I'm tempted to make a massive generalisation about French people and chocolate, or the French and self-indulgence, or the Parisian obsession with appearance, but it's been done so often, and besides, no-one does Paris-based generalisations better than Olivier Magny, so I'm just going to give up with those and encourage you to read his fabulous (and accurate) blog instead of this one.
On Sunday I went to my second Parisian salon: Papilles en Fête. There I got talking to (and sampled the wares of) a rabbity fellow promoting terrine du lapin, pointy-nosed wine vendors, fat-fingered butchers selling pork cured fifty ways, and the inventor of the Foie Gras Strawberry, a lump of goose liver pâté painted with a jammy red exterior and topped with a real strawberry stalk. (Get them while you can...) And then I did something which means I will never integrate into this society. I came across the snail stall, where a quiet man with slightly bulgy eyes was putting foil trays into a microwave. The smell of garlic butter was fabulous. I glanced over his propaganda, showing the snails in their natural habitat, pictures of him with snails, explanations of potential predators of snails, etc. Then he stuck a shell under my nose, nestled in a paper napkin, with a cocktail stick poking out, the other end attached to the innards of said mollusc. I stared at it. With one swift motion I flicked it into my mouth and chewed. I told myself I'd eaten them before, as a child, on holiday in rural France, and loved them. By this point all the butter had gone and I was left with pure snail. I reminded myself I was daring, cosmopolitan; a try-anything-once, pleasure-seeking citizen of the world. Then I went behind the honey stall and spat it back into the shell. This was a huge mistake, as I could then see what it looked like.
Thursday was Beaujolais Nouveau day. At lunch in the school cantine all the teachers were complaining because normally one gets Beaujolais on the third Thursday of November (it's Beaujolais day, duh) but there wasn't any.
Apparently it's like when a Harry Potter book comes out, people hang around at midnight for the first taste. I thought they were taking the piss, but after school I went to my supermarket and they wheeled a massive trolley of pink and red bottles out: "Ahh, c'est le beaujolais? Oui oui c'est aujourd'hui, ça coute combien par bouteille? Un euro quatre-vingt? Pas possible! Deux quatorze? Ahh, beh, tant mieux quand même, je prends trois." €2.14 each. They're saying it's a good year, the Beaujolais is fine, the crise (credit crunch) is lifting, the cows are getting fatter. (Wine is what single-handedly keeps French farmers busy. Not subsidies.)
After a refreshing verre of Beaujolais Nouveau, I went to a 'concept' soirée called My Balls On Your, the idea being to show contempt for any noun you like in the illustrated format.
I have a bunch of stickers. Look forward to seeing where that is going.
I'm not completely frivolous. I m'inscrired at the library on Friday (free, Paris-wide access to up to 40 materials of my choice for 3 weeks) to give me something to read. If I were in need of a certain text or edition I'd be screwed, but as I'm just browsing for pleasure and random enlightenment it's fine. Also on Friday, I re-discovered Culture Rapide off rue de Belleville (between métros Belleville and Jourdain I think), a very cool café-bar with reasonably-priced coffees, snackage and booze, plus a weekly programme of events from free buffets to poetry slams.
...and we're back to frivolous: today found me in St Germain, then at Bistrot des Artistes on rue des Anglais (excellent) for a rum-and-coco milkshake. A lovely French girl had tickets to Grizzly Bear tonight at La Cigale in Montmartre, but couldn't go and couldn't sell them, and as it started in an hour, she gave them to us with a plea to "just go and enjoy it, I would rather someone used them!" Bought tickets with (now ex-) boyfriend? Unwanted birthday present? Sudden allergy to sweat and or beer? I don't care, they were great, and if I ever see her there again I will thank her more enthusiastically than I did this time (basically just a nod and a smile for the €25 face-value of the ticket).
Oh, and an addition to my post on French marketing: how could I forget sex. Sex sells anything that isn't sold using anything else, i.e. virtually everything.
Reading List
'Gomorrah' by Roberto Saviano: The author is a journalist from the region who risked his life to write this passionate and unflinching exposé of the Naples mafia. Heart-poundingly dangerous.
Score: Five, and no jokes (too serious).
'The Satanic Verses' by Salman Rushdie: a few magical moments, and some great prose infused with Rushdie's idiosyncratic wordplay; the rest of the book is worth it if you're a fan, but if you're not, it can all get a bit Bend It Like Beckham.
Score: three stars, zero fatwas.
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