The Displaced Nation

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Bon appétit, really? A TCK’s encounter with French cuisine — and culture

2 Comments Posted by on October 28, 2011

Our Third Culture Kid columnist, Charlotte Day, regales us with stories of encounters with France and French cuisine that piqued her curiosity somewhat more than her palate.

My experience of France and of French food consists of a miserable trip to Paris and the Loire Valley with my mother and stepfather in cold, drizzly March, and an even more miserable language exchange to Lyon last February.

The first experience saw us through innumerable cafés au lait, pains au chocolat and frothy miracles of haute cuisine in the Loire Valley. Afterwards, my mother went on her first raw food diet.

The second was a mandatory school trip for all French-language students at my boarding school in England, which I faced with more optimism than most. Two weeks in Lyon, two weeks back in England, dramatic language improvement and cultural interchange — why ever not?

From the moment we boarded the Eurostar, however, things did not look promising. Two boys arrived sporting Union Jacks and carrying paper cut-outs of Wills and Kate. The rest had already scoured their exchange partners’ Facebook pages and resolved to dislike them.

I suppose I ought to have anticipated this Anglo-French clash, given the historical precedents. Yet the English contingent’s narrow-mindedness unsettled me.

Yes, we were sacrificing a holiday to spend two weeks with a stranger. But their genuine unwillingness to learn, Anglo-supremacist attitude and lack of curiosity were a little disturbing.

As we descended into the arrivals hall of Lyon Part-Dieu station, the smiles of expectant correspondents ought to have rebuffed the querulous English students. Yet each went through his or her initial greeting with as pronounced an English accent as possible.

You are what you eat

My exchange partner and her mother drove me back to their beautiful old farmhouse, in a village known for horse breeding. My bedroom was large and warm, my French not as bad as I’d feared it to be.

And yet one anxiety still plagued me: sustaining a gluten-and-dairy-free diet in England was sufficiently difficult, but in France, I imagined, next to impossible. I sat in my room, weighing the relative merits of two weeks’ stomach cramps against starvation — and how to explain in French the effects of wheat, barley and rye on the small intestine?

What I found in the dining room occasioned raw joy: steamed vegetables, fish and salad. Likewise in the kitchen: a refrigerator shelf full of yahourt au soja. To their question “Ça marche?” I would have poured forth encomiums had I mastered a suitable vocabulary set. But I could not move beyond “Oui, c’est fantastique” before we sat down to eat.

This first meal was to be the most talkative of my two-week sojourn. As the breakfasts and dinners succeeded one another in an endless cortège of fresh fruit, perfectly steamed broccoli and silence, I felt that either starvation or stomach cramps around a more convivial table would have been preferable.

My exchange partner was kind, but icy. Her fastidious and sparing eating habits made me feel a glutton in comparison. Her mother ate protein powder in yoghurt more often than a solid meal. Eventually, my mornings were characterized by a solitary repast of fruit salad — no one else seemed to be eating.

Ghosts at the feast

The occasional apparition flitted around the dinner table — some closer to human form than others. The first was Pierre, the former lover of my exchange’s mother, with whom she was still sharing living expenses. He was tall and corpulent with a thunderous voice. She had cast him from her life — but only driven him out as far as the other end of the house, where he entrenched himself in a study strewn with half-smoked cigars.

At least he ate like a Frenchman — belonged to the cult of taste, before that of health. Yet he vanished soon after his first appearance, driving off to see his mother in a neighboring town. He returned after five days, at two o’clock one morning, and left again the next day.

The second apparition was my exchange partner’s boyfriend, Samson — a thin, pale young man with an unruly mass of curls; a maths prodigy who’d set his sights on attending one of the grandes écoles.

Samson, too, was slightly less given to subsist on lettuce and pumpkin seeds. My exchange partner lovingly provided him with a baguette and chocolate — which he would munch while explaining to me the superiority of the French educational system.

He cross-examined me on my plans for the future. I had got as far as a spectral PhD in Russian Literature, when he stopped me with a shocking rejoinder:

Il faut réfléchir, Charlotte! La vie est sérieuse. (In essence: “Life will pass you by before you have accomplished anything.”)

I refrained from pointing out that he had not planned beyond the classes préparatoires, or prépas — two hellishly difficult years spent preparing for university entrance tests. Instinctively, I commended his ambition and drive — yet felt him ill qualified to condemn my lack of perspective given his own determination to sacrifice two years of his youth to a virtually unattainable goal.

My tryst with moules frites

Midway through my stay, our funereal meals were interrupted by my exchange’s mother taking us on her weekend-long tryst in Brussels. She’d discovered that a childhood sweetheart was living in Belgium’s capital, and over the past months, they’d re-cultivated their relations. My exchange and I were invited along as third and fourth wheels.

José, the new lover, was almost as much the gourmand as Pierre, his predecessor.

Yet of his guests, I was the only one who ate at all.

Our meals together included lunch in a traditional Belgian restaurant, where I unadvisedly ordered moules-frites without the butter, causing a scandal in the kitchen.

We had Thai for dinner — a first for my partner and her mother — after which I turned around to see the latter and José kissing passionately on the curb.

Resolving to see something of Brussels at all costs, I accompanied the couple on a walk to the markets, while my partner sat sullenly in José’s penthouse apartment. There, I stared mournfully at beautifully packaged jams, cheeses and Breton biscuits — knowing that we were to leave for Lyon that evening, where another week of salad and silence awaited.

I returned to England appreciably thinner, with an improved French accent and a block of Belgian chocolate for my mother.

Though my experience of France did not come floating in butter, it was more French than I could ever have anticipated.

Readers, any questions or suggestions for Charlotte, should she have any future encounters with France?

img: Charlotte Day surveying Trafalgar Square in London.

STAY TUNED for Monday’s post, offering a few last-minute Halloween costume suggestions for Displaced Nation citizens.

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A Julia Child for our times: Expat author & French cookery expert Elizabeth Bard

5 Comments Posted by on October 26, 2011

Et voila. In a little less than a month, The Displaced Nation has gone from reminiscing over American expat in France Julia Child to engaging with American expat in France Elizabeth Bard.

