On Rue Cler

Shopping on Rue Cler is everything it is reputed to be: A medley of aromas and a cacophony of sounds.

It is a rich experience.

Most of the vendors are friendly, some sing as they work, others unabashedly hawk their products. They tease one another but are respectful with customers.

French merchants keep careful track of their customers’ place in line, and try to wait on them in the order in which they have queued.

The fresh produce is perfection, and must fresher and tastier than anything I’ve found in my town. The cheese is aromatic, so is the fish and seafood.

We took a liking to fresh sausage on our last trip and have gone through several kilograms of it (back to lean meat when we get home). The hard salami is equally tasty, and we became regular customers at both Davoli and Roger.

Rue Cler has both a LeaderPrice and a FranPrix for basics like paper towels, toilet paper and items that come in jars. There is another supermarket around the corner on Avenue de la Motte Piquet.

I like French supermarkets. For one thing, the products are about half the cost of similar items at home, even when you translate euros into dollars.

Secondly, the house brands are generally high quality, something you do not necessarily find in the U.S., not in my town where choices are limited.

I like the mix of businesses on Rue Cler.

What I don’t like is the long trek over several busy streets, especially after a day (or even before) of walking around. After a week, it became a chore to drag the little cart over cobblestones. Perhaps we just have not acquired the knack.

We were happy to find larger FranPrix on Avenue de la Bourdonnais. It is a straight shot from our flat.

There are also several traituers nearby, one that sells Asian food and another that specializes in Mediterranean food. Our block has several Italian restaurants and two bakeries. When your feet are tired (which is always the case in Paris) and you are too hungry to cook, there is always a sandwiche jambonto purchase for just a few euros. You can add cheese, onions, tomatoes and pickles if you larder is well stocked.

Really, eating in Paris need not be expensive, if you cook most of your meals yourself.

I am not suggesting you abandon the experience of sitting in a café. It is the best way to people watch in a city that is rich in everything, including people.

Onion-Cheese Soup

We rented an apartment to save money on food. It was as simple as that.

Besides, I thought cooking in Paris might be a heady experience. I was right.

Part of that is due to the bottle of wine my husband opens about 7 p.m. as I head for the kitchen.

The other part is the cheese.

I’ve been saving cheese rinds for nearly a week now, with the idea of making some sort of cheese-y soup to go with baguettes from area bakeries.

I opened my cheese rind bag the other day. Here’s what I had: Rind from Comte and St. Paulin cheeses, purchased at FranPrix and Leader Price, respectively.

(My game plan was to try budget-priced cheeses to see if I liked them before purchasing higher-priced versions from a fromagerie. Being from Wisconsin, I can live on cheese, so buying a lot of it presents no problems.)

I bought the creamy St. Paulin on a whim, because St. Paulin-Louiseville is the area of Canada where my Memere was born and raised.

Then at an Ed in the 18th (an upscale Ed, more or less), I found a chevre from the Poitou-Charentes area, where Memere’s ancestors originated. It, too, had a rind.

(I did not have Brie from Melun, another ancestral home.)

I melted the rinds in a saucepan over low heat, first adding about a tablespoon of unsalted butter and then about 1/3 cup cream.

This is the result of that experiment, made with what I had on hand:

Three-Cheese Onion Soup

about 1 cup cheese rinds from Comte, St. Paulin and chevre
1 tablespoon butter
1/3 cup cream
3-4 sweet onions, sliced
1 garlic clove, minced
dash extra virgin olive oil
½ tablespoon butter
2 onion-garlic bouillon cubes
2-3 cups hot water
2 teaspoons Provencal sauce
dash herbes de Provence


Chop cheese rinds into small pieces and set aside. Melt butter in medium saucepan. Add cheese and cream. Maintain medium-low heat until cheese is melted.

Meanwhile, slice onions and mince garlic; combine with olive oil and butter in medium stockpot. Heat water and drop in soup cubes; stir until cubes melt.

When onions have begun to turn golden brown, add water and herbes. Cook over medium heat for about five minutes. Add melted cheese and allow flavors to marry over medium heat for about 15 minutes. You may want to fish out any large pieces of rind still left.

