibility to forge ties and create bonds that would possibly last a lifetime. Something almost as strong as blood.
For better or for worse, as the line goes.
(How can anyone in their right mind agree to swear by it?!? The worse you imagine at the time, standing in the transept in your beautiful white dress, holding hands and ready to party cannot be that bad....)

I quickly realized though - as I had during my previous romantic relationships - that you might choose the one, and feel sure about it, happy, fulfilled and all - you still don't choose the family he comes with.
Or his past.
Even though I was elated to discover my beloved had two sisters and still married parents, I still had to pass the test. Always dreadful, right, but made even worse by the existence of a previous wife that didn't score very high on anyone's tablets. I was petrified on my way to the Thanksgiving dinner where I was supposed to meet them all while gracefully wolfing down turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and apple pie.
Talk about an impossible mission.
I quickly conquered the parents - who apparently whispered to him in the semi-secret of the kitchen "She is a winner!!" - but never really managed to break through the thick (protective?) shell of the sisters. Too old, too foreign, not cool enough, not good enough - I never really understood what was lacking.
It just didn't happen.
And despite me trying, there was nothing I could do to change things.
This time I was not that fine with it.
But still had to make do.

In-laws probably shouldn't function as a 'family substitute' but in a case like mine, with a biological family far and estranged, I had hoped it would.
And it does.
Just not in the ideal, rainbow, flower and TV-show way I had dreamed about. Which is just as good because in the end, it's real and that what matters.

Sunday night.
As I am typing this, R. is at his parents' house in the suburbs. He won't come back tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. His family - our family - is on crisis. Sickness gave us a nasty blow.
It hurts.
More than I would ever thought.
It hurts to see them suffer and be powerless. It hurts to think of what is going to inevitably happen. It hurts to see my love struggle with his emotions and try to keep strong because everyone else is falling apart. It hurts to not be able to help.
And ultimately it hurts to know that soon enough my new found family - imperfect, dysfunctional, flawed and fragile but MY family - will not be the same ever again. It is a dull, haunting, almost surreal feeling that lingers in the living room where the dog sleeps on the red pillow of the sofa, softly snoring and oblivious to the world.

This moment, this very minute - is bittersweet.

In the vast solitude of the apartment I am realizing that, for better or for worse, I love my - unique, irreplaceable - family.

Goofy picture of us - photoshopped by Bill(?) and taken

the day of Matt and Morgan's wedding almost four years ago

The Dinner Game

"Dinner for Schmucks" is apparently the hit comedy this summer.

Surprised?!?
I am.
And a little bit angry as well.

I just don't like remakes.
Especially when the original version is just fine, thankyouverymuch, I mean, merci beaucoup.I didn’t think that Le diner de cons could have made it onto the American big screen. It is an essential French comedy, heavily based on dialogue and play on words, defined by a confined, huis clos like atmosphere much closer to filmed theater than real cinema. Très français.

Apparently Steve Carell, jack of all comical trades, was fit for the role, and more French than I would have ever imagined.

In Le diner de cons the main event actually never happens. Watch the movie if you want to know why. I promise it is worth it, and yes, you can handle the subtitles. But still – dinner is at the center of things.

And this is what is interesting to moi, Amélie, "Pause gourmande" writer extraordinaire.

Dinner.

More specifically - dinner parties.

They are an endangered species. Dinner as a social activity is almost exclusively taken out, involves restaurant reservations, expensive drinks beforehand, the very limited intimacy of a public dining room, tax, tips and taxi fare.

Why?!?!?

I hosted my last real dinner, gourmet-style – the one that involves hours of thinking, browsing, prepping, cooking and a serious dosage of stressing out, cuts and minor burns – last April for a few friends. Cheese soufflé, canard à l’orange with a twist and a velvety red wine sauce, gratin dauphinois, bundles of haricots verts and an Apple tarte tatin. French and elegant. Add fresh bread, good wine and a couple of other sweet treats for coffee, and there you have it. Home entertaining at its best.

I had a blast, and everybody chimed in to say that we should definitely do this more often.

Meaning it, I believe.