Move over Julie Powell. At a pace rather like a simmering le Creuset pot of Child’s signature boeuf bourguignon, Bard is on the way to becoming the 21st-century’s answer to that towering figure of 20th-century cuisine Française.

The similarities between the two women are intriguing. Child went to France as a trailing spouse for an American diplomat. Bard went to France trailing a Frenchman.

Child was seduced by France. She found herself through French cuisine. Bard was seduced by France (after being seduced by a Frenchman). She found a way into French culture through the markets and cooking — and found herself in the process.

On this point, the line between the two women gets a little blurry. Which one, Child or Bard, said the following:

More than the museums, more than the ancient streets, these stalls of fruits and vegetables and spices were the Paris that inspired me.

As everyone knows, Child returned to the United States to launch a career in television. Whereas Bard has become a long-term resident of France — and has launched a brilliant writing career with the publication of Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes, a New York Times and international bestseller, a Barnes & Noble “Discover Great New Writers” pick, and the recipient of the 2010 Gourmand World Cookbook Award for Best First Cookbook. NOTE: We are giving away copies to two lucky DISPLACED DISPATCH subscribers. Sign up today!

Child inspired Julie Powell to make all of her recipes. Bard has inspired, among others, two Displaced Nation writers — myself and Anthony Windram — to try out her recipes.

But here the comparison ends. A key difference is that Bard’s recipes are nowhere near as difficult as Child’s — which is exactly what makes Bard so perfect for our times. She’s approachable, and her cooking suggestions are doable. She also has a rich life outside cooking — the life of a woman who has displaced herself into another culture — and enjoys sharing that part of her story as well.

Mesdames et Messieurs, I would now like to offer you the fruits (not to mention veggies) of my exchange with expat author, chef and lifestyle muse Elizabeth Bard.

Tell me a little more about your background.
I grew up in Northern New Jersey and spent weekends with my father in New York City. I studied English Lit as an undergrad at Cornell, then art history at Christie’s and the Courtauld Institute in London. My dream was to be the chief curator of the Pierpont Morgan Library in Manhattan. I was always convinced I’d been born in the wrong century. I love old objects, lost worlds, so, of course, I was instantly seduced by Paris (and of course, my French husband).

Over the years, I’ve written on art, travel and food, and digital culture for the New York Times, International Herald Tribune, Harper’s Bazaar, Wired, Time Out and Huffington Post, among others. Lunch in Paris was my first book.

In July 2010, my husband and I and our baby son Augustin moved to a small village in Provence, to live in the wartime home of the famous poet and WWII Resistance leader René Char. At the time, we had no plans to leave Paris — it was a date with destiny. You can find the complete (completely crazy?) story of how we found the house on my blog.

How are you finding life in Provence as compared to Paris?
As a city girl, village life is a discovery for me. I’m still adjusting to hanging my undies in the sun, and learning the names of the local birds (they can’t all be pigeons…). I’m surrounded by wonderful cooks and gardeners; last week, I went on my first saffron harvest. The move has been a wonderful transition for us as a family — it has made me question many of the things I believe about work/life balance, health, and being close to nature. All things I hope to share (along with my neighbor’s recipe for Provençal soupe au pistou) in my next book.

Turning to Lunch in Paris: What made you decide to write a book telling the story of your transition to living in France?
I hope Lunch in Paris captures something real about what it means to build a life in another culture. As an American, I follow generations of women who all came from somewhere else. They learned to cook with new ingredients, speak a new language, manage in a new world. My Jewish grandmother learned to make spaghetti sauce with pork ribs from the Italian ladies she met on line at the butcher shop during the war; I’m simply another in a long line.

Did you ever think of writing a novel instead? I ask because in reading the book, I kept noticing your facility with dialogue and description.
It never occurred to me to write Lunch in Paris as a novel. Fantasy lives in France are easy to imagine — but I wanted to express some of the things I’d learned personally, about what it means to take risks, to put happiness first on your checklist. That’s not a fictional decision — that’s something we struggle with every day.

Why did you decide to include recipes in your book?
Almost as soon as I arrived in Paris, I knew that I wanted to write about the roller coaster of international living, and the richness of intercultural marriage. When I sat down to think about the moments that really helped me discover French life, I kept coming back to the dinner table, the markets, the recipes — so it seemed natural to structure Lunch in Paris around those experiences.

Do you still use the recipes from the book and which one is your favorite?
I’m always trying new recipes, which I share on the blog or Facebook page, but I do use my copy of Lunch in Paris as a cookbook — I keep it handy in the cabinet with the pasta. The recipes I go back to again and again: for summer, it’s the haricot verts with walnut oil, for winter, the lentils. The tagines are great for a party — and the molten chocolate cakes work anytime.

Which portion of your book — Paris, the love story, the recipes — have readers responded to most?
I’m so surprised, humbled, gratified by the fact that Lunch in Paris has found such a wide audience. I’m so pleased that the book has been a vivid piece of armchair (or bathtub) travel for those who love Paris — and a temptation for those who’d like to go. I’ve had many young readers say it inspired them hold on to their dream of living abroad, or simply doing something a bit outside the box with love or career.

I’m also thrilled that people are getting their books all greasy, using the recipes — and posting photos of their creations on the Lunch in Paris Facebook page. I’m a home cook; I tested all the recipes myself. I was determined that readers take as much pleasure (and as little stress) in preparing them as I did. Maybe the nicest thing anyone has said came from a friend in London:

“It’s nice for Augustin to have such a wonderful record of his parent’s romance.”

I’m proud to be passing that on.

The thing that has surprised me the most is the wonderful online community. Though the readers are all over the world, it really feels warm and personal to me. I love that social media allows people to share recipes and stories from all over the world. A few months ago, I got an email from a New Zealander living in Crete. I now follow her blog to learn about traditional Cretean cooking.

As I mentioned in my intro, Julia Child was the inspiration for TDN’s October theme — and you remind me of a 21st century version of her in some ways. I’m curious, do you have her Mastering the Art of French Cooking — and do you actually use it?
I have my mom’s copy of Mastering the Art, but at the moment – I’m too busy trying recipes from my French neighbors to actually use it!