Serve with salad and a baguette. (You may not be able to find Provençal sauce locally. Same with the bouillon cubes. Vegetable bouillon and tomato sauce would do.)

I made this with budget-priced cheeses, and it was fantastic. I think it was the best soup I’ve ever made (she said modestly).

We paired it with a rosé from Provence. Maybe not the perfect choice but not bad at all.

Honestly, you cannot go wrong with food here.

A Place in the Heart of the City

The most delightful part of travel – slow travel, that is – comes when you stumble upon something wonderful and magical.

Just what that might be depends on who you are and what you value and what simply strikes your fancy.

We took the Number 42 bus to Place de l’Opera and walked to E. Dehillerin so I could buy a copper bowl and a new whisk (more about that later).

I was so excited I forgot to take a photo and was about to suggest turning back when we chanced upon the plaza that was once the site of Les Halles, or very near the site of Les Halles. The Forum des Halles shopping complex is near by, perhaps underneath. I did not look. It did not matter.

Something there resonated with me. Perhaps it was the noonday sun and the lightness of the air in the raised plaza. Perhaps it was the grandeur of the surrounding buildings, the old Bourse de Commerce and St. Eustache Church. Or maybe the noonday sun.

It is not old, certainly, and it is often the old that strikes a respondent chord with me.

But there was something here. Whatever it was, it brought tears to my eyes, because the day was so lovely and the space so green and yet so urban.

I like to think the spirits of the old fishmongers and butchers and bakers linger here, welcoming visitors to the Paris sun.

Your Paris, the Real Paris

The real Paris is the one Rick Steves and Pauline Frommer have yet to discover.

It is your Paris, the one only you, the visitor, can find.

Richard Nahem of Eye Prefer Paris has found a Paris of his own and he’ll give you a tour. That’s his business, one he started earlier this year and is growing.

We met Richard (right) at L’Epicerie on Ile St. Louis and joined him for a drink at his neighborhood café about six blocks into the Marais.

He is charming and knowledgeable and full of trivia you won’t find in a guidebook. He agreed to have his photo taken. He looked great but blurry on the “monument” setting on my Nikon Coolpix digital camera. Here he is in the “portrait” setting.

I guess Richard has the potential to become a monument here. He sure knows a lot and he has not yet lived in Paris for two years.

What is your Paris? It is what you value most about your time here.

And it likely changes from visit to visit. For now, the Paris that has caught my attention is one of parks and iron fences and rooftop gardens and charming little cafés and shops tucked into odd corners.

On Wednesday, we ventured into Tolbiac (above) and the Butte aux Cailles (below) area. The former, a favorite of my friend Sylvie of the Queen of Cheap Travel, is a place where people live and know the corner boulanger and walk their dogs like any other neighborhood. But I found no official buildings and daunting monuments. I liked that.

The latter is a quiet, somewhat shabby, village within a neighborhood. It is reputed to be the part of Paris most like a rural area.

Colette said something about Paris being a city made up of many provinces. How right she was!

What is your Paris? What stays with you long after you leave?

I know something lingers. Paris has that effect.

American Kitchen in France

After nearly five days in Paris, I hold fast to my theory that food tastes better here.

It is not a cockamamie theory. The explanation is simple. The French value good food. Good food needs the best ingredients. And that is what you find here. (At a far better price than in Wisconsin, I might add.)

We took the little cart to Rue Cler on Saturday and made the rounds. Salami from Davoli La Maison Du Jambon. Pork sausage from Boucherie Roger. Pont d’Eveque cheese from La Fermette. Fresh produce from Les Quartres Saison and necessities from Leader Price and FranPrix.

Even the cheapest items were a good value. My husband found a serviceable bottle of Bordeaux for fewer than two euros. We bought a pricier bottle of white Bordeaux from Magda Traiteur on Rue de Monttessuy last night.

To date, in my American kitchen in France (our flat is owned by an American), I have made salami sandwiches, salads, grilled cheese-and-sausage sandwiches, sausage and peppers and sausage and fettuccini — simple fare, to be sure. It all tasted better here.