I don’t know if the general disaffection for hosting dinner parties is an American phenomenon, or if it is a sign of our modern society obsessed with efficiency, time management and immediate satisfaction. In my early twenties, while I was still living in France I would go to friends’ houses on a regular basis for long nights of food, drinks, laughter, games and endless conversations. We were all broke, so we were not going out; restaurants were reserved for special occasions and were usually family affairs. Anyway - the world was ours. We would leave, exhausted and slightly inebriated in the wee morning hours. Sometimes even had breakfast together. I cherish these long-gone moments and fondly remember them as the best times of my life.

So allow me to be a little old-fashioned here. I truly think that we, as a society, could really do with a little more warmth, conviviality and generosity in our lives.

Let’s face it: we all need it.

These last ten years were filled with dinners as well, but of a total different kind. Potlucks and barbeques replaced the elaborate home-cooked meals I was previously used to. You still get together, have fun and a good time but in that new scenario, every single guest get involved in the process. The host is – literally – just hosting and therefore not slaving in the kitchen for hours. Nothing wrong with that. It's quick, cheap, simple and efficient.

In a word – modern.

This is all good and well. However there are few things I love more in life than getting everything ready for my guests. I get up early in the morning, make a mental list of the things that need to be done, drink coffee, smile, and get busy. Chopping vegetables, rolling pastry dough, searing meat, reducing sauces and whisking vinaigrettes, marinating, whipping, baking, sautéing, peeling, tasting. Such a feast for the senses.

The house comes alive. Your pets are begging for scraps and your partner digs his finger in the chocolate coulis, just to make sure. The music is on, you are singing along while checking the clock. The countertop is a mess, just like your face smudged with flour, fruit juice and pearls of sweat. You don’t even have to put on your best Julia Child’s apron and shoot for something incredibly fancy. Just make something yourself with your own hands. A lasagna. Your family ragout. Get involved. Be creative. Have fun. Forget just for once to ask your friends to bring an appetizer or a dessert. Buy your wine. Leave the barbeque for next week and get behind the stove. Set up a nice table with napkins, a table centerpiece and a bouquet of fresh flowers.

Spend time, just a bit of money and give love.

It is so incredibly rewarding.

What the heck is 'dating' anyway?!?

You are a foreigner.
You come to the US for the first time.
You are single.

So far, so good.

You are excited to land on the Promise Land because frankly who doesn't want to add a nice Yankee - tall, tanned, lean, muscular, baseball-obsessed and hormone-fed - to its list of conquests?!?

Note 1: the list of adjectives works for both sexes. This posting is very theoretical and therefore has to stay as general as possible for scientific purposes.
Note 2: 'list of conquests' would totally work in French as well but I would have used more likely the formidable tableau de chasse, hunting board - as if you were collecting your lovers heads as trophy. Like a Black Widow, if you will. Kinda scary when you think about it, right?
Note 3: please don't be offended by the use of 'Yankee' - it's meant in a endearing way.

So once you have recovered from jet-lag, refreshed your pick up skills (and vocab), flossed (a MUST in the US but not really everywhere else, please don't be grossed out) and sharpened your best weapon (see the soundness of the 'hunting board' idea?!?) aka your accent, you go out.
If you are lucky it doesn't take you toooooooooooooooooo long to meet someone nice, talk, maybe kiss at the end of the night and BAM!!!!!!!

You just entered the dating game.

But you have no clue about it.
Because 'dating' as a concept doesn't exist in your country. It sure doesn't exist in France. We don't even have a word for it, much less rules. Dammit.

What are you supposed to do?

Well - if you watched enough movies and/or sitcoms all is not lost to you. You can rack your memory and think about what your favorite character did in the said situation. Or ask around. But don't expect to be pleased by the responses you'll get.

As far as I know things in French work in two different ways:
- you just want to get laid, go to a bar/club/_______ and are pretty blatant about it.
- you are looking for love, romance, sparkles, butterflies and all that and it might be a little more difficult to get the message across but - still - not impossible.
Of course since you have to start somewhere, you usually go on a first date. A rendez-vous. And of course things are not that different from what a first date in Chicago would be. You laugh, you talk, you try to seduce, you flutter your eyes and touch your hair, maybe brush a foot against a leg.