What did you think of Julie Powell’s blogging about making all the recipes from that encyclopedic book?
I love a good project — especially one that gets a girl out of a rut — it was fun to read about how the random adventures we set for ourselves can change everything.

How about the film, Julie & Julia?
The film — well, it just proves that Meryl Streep can do ANYTHING.

We’ve been asking our Random Nomad interviewees this month if they identify with any of the following Julia Child quotes and why. Can we ask you as well?
I agree with the choice that both Mardi and Jennifer made:

The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking, you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.

I’d say this goes for goes for life in general — not just cooking. With all of our “Just-do-it” attitude, Americans are particularly prone to fear of failure: everything is possible, so everything we don’t accomplish is our fault. Fear is paralyzing. I work every day to get the hell out of my own way.

Quite a few of our readers are long-term expats who’ve entered cross-cultural marriages. What do you think is the biggest challenge about marrying someone of another culture?
The Franco-American combination is a very powerful one. I gave my husband a bit of the American can-do spirit, permission to pursue his dreams based on his own qualities, instead of family or class. He gave me a bit of the French joie de vivre — permission to live in the moment, to consider happiness, rather than some abstract (and culturally relative) notion of “success”, as my ultimate goal.

Was language an obstacle at all?
I speak fluent French now. It was a struggle at the beginning — you feel a bit invisible. That’s one reason cooking became so important to me. During the early days of our marriage, I used food to welcome people. My husband’s friends didn’t know if I was intelligent, charming, witty, or warm. What they did know is that I made a mean sweet potato puree. There were times when I used the kitchen to hide. French dinner parties are marathons of cuisine and conversation — 4 or 5 hours minimum. With the rapid-fire French buzzing in my ears, and my brain foggy from the wine, it was just easier to say, “I’m just going to check the roast” than “Dear God, I’m so bored and exhausted I’m considering sticking my head in the oven.”

Do you think you could fit back into living in American culture after a decade of living in France?
I’ve been away for a long time — and like many expats, I find myself in a no-man’s land, not quite one or the other. Honestly, I think the hardest thing about moving back to the States would be the portions — even with a great farmer’s market nearby I think it would be a struggle to maintain our very healthy French eating habits. That and the hyper-competitive attitude about raising kids. I’m not sure I’m ready for preschool applications.

As it happens, on October 13 Travelers Night In (#TNI) was French inspired, and everyone tweeted their answers to 10 questions about the best of the best in France. Could you do us — and the traveling community at large — the honor of providing your own short answers?
Q1. The best thing about French people is…
Food is not fuel.
Q2. France is famous for food, what dish is your favorite? Best food city?
Give me a perfect, flaky, buttery croissant.
Q3. Favorite French countryside escape?
The rolling hills of Burgundy — with a stop at the cathedral in Vézelay.
Q4. What is the most overrated thing about France?
April in Paris (it rains)
Q5. What defines Paris?
PDA (does that still mean public display of affection?)
Q6. French museum or monument that shouldn’t be missed?
Musée Jacquemart-André, Paris
Q7. Perfect place to enjoy a glass of French wine? What varietal, region, winery?
People watching along the Canal Saint-Martin, any glass recommended at the Verre Vole (rue de Lancry)
Q8. Top way to spend a night out in Paris?
Walking along the banks of the Île Saint-Louis with a double scoop of Berthillon sorbet.
Q9. Best things to do on the French Riviera?
We avoid the French Riviera — over-crowded, over-priced, over.
Q10. Biggest misconception about the French?
French cooking is complicated.

Thank you so much for engaging in this tête-à-tête! Readers, do you have your own questions for this 21st-century answer to Julia Child? Hurry up, before she disappears into her kitchen or heads out to another saffron field!

Images: Head shot of Elizabeth Bard by Cindi de Channes (2008); book cover.

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s installment from our displaced fictional heroine, Libby, who is taking seriously her friend’s advice to make time for herself, and enjoying her freedom while Jack is in nursery school. Someone had better remind her that small babies tend to put a damper on such wanton activities. (Speaking of which, Libs — isn’t it time you saw a doctor?) What, not keeping up with Libby? Read the first three episodes of her expat adventures.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation, including seasonal recipes and book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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A further Parisian lunch, à la displaced author Elizabeth Bard

1 Comment Posted by on October 24, 2011

As we’re continuing this month’s theme where we celebrate all culinary things Frenchie (well, you’ve got to really, the French are such a retiring lot — they’d never dream of singing their own praises), it seems like now is the time to let you into my shameful, dark secret. There is something in my past that I cannot escape from, no matter how much I may wish to. That secret, dear reader, is that I am, in fact, a quarter-French. Yes, some of my genetic make-up is Frenchie. Being a proud Englishman, this obviously churns me up inside.

Now my Gran, or Bonne-Maman as I called her, like many a Frenchie, thought of herself a good cook. Unfortunately for her she moved to England shortly after the end of the First World War. She left the bucolic center of France and found herself in the industrial paradise that is Teesside. It is somewhat redundant to note, but I will anyway, that England in the 1920s and 1930s was very different from the England of now. This is a time pre-Ainsley Harriot. Look at what passed for cookery films — not a single mention of Sally Salt or Percy Pepper. Even in the leafy climes of Islington you would be hard pressed to find a sun-dried tomato or a tub of hummus. These were dark, Ainsley Harriot-less times indeed.

So when I was instructed that as part of this blog I would be making a Parisian lunch using Elizabeth Bard recipes here in the Dennys-loving part of California that I call home, I thought back on my Bonne-Maman. Living in another country now is so easy. On my phone I can read English papers, I can, for the most part, try and approximate dishes that I’ve eaten in other countries. I can go into a supermarket in your average suburban strip-mall and I can guarantee I can find some exotic fruit or vegetable that it would have been unthinkable for this supermarket to stock 15 or 20 years ago. So when I received my recipes for an Omelette with Goat Cheese and Artichoke Hearts and for what Elizabeth Bard titles Better than French Onion Soup (after today’s Rugby World Cup Final, I’m guessing she means it should be called New Zealand Onion Soup), I’m struck by how easy it is to find all these ingredients and how easy it would be to find them in my hometown, where my Bonne-Maman spent the next 60 years of her life after moving there from France as a young adult.