Maybe you need to be very relaxed to make good food. I think that’s part of the equation. But the other part is that the ingredients are the best I can afford.

I feel better cooking here, even though the kitchen is smaller (and not very conducive to good food photos).

But I am not telling you anything you don’t already know if you have cooked in Paris.

And if you haven’t, you must. You really must. It is much more economical and certainly healthier on both figure and wallet than eating out all the time.

French Toast with Nicoise Lemon and Vanilla Syrup

8 thick slices day-old baguette
2 eggs
¼ cup cream
1/8 teaspoon sugar
pinch salt
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1 tablespoon sweet butter
¼ cup vanilla syrup

Whip together eggs, cream, sugar, salt and lemon zest. Soak baguette slices for about 2 minutes. Lightly toast in skillet until golden brown. Serve with syrup; top with more lemon zest and powdered sugar, if you have some (I did not).

The second photo is taken from Rue de General Camou, in front of the American Library in Paris.

As Elouise put it, “I absolutely adore Paris!”

A Bistro Supper on Friday Night

Jet lagged, lacking proper sleep, at 8:30 p.m. on the day we landed in Paris, we could not figure out how to get past the inner lobby door of our apartment building. We remembered the digicode, and successfully opened the outer door, but we’d forgotten that the inner door opened with the little plastic wand on our key chain.

(Never mind that this is how we open doors at the university where I teach journalism. On our first night in Paris we simply could not think.

After numerous attempts at using the front digicode to enter the inner door, I said I’d go out in search of help. What kind of help, I had no idea. But I went to a café around the corner where the maitre d’ (or perhaps the owner) seemed friendly when I passed by earlier in the evening. He listened and went in search of someone who knew someone in the building. By some divine intervention, a waiter did know someone. He called his friend and the friend came downstairs to show my exhausted husband how to get inside.

Meanwhile, I found some friendly American women to talk to. It’s true, the 7th is filled with Americans. On our first night in town, that was comforting indeed.

The following night, we went to the café for an early supper. Simple but filling bistro fare, a bottle of wine we liked and crème brulee for my husband and profiteroles for me.

The waiter was all smiles and gave us extra attention. The maitre d’ inquired about our visit, and it was well worth the 60 euros we spent there.

There may be fancier places to eat in this neighborhood. But we were treated kindly at this one.

Au revoir until Tuesday.

Americans in Paris: Greetings from the 7th Arrondissement

Leaning out the living room window from our cozy flat, we can see the Eiffel Tower.

As if we needed that to remind ourselves we are in Paris.

After a nap, our first stop was the Fran Prix on Rue Cler where we stocked up on coffee and other necessities of life anywhere. We also popped into a small fruit market, which we found to be a bit more expensive. We cobbled together a supper of cheese and ham and store-bought finger foods, including those rotisserie chicken potato chips which everyone is talking. Not nearly as tasty as the olive-flavored chips, but not too bad.

Our kitchen in Paris is narrow, and opens up onto an air shaft but we like it. You never know what you will get renting by Internet but this place is comfortable and not overly elaborate.

We will spend today getting to know our neighborhood, which has more charm than some would have you believe. Last night, a jazz band walked up and down the street playing Glenn Miller tunes. I woke up to piccolo music this morning and we went out for the best croissants ever.

Vie La Paris!

Lafayette, we are (nearly) (t)here

The phrase, "LaFayette, we are here," attributed to either Gen. John J. Pershing or Col. Charles E. Stanton as American forces reached France during World War is a simple, powerful sentence about a debt about to be repaid.

Sometimes simple words are enough.

Sometimes more is more. As Winston Churchill said, about 20 some years later:

We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.

Those words meant something.

We are going to Paris, not for such lofty reasons, but to have fun. Of course, any visit has a serious side, too, because Paris is Paris, a city of many layers and of much history and tragedy.

It will not seem real until the Northwest baggage man slaps that CDG label on our suitcases. Not a word, only the initials of the aptly-named Charles de Gaulle.