But usually - and again things might have changed since my old days - you don't have to worry about the "Are we exclusive?" bit.

I mean - what the heck is that?!?!?
Isn't it difficult enough already? finding someone interested in you, willing to take you out more than a couple times without getting upset if the big ta-da issn't happening right away - now you have to wonder if you are the only one in the game?!?!?
Is it some sort of fool-proof warranty?
Do you need to go on a test drive before choosing which car you want to ride?
Flash news: it's ok to dump someone after a couple of days, weeks or months if you don't like it. Really, it is. You don't have to keep 'one' handy, just in case. It's just..........wrong.
On so many levels.

But I guess I am either too foreign or too stooooopid (and too married) to play the game anyway. Good luck to all the others and let me know if you figure things out.

Heart out

This entry is not a recreation.
It is not really a Crosswor(l)ds entry either. There is nothing even remotely 'crossed' in what I am going to say. It is coming straight from the heart, just because sometimes - it is what you have to do.

Monday night.
A sleepless night, a long, hazy day of sadness and sorrow behind me. Things are tough right now, have been for a while, and it's just the way things sometimes are. You - I - can cry, yell, scream, wonder, bang your -my - head on the walls all you -I - want but sometimes, yes, sometimes there is nothing you or I can possibly do. You just have to accept the hand you were dealt, and try to play it anyway.

Without throwing all the cards up in the air, calling it quits or trying to be convinced that you have been cheated.
And that's fine.
These are the rules of the game.

But still.
I am tired of these rules. Because I am here to play, and fully ready - and prepared - not to win every single time - but surely, it has to be stated somewhere in the big Book of All Rules that you cannot lose every time either?!?
Right?

I haven't been near a math textbook for years. Last year of high school.
16 years.
Being an economics major I spent a good chunk of my Terminale studying statistics. I hated it, of course. Numbers were never made for me. Too sharp. No flexibility, subtle interpretation, or hidden sensuality. Lines, angles and squares. But as dry and, well, predictable as they are, they are reassuring. And I take solace in knowing that things will eventually turn around - if there is no other reason, at least because mathematically, logically they have to.
That's soothing.

People tell me about how you supposedly make your own chance.
I understand the soundness of the concept. I even agree with it to some extent. But I find it utterly offensive when the only answer one is being given in time of disarray and hardship is to think positive.
'Cause I have news for you: it doesn't cut it.
And if you insist, you are just insensitive and totally out of touch with the world as it goes.

I don't really believe in chance. But I want to believe in karma, or at the least the bastardized, simplified, Westernized version of it.
As a human being I do have my weaknesses and my short-comings. But fundamentally I am a good person. I always try to give out my best, without - precisely - counting. No premeditation, scheming or plotting involved. I am genuine in my likes and dislikes. I aim at pleasing. I have deep morals. Strong work ethics. I do my best to be accepting of the Other in its many appearances and all its embodiments. Race, color, religion, sexual orientations are easy to transcend. But the Other is also so much more, and often much closer to us than we thought.
And the hardest to really embrace.

But I find that being nice, open, smiling and yes, even positive hasn't taken me anywhere. If I were a cynic I would vow here and now to change my ways and become a selfish bitch. Because when I look around these seem to be the successful ones in life. Along with the wicked, crooked, corrupted and heartless souls of this world.
What is it in being BAD that make you attractive to people? The more dismissive, intolerant, opinionated, hurtful, loud and obnoxious you are - the more attention you get. The more drama you create, the more worthy you become. This is reverse logic, and one I don't understand - do people want to be entertained, do we all have a secret need to take care of seemingly lost and childish individuals, do we really admire the lawless, unscrupulous ones? I am not really sure.
.............
I just know that I don't want to change my nature to find my place in the sun. I can toughen up, have and still do - but not to the point of losing my sense of compassion and care towards people around me.

I have been rewarded with the presence and love of some extraordinary people who understand and value who I am. I am grateful for them, and shouldn't probably ask for more.
But I am. Just a bit.
Please.
I'll be thankful.
That's a promise.