But, for the most part, Bonne-Maman wasn’t able to get everything that she needed and so would make do with local alternatives. As a child in the early 80s when Bonne-Maman was still able to live in her own house and do her own cooking, I saw the end product of all of her years living in the north-east of England (hardly the gourmet capital of the world) and the compromises she had to make to recreate dishes from her French background. There was a whole repertoire that she had. One, in particular, that I recall was that when she would make a roast she would have a little side-dish to go alongside it that consisted of sliced onion doused in malt vinegar. It seems curious, though the way she made it, not at all unpleasant, and I am sure it has some French classic as its antecedents and for years could probably only buy malt vinegar in Hartlepool. The other thing I remember is steaks. Her steaks were bloody, which I think the neighbors rationalized as her being French (and they are such an odd sort). I seem to recall this being a source of contention in my parents’ relationship as my Dad favored the bloody steaks he had been brought up on, but my Mum insisted that they had to be cooked well-done. It was a debate that was only ended when the crisis over British beef in the late 80s saw my family dramatically reduce its beef consumption.

So as I follow Elizabeth’s recipes, I am just struck by how easy it is to buy and prepare all the ingredients that I need to recreate a delicious Parisian lunch, but my poor grandmother had to make do with malt vinegar, pease pudding and her own ingenuity.

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s post on classic displaced writing.

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe for email delivery of The Displaced Dispatch, a round up of the week’s posts from The Displaced Nation, including seasonal recipes and book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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A Parisian lunch in Manhattan, à la displaced author Elizabeth Bard

3 Comments Posted by on October 17, 2011

I have a confession to make. I have a bit of fluff on the side. I’ve had it for many years now — and the flame of my passion never diminishes. The love burns in my soul, aches in my flesh, and ignites my nerves.

Why am I revealing this now, and in such a public way? As you may know, the Displaced Nation is dedicating many of its October posts to the joys of moving to France and learning French cooking.

I take this as a sign that the time has arrived for me to own up to my own rather torrid relationship with La Belle Cuisine Française — she of infinite variety, who makes hungry where she most satisfies.

Admittedly, I do feel a little guilty talking so openly about our affair while my husband, who is Japanese, is away on a business trip. (Because I’m so practiced at hiding it, I think he assumes that, like him, I would always choose Asian food over Western, Italian over French.)

But there you have it, my little secret. And now that it’s out in the open, allow me to report on my most recent tryst — a Parisian lunch I hosted in Manhattan yesterday using the recipes of Elizabeth Bard, who will be featured on this blog next week. A former New Yorker who now lives in Provence with her French husband, Bard is the author of Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes.

Friday, Oct 7 — plotting my assignation

I download Bard’s book to my Kindle and retreat to bed — mais oui! — for a read.

I am instantly enchanted. Bard is a woman after my own heart: she went to Europe to study and then fell head over heels for the culture, a man, the food…

I’m having a hard time choosing among Bard’s recipes, though.

The guest list is easy: my sister (who will go into the hospital on Wednesday for an operation, after which she won’t be able to enjoy food for a while) and two foodie friends, a couple, with whom I’ve collaborated on some lovely meals.

Except this time I’ll be going solo, especially as my husband is away (though maybe that’s just as well as he tends to dismiss French food out of hand, and therefore out of kitchen, for being too rich and creamy).

Actually, it’s the main course I’m dithering about — not the starter or the dessert.

I know I want to do mussels for the opening course as that’s one of my sister’s favorites, and Bard has a classic recipe for Mussels with White Wine and Fennel (and fennel is now in season).

I see that on her Web site, Bard has a recipe for Spicy Chocolate Pots with Fresh Figs — and quickly decide to make that my dessert. Like most sane people, I consider chocolate (along with champagne and oysters) to be the perfect food for revving up the libido.

And figs — Bard says that every autumn, around this time, she stages her own mini Figapalooza. I like the sound of that orgy. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that the Bible got it wrong: Eve must have seduced Adam with a fig, not an apple. Didn’t he cover himself up with a fig leaf afterwards?

Speaking of apples, the recipe of Bard’s I’m most attracted to for the main course is her Pork Tenderloin with Four Kinds of Apples. The only thing holding me back is that my sister has a pet pig. For a moment, I imagine being able to persuade her to partake of this forbidden meat. “Oh, go on, just one little taste…” But then I realize how offended I’d be, as a dog owner and lover, if I were invited to lunch at a Korean household and they were serving dog.

No, not a good idea. So I opt for Bard’s Pasta with Fresh Peas, Arugula, and Goat Cheese for my main. To be honest, I feel a little sheepish about it. Surely my infatuation with La Belle Cuisine should drive me to my boldest feats of exploration and invention?

But then I remember Bard’s story about her husband-to-be inviting her to lunch at a Parisian restaurant that specializes in du porc noir de Bigorre. She refuses to indulge, even (especially?) when the waitress tells her he’s a happy pig, ordering the cassoulet instead.

Pasta it is, even though the only thing French about it involves topping the pasta with extravagantly big gobs of goat cheese.

Saturday, Oct 8 — shopping for just the right ingredients

I head to the green market in Union Square very early, my two dogs in tow. Just before I reach the Patches of Star Dairy stand, which sells fresh goat cheeses and goat cheese ice cream, one of them, my cocker spaniel, scavenges a brussels sprout and someone asks me if he is a vegetarian. (I wonder if his English springer spaniel heritage is kicking in, and he’s registering his disapproval of my love affair with France?)

Other green market finds include freshly picked arugula (also for the pasta), onions and fennel (for the mussels), and heavy cream (for the dessert).

I see some blue salvia at the flower stall that remind me of postcards I’ve seen of Provence, and appropriate these for the table decor.

I still need to get peas (they aren’t in season), so leave the dogs at home and go out again. Bard makes a curious observation at the start of her pasta recipe:

Five years ago, if someone told me I would take this much satisfaction in shelling my own peas, I would have laughed out loud. How times have changed.

I guess I’m not quite there yet (or perhaps I was there when I was younger — am I getting too old for these affairs?), as I find myself heading to the Trader Joe’s on 14th Street for a bag of freshly shelled English peas (yes, English — apparently there are limits to my love).