If all goes well, I will see you back here in a few days, blogging from the American Library in Paris.

Au revoir.

Fleur de Sel: From the Ile de Re to the Camargue

High on my list of things to bring home from Paris is fleur de sel.

Yes, I can find it locally, or I can pay a fortune for it online.

But buying it in Paris will no doubt be more economical and the jar or box will be a long-lasting reminder of our trip.

(Can you hear me knocking on wood and praying here. Last time, absolutely nothing went wrong. No lost luggage, no missed trains. A panhandler or two, but no incidents. Please, please let that be the case with this trip.)

I like the fact that much of the salt I find locally comes from the Ile de Re, which is near LaRochelle, birthplace of some of my French ancestors.

I also like when it originates in the Camargue, a place I have never visited, but plan to do so someday (armed with a good deal of organic mosquito repellent).

Fleur de sel, as everyone reading this already knows, is best added at the final moment in the food preparation process. When combined with herbes de Provence, it is an excellent means of both flavoring and wringing excess liquid from aubergines.

It is best used sparingly, too. That way each grain is a gift, an enhancement of flavor.

Do you use sea salt? Where do you find it?

The Smell of Spring in My Kitchen

This time of year there is a sweet musty smell about my house, not unlike the damp closed smell of a cottage that has been opened after a long winter.

I love it. I sense it as I walk down the stairs in the morning and make my way into the kitchen for my first cup of coffee. It is especially strong in the kitchen.

My house is old, 111 years now, and it rises from a hill only a few short blocks from a river. It always reminds me of the prow of a ship.

A gable-and-wing Victorian, it would not have been my choice. I would have chosen an Arts and Crafts style home. It was my husband’s home, the one he bought for a song years ago. I am attached to this house now, and cannot fathom the pain of being torn from it some day. I dream of this sometimes, and I wake up, heart pounding and tears running down my cheeks.

This house in all its imperfections has captivated me. I often dream of unused rooms. That means something, in the language and interpretation and dreams, but I forget what.

Perhaps it has to do with the potential I see here. If you own an older home, you will know what I mean when I say the house is always a work in progress. I see more potential each day.

The house is at its glory in May and June. Now, the air is perfumed with flowering crab, which smells a bit like patchouli when it is caught on the air of a spring morning.

We will miss the crab tree at its glory this year, but return in time for the blooming of bridal wreath under the bay window and the lilac bush near the north back door.

The blooms are glorious to look at but even better to smell.

And when we return from France the house will welcome us with that cozy cottage smell, happy to be open again to the warm spring air of June.

A Walk After Supper

This time of year, when I can, I walk after supper. The early evenings are of full of sweet smells and bird song. It is a sensual experience, an extension of our meal.

Our neighborhood is an old one. Many of the late 19th century houses fringe an area of "newer" homes built after the 1920s when some of the larger mansions were torn down and the polo park, playground for the lumber barons, was dismantled.

Now the forsythia is out, soon it will be the flowering crab, next lilacs, and then, by June 6, the bridal wreath. (It seems fitting to recall those who have gone before or those who died on the Normandy beaches with these flowers.)

As I walk past the old houses, some of brick, some of clapboard, I think of how they have stood for so long, silent witnesses to so much history. Of course, not as long as the buildings of Europe. But long enough.

My house alone has withstood world wars, bad news, a Ku Klux Klan rally in the 1890s near a livery stable two blocks away, and, though much of the 20th century, traffic from a teacher's college across the street.

How many meals have been prepared in my kitchen? By how many cooks? The people who bought the house in the late 1940s were a retired farm couple, moving into town to be near their children. The husband died soon after their move, and I wonder about the loneliness of Hattie, his wife, a devoted gardener. She would have looked upon the same back yard scene as I do as she chopped and sliced and minced and mixed.

I imagine she slipped out to her garden to pick fresh vegetables, as we'll will be able to do once I get all my herbs in and my tomato plants yield fruit. Stepping out the door before preparing supper is just another one of the warm weather rituals I cherish.