Actually, waiting on the line at Trader Joe’s on a Saturday is almost as tedious as shelling peas, and I almost laugh out loud — but then console myself by noting that I’ve also managed to score the bow tie pasta. It’s not whole wheat, though, as Bard recommends. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen whole wheat farfalle, TBH. (I wonder where Bard gets hers?)

It still remains to get fresh pesto (from the Italian specialty store on E 11th St), Green & Black’s 70% organic chocolate and ras el hanout for the dessert. I find both of these items at the Indian grocery around the corner from Little India. The ras el hanout is labeled “couscous spice” and smells appropriately exotic.

I stay up late infusing the ras el hanout in the heavy cream and melting the chocolate in that mixture for the dessert. Heaven!

Sunday, Oct 9 (morning) — final mad preparations

Another early start. I swing by the East Village Cheese store for a fresh whole wheat baguette, and then it’s off to the green market at Tompkins Square Park, to buy fresh mussels at the fishmonger’s.

There’s a spring in my step as I approach his stall. I am a woman in love, a woman possessed. Little do I know that disaster is about to strike — he had only a small supply of mussels and sold them all first thing.

Aïe. I stumble away from his stall trying to hide my tears. But then, American ingenuity kicks in: why don’t I try using Bard’s recipe but for little neck clams, which are in large supply? I go back and discuss with the fishmonger, who’s a friendly sort, très sympathique. He ends up giving me 40 clams for the price of three dozen.

But I’m not out of the woods yet. I have forgotten the figs — those delectable little fruits that ooze with flesh and seeds when you cut them open. Despite trying three grocery stores, I can’t find a single fig in the East Village — and this is fig season. Go figure!

On this ingredient, I cannot compromise. I text my foodie friends who are coming to the lunch (they live in the West Village) and ask them to scour the shops for the fleshiest, freshest figs they can find. They come through for me, confirming my long-held belief that West Village is the city’s epicurean center.

Sunday Oct 9 (1 p.m. onwards) — ah, quel plaisir!

My sister and friends arrive, the wine (initially the Muscadet I’m cooking the clams in) flows, and conversation does as well, ranging from tales of our misspent youths to the Wall Street protests.

I produce the first course, and it’s judged a big success. Does anyone mind that it’s clams and not mussels, I ask? All agree that it’s the broth that counts — and the broth, a mix of fennel, onions, garlic and white wine, is divine.

Despite being a little tipsy on the wine — we have now progressed to a bottle of red from the family domaine of Robert Sérol, au cœur de la Côte Roannaise — I manage to make the bow tie pasta al dente. I stir in the peas and the pesto, divide among four plates and then dollop on the lightly salted chevre. My guests and I gorge ourselves on this latest creation, exclaiming as several nuances emerge and caress our taste-buds — oh là là!

I suggest that we take a short break before the dessert. My cocker spaniel is nipping at my pant legs — signaling that it’s time for the guests to go home as he needs my full attention (and some treat toys with the leftovers).

But my other dog, who is mostly poodle, is having the time of her life (bien sûr), making several rounds with the guests for extended petting sessions.

Enfin, it’s back to the table for my chocolate dessert, which, I’m sorry to say, falls a little flat because — absolument incroyable! — it’s too chocolatey. Is that our fault (we don’t know chocolate from chocolate) or could the recipe use some sugar?

But the purplish-brown figs, which are ripe and ever-so-sweet, save the day.

Over little cups of coffee we all agree that my Parisian lunch at the hands of Elizabeth Bard has been an affair to remember.

Monday, Oct 10 — the morning after

My husband calls in the wee hours of the morning. He is now in Tokyo, with another week to go on his business trip.

“How was your Sunday?” he asks.

“Well, I had some my sister and some friends over for a little lunch,” I reply, thinking to myself: what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

I go back to bed and awaken several hours later, at around 8:00 a.m. I lie there for a few minutes, basking in the afterglow of yesterday’s tryst.

When I at last rouse myself and face the mounds of dishes still to be done, I realize that this little flirtation of mine has its costs (not to mention my exhaustion at having to clean the apartment).

At least the hole in my pocketbook isn’t too bad. I reckon this particular fling has cost me around $80, including the wine — not bad considering what it would cost for four people to go out for a proper French lunch in Manhattan.

Hmmm… I wonder if I can fit in one more quickie meal before my husband gets home on Friday?

As Mario Cuomo, former New York State governor and father of our current governor, once said:

When you’ve parked the second car in the garage, and installed the hot tub, and skied in Colorado, and wind-surfed in the Caribbean, when you’ve had your first love affair and your second and your third, the question will remain, where does the dream end for me?

Touché — only I don’t think he’s ever been seduced by French cuisine à la Elizabeth Bard?

Images (top to bottom): Friendly fishmonger at Tompkins Square Park; little neck clams in fennel; an enthusiastic canine participant; chocolate pot with figs.

STAY TUNED for Tuesday’s post on classic displaced writing.

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12 French cooking terms — a glossary for kitchen dummies, or anyone not lucky enough to be an expat in France

2 Comments Posted by on October 14, 2011

Although Julia Child made a career out of teaching French cuisine to the masses, not all of us have had the opportunity to practice our culinary skills to the extent that good lady may have envisioned.

Still, the good news is, sometimes we use French cooking methods without even realizing it.

For those not lucky enough to live in France or to have studied French cooking for a dedicated period, here is a short glossary of common terms — as defined by culinary experts (Master Chefs) and dummies (whose experience tends toward Gordan Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares).

1. BEIGNETS –
Master Chef Definition: Small lumps of fried dough.
Kitchen Nightmare Definition: Donut holes. (See: Dunkin Donut, Krispy Kremes, Fairground stands, etc.)

2. BEURRE NOISETTE –
MC Definition: Browned butter.
KN Definition: The realistic result of squabbling children and the following recipe direction: “Gently melt 1 ounce of butter over a low heat.”

3. CANAPE –
MC Definition: An appetizer consisting of a piece of bread or toast or a cracker topped with a savory spread (such as caviar or cheese.)
KN Definition: Ritz crackers and Marmite.

4. CHAPELUX –
MC Definition: Browned bread crumbs.
KN Definition: The contents of the toaster’s crumb-catcher.

5. CROUTONS –
MC Definition: Small cubes of toasted or crisply fried bread
KN Definition: The best part of a salad.

 6. DARIOLE –
MC Definition: A small cup-shaped mold used for making individual dishes.
KN Definition: A small cup-shaped mold in a set of six, bought in a fit of retail therapy enthusiasm in specialist kitchen shop. Used once for packet Jell-O. Now gathering dust at back of pantry, possibly with the addition of dead wasp or similar.

7. DEGLACER – 
MC Definition: To dissolve cooking juices attached to the sides of a pot or pan with a little hot liquid to create a sauce. 
KN Definition: A way of cleaning the burnt bits off a pan without using a Brillo pad.

8. ESCALOPE –
MC Definition: A piece of boneless meat, thinned out by using a mallet.
KN Definition: 1) A method of making the dregs of the freezer go further; 2) Friday night stress-reliever after aggravating week.

9. FLAMBE
MC Definition: Covered with liquor and set alight briefly.
KN Definition: A sinful waste of good alcohol.

10. MARMITE
MC Definition: An earthenware container for soup.
KN Definition:  Oh come on. Everyone knows what Marmite really is. (See “Canape”)

11. RECHAUFEE –
MC Definition: Reheated food.
KN Definition:  A fancy word to disguise the fact you’re giving the family leftovers for the third day in a row.

12. TERRINE –
MC Definition: A mixture of chopped ingredients baked in a loaf-shaped container, served at room temperature.
KN Definition: Day-old meat loaf

STAY TUNED for Monday’s Recipe Review – A Parisian Lunch in Manhattan.

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Finding Paradise in Provence, Part 2: Our expat foodie asks – Patisserie or Pudding?

7 Comments Posted by on October 11, 2011

In the second of her guest posts this month, Joanna Masters-Maggs talks more about her recent culinary discoveries in France, as we ask her, “Is the foodie capital of the world everything it’s cracked up to be – or does the emperor need to put his clothes on?”

“I’m tired of these perfectly-glazed French tarts”, my husband declared last night. “I want a big, fat, English pudding.”

I looked up sharply. Was he making some untoward comparison between chic French ladies and less well-presented English women, such as myself? I hoped not, for his sake. But he was ruefully regarding the Mille Fueille on the plate before him.

“Some custard too. That would be nice.” He looked at me sadly.

I wasn’t sure how to react. “Get me some Golden Syrup and I’ll make steamed pudding,” I offered. Sixteen years overseas, but how English we are!

Just desserts…every Sunday

We have only been in Aix for six weeks and have held to our plan of finding the best food and drink it has to offer. Part of this includes buying a cake or tart from a patisserie each week for Sunday dinner. I reflected on what we have so far sampled: a chocolate Opera for the weekend of my daughter’s birthday, an open apple tart, another filled with patisserie cream and topped with fruit and, yes, glaze. We tried the Tropezienne which hails from St Tropez and was named by Brigitte Bardot.

Now this “thousand leaves of pastry” sat before us. Like its predecessors, it was pedigree in origin. Only the most shameless “bring–a-dish” guest would try to pass this off as homemade. Perfectly cut, evenly browned, you just knew it would not suffer from a soggy bottom or any similar such indignity.

So why is it that with these desserts fastidious restraint is so easy to find? My husband is right. If we had a steamed syrup pudding and some custard before us, we would have been slavering for second helpings. With this aristocrat, to do so would seem uncouth and unnecessary.

The proof of the pudding…

Perhaps, dare I even suggest, in terms of flavour and texture, if not the skill required to make it, Syrup Pudding and its like are superior as a pudding to their French counterparts. I am ducking the missiles I feel may be coming my way. But if I am unrefined in my tastes, surely I cannot be alone? Syrup Pudding may be simple, comfort food but it is also a divine comination of textures and flavours. The addition of custard, Crème Anglaise if you will, serves to cut any possible cloyingness of texture or the risk of oversweetness. Surprisingly light, but pleasingly substantial, there always seems room for another serving.

I have, on occasion, offered to clean up after dinner, singlehanded. Not some heroic act of self-sacrifice, offered at the shrine of my family’s comfort. Rather, the siren call of the dish the pudding was steamed in, enticing me to scrape it out. Can the same be said for the tin in which a Tarte Tatin was made? I fear not.

Leave it to the experts – or leave it to Mum?

I have been told that no French person would take along homemade pudding as a contribution to a dinner to which he or she had been invited. Such a thing would be to insult the host with a poor quality, amateur offering. Why take some ramshackle amateur affair when there are professionals to do a proper job?

It seems that we English – well, at least, my husband and I – feel differently. The “homemadeness” is what we enjoy. The time spent making it, the compliment to the host. As I cast my mind back to adverts for cakes and packaging for various factory-made cakes and puddings, it is clear that supermarkets and manufacturers are keen to stress their product is “Just like home” or “What Mum used to make.” The Brits will remember Mr. Kipling and his extraordinary cakes, which he liked to bring out for village fetes and cricket matches. It’s just that Mr. Kipling was a factory, somewhere fairly industrial in England, churning out Battenbergs by the thousand.

I have enjoyed and will continue to enjoy my foray into French patisseries. However, I feel it will not end my love of the home-baked, and what I will enjoy in most French bakeries are the comfortable croissants and brioches.

The best of both sides (of the English Channel)

For me food seems less about style and more about comfort and general “toothsomeness”. Is this another difference between England and France? I think it may be. I count myself lucky that, at the moment, I can enjoy both attitudes. But this weekend, my husband will get his syrup pudding and custard. Not, not just custard — make that “Crème Anglaise”!

Related posts:

Finding Paradise in Provence, Part I: An expat foodie’s views on French cuisine for the very young

Displaced Q: in modern French cuisine, who wins the race — the slow-food tortoise or the McDonald’s fast-food hare?

When a Julia Child-like curiosity about French cuisine leads to a displaced life — bienvenue au October theme

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Give a dog a chocolate — why US-based expats shouldn’t use UK Chocolate Week to revive an old complaint

16 Comments Posted by on October 10, 2011

Continuing this month’s food-related theme — and in honor of National Chocolate Week in the UK — founding contributor Anthony Windram weighs in with some thoughts on the often contentious expat topic of American chocolate.

Though I do, like most people, enjoy a bit of chocolate, I’ve never been a connoisseur of the stuff. Any old rubbish will do for a quick fix, truth be told. I’m not one of those people looking for what percent of cocoa is in a bar. As a six year old, I remember my Nana — God bless her, then in the beginnings of dementia — had bought me a packet of chocolate from the corner shop. I can still recall the packet which, rather tellingly, was taken up with the picture of a happy dog. The chocolate inside was a little more out of the ordinary, a little grittier than normal. But it was chocolate and I was happy sat on the floor of my Nana’s living room munching away while watching TV, my mouth doubtless covered in chocolate. My dad, however, happened to notice the packet of chocolate and asked me if he could see it for a moment. Being a trusting child I made the mistake of giving him the packet of chocolate. I was never to see it again.

Nana, I was later to learn, had inadvertently purchased for me some chocolatey dog treats. However, as I recall they really weren’t too bad. Yes, the texture was more gritty than you’d prefer, but I had been as happy as Larry eating them. That should have been the moment that I realized that I was not, and never would be, a chocolate aficionado. When I was older and the only chocolate that I could find in the house was cooking chocolate, I was more than happy to snack on that, too. Coincidentally, its grittier taste reminded me of the dog treats I’d been given all those years before.

In its own way eating that chocolatey dog treat turned out to be good preparation for living in the US. The European expat now often seems to have strong views about chocolate in the US. Without any prompting they’ll bring the subject up and scrunch their face in disgust. “American chocolate,” they’ll say, spitting out the words like they probably do the chocolate itself, “is disgusting.”  And yes, I will admit, that it’s not great. Hershey’s chocolate has a lingering, bitter aftertaste that after eating it I often think I’m suffering from GERD. But you can eat a Milky Way and for the most part it is fine. You’ll possibly suffer from cognitive dissonance from the fact that an American Milky Way is, in fact, like a British Mars bar rather than a British Milky Way bar which is, in turn, like an American Three Musketeers Bar…oh, the confusion! But the chocolate in a Milky Way, while different, isn’t necessarily worse. It’s just in the grand scheme of things in the world of chocolate, American chocolate is the chocolate dog treats my confused Nana bought — and that isn’t something I’m going to complain too much about.

Question: What are your thoughts on American chocolate?

Image: MorgueFile

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s post, part 2 of Joanna Masters-Maggs’ quest to find paradise in Provence.

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Finding Paradise in Provence, Part I: An expat foodie’s views on French cuisine for the very young

4 Comments Posted by on October 5, 2011

Continuing our theme of French cuisine, today we bring you the first of two guest posts from Joanna Masters-Maggs. Joanna and her husband are originally from England and have four children aged between seven and fourteen. Over the last fifteen years they have lived in seven different countries, and this summer they achieved what is considered by some to be the Holy Grail, the Paradise of company transfers: a two-year assignment in France. Despite her nomadic lifestyle, Joanna has stayed British at heart, and her post therefore is written in British English.

Oscar Wilde once famously said:

“When good Americans die they go to Paris.”

Paraphrasing him, I like to say of the employees of the company for which my husband works that

“If they are good, they will finally be transferred to Paris.”

After living in six other countries during our 15-year marriage, our family has been lucky enough – or perhaps well-behaved enough – to be transferred to France. Not Paris but, in terms of Paradise, close. In fact, some would say we have been even luckier, because we are now based in delightful Aix-en-Provence.

Having spent the last two years in Saudi Arabia, I was more than ready to reacquaint myself with the delights of French charcuterie and wine. While a six-week period of hotels and temporary apartments offered plenty of opportunities to try restaurants, bistros and cafes, there is no point waxing lyrical about Michelin-starred restaurants and the quality of basic ingredients in markets and delicatessens. It’s all been said before, and by people far more qualified than I.

Thankfully, more prosaic matters had piqued my interest before I was invited to write this guest post.

Developing a French palate? It’s child’s play.

One of our first purchases in France was a couple of board games for family game night. Not the usual Monopoly and Trivial Pursuit, however.

“How interesting!” I thought, as I looked at these things in the shop. “Tasting games and smelling games for children? I’ve never seen that before.”

Well, the instructions claimed these pastimes were suitable for young children, but little did I realise how demanding the games would be. I am not four years old (the lower end of the suggested age range for players) but I had trouble distinguishing between liquorice and aniseed. More trouble than I care to admit.

We travel to experience different cultures. But even after living in such various places as Holland, Brazil, and Saudi Arabia – among others – I realised with the purchase of these games that resettling in France with four children was going to be quite the cultural experience.

Out of the mouths of babes

This hunch was confirmed a few days later. My 7-year-old son, Patrick, recently started a new international school here in Aix. As we walked down the leafy lane that leads to the kind of shuttered and shabby chic building this part of France does so well, we met David, one of Patrick’s new friends.

During the ensuing conversation that covered the unoriginal topics we mums tend to ask about, I learned that David had spent his first year in a mainstream French school before attending international school.

“It was hard,” he solemnly informed me. “No one spoke any English, and they were strict. But I miss it.”

“You do?” I asked in the sing-song, too-bright way that mothers always adopt when talking to small children. “Why is that?”

He turned serious eyes on me.

“Well, the food, of course,” he replied.

He was too polite to add “stupid” but it hung in the air.

“The French, you see. They’re good at food. It’s nice here, but in French schools they have three courses and lots of different cheese. We get less cheese,” he added sadly.

If you cook it, they will come.

I was already impressed with the food served at the two international schools my four children attend, so I understood this was praise indeed from David. My children’s schools have resisted the usual route of chips, nuggets and pizza, and instead serve mainly simple grilled meats with vegetables and salads. Wednesdays tend to be more indulgent days, involving cheesy gratins and so forth. Puddings are sparse, and at their most indulgent involve only a small patisserie. No one is allowed second helpings, but fruit is plentiful.

The French are rightly proud of their reputation for good food and believe that appreciating it should form a part of the educational system.

School lunches: a social occasion, and rightly so.

Not since our days in Brazil have I been so enthused by a system of school lunches. Brazil took the whole process one step further. From the ages of 4 and 5, my children sat down at one table with their classmates, teacher, and assistants, and ate together, passing the vegetables and pouring water for one another.

How wonderful to take the time in the middle of the day to eat together and socialize in this way.

Between Brazil and France, I have spent a lot of time in various schools, agitating for better food and a more pleasant way of serving it. Jamie Oliver would have been proud of me. Time and again, though, I was told that the schools had tried switching to healthier food on the menu, but the children didn’t eat it.

“Children must have choice,” the mantra goes. Thus the healthy food, unappealingly presented, is placed next to the chips and baked beans. After a week or so of throwing it away, the contracted caterers stop serving it, to save money and maximize profits.

What the French and Brazilians understand, however, is if the choice is between eating well or going hungry for a few hours, most children will eventually adapt their tastes into healthy eating habits that will last a lifetime.

Good food, small portions, and time given to it. Simple.

Other countries could learn so much from this philosophy, especially those who constantly bewail an obesity problem among their population.

After all, it’s probably no coincidence that I see so few large French people – or saw so few large Brazilians.

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Img: Exhausted but happy! Joanna on her first afternoon in France.

STAY TUNED for tomorrow’s episode of Libby’s Life, when Oliver returns from Vancouver to some news from Libby. Good news — or not?

Related posts:

DISPLACED Q: In modern French cuisine, who wins the race — the Slow Food Tortoise or the McDonald’s Fast-Food Hare?

When a Julia Child-like curiosity about French cuisine leads to a displaced life — bienvenue au October theme

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe to The Displaced Dispatch, a weekly round up of posts from The Displaced Nation, plus some extras such as seasonal recipes and occasional book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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DISPLACED Q: In modern French cuisine, who wins the race — the slow-food tortoise or the McDonald’s fast-food hare?

7 Comments Posted by on October 4, 2011

In yesterday’s post on French cooking guru Julia Child, ML Awanohara wrote about the Slow Food movement, which began life in the 1980s in resistance against big international interests and, more specifically, the opening of a McDonald’s near the Spanish Steps in Rome.

Today, on its website, Slow Food states it aims to

counter the rise of fast food and fast life, the disappearance of local food traditions and people’s dwindling interest in the food they eat, where it comes from, how it tastes and how our food choices affect the rest of the world.

Valid and valiant aims in an eco-conscious world that nevertheless marches toward global homogenization.

Slow and steady? Or just slow?

Yesterday, ML also expressed her bemusement that the movement started in Italy, not France — a reaction I share with her, because if one traditional cuisine takes le gateau when it comes to drawn-out toiling over a hot stove, it’s the French.

Learning the nuances of French cooking isn’t something I’ve ever yearned to do. While I am full of admiration for Julie Powell and her quest to conquer all 524 recipes in Julia Child’s tome of French cooking, I have no desire to repeat the exercise myself.

Well, perhaps that is no more you would expect of me. I am British, after all — Brits aren’t famed for their good food, although of course I feel this reputation is undeserved — and I have lived much of my life in America, home of fast foods such as Burger King and McDonald’s.

Do I exist on cheeseburgers and fries, though? Absolutely not. Rarely, in fact. I cook most things, from traditional English cakes and roast dinners to an authentic variety of Indian, Chinese, and Thai dishes. When it comes to French cuisine, though, my repertoire is limited to creme brulee and cherry clafoutis.

My reason? I’m not prepared to spend vast swathes of my evening preparing an eighteen-ingredient, three-page recipe when I can get an enthusiastic reception from my family by cooking a Ken Hom stir fry in one-third of the time.

But no matter the nationality of food I cook, it’s rare that our family does not sit down together in the dining room and eat together. The way I see it, rather less time spent in the kitchen means more time eating and conversing as a family.

Could it be that French cuisine has shot itself in the foot with its complicated nature?

Winning by a hare’s breadbun?

In his 2008 article in The Times, Hugo Rifkind describes McDonald’s as

“France’s dirty secret.”

Three years ago, Paris had around 70 McDonald’s — or McDoh’s, as they’re known there — which is the same number as in London, in a city with a third of London’s population.

Rifkind says:

Stop any Frenchman on the street…and he will shrug and snarl and say that he doesn’t eat in McDonald’s.

But someone does, and it can’t be just the tourists.

Evidence suggests that the image of the French businessman taking a two-hour, multi-course lunch is gradually being consigned to the past, and instead of lingering over a bottle of fine red and runny camembert, Monsieur is adopting the regrettable Anglo-American habit of lunch on the hop.

One oft-quoted statistic is that the length of the average French meal has fallen from 1 hour 22 minutes in 1978 to a mere 38 minutes today.

A sad statistic indeed.

While McDonald’s is trying to cater to the French palate by introducing the McBaguette and the Croque McDo, I feel this is missing the point.

Food is not just about fueling the body.

It is about taking time out of your day to enjoy time and conversation with friends. It should be about savoring the taste of good flavors, not about stuffing a sandwich down your gullet as fast as possible so you can make that meeting at one o’clock.

In Aesop’s fable, the tortoise eventually won the race.

In this race, I hope the Snail does.

STAY TUNED for Wednesday’s guest post by a serial expat who has recently moved to Provence.

Related post:

When a Julia Child-like curiosity about French cuisine leads to a displaced life — bienvenue au October theme

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When a Julia Child-like curiosity about French cuisine leads to a displaced life — bienvenue au October theme

9 Comments Posted by on October 3, 2011

The first time I was introduced to the Slow Food movement was in the land of its birth, Italy. My husband and I were in Florence for the wedding of his niece, and we ended up befriending and dining out with a couple of the other guests: a Chinese-American brother and sister from California who were serious gourmets and would only go to Slow-Food restaurants.

Ever since then, I’ve been puzzled.

Not by the concept of Slow Food itself. I get the idea of savoring a meal that is cooked from fresh, locally-sourced ingredients and that has not been prepared in advance — we’re talking the anti-Fast Food.

What’s more, I had enormous fun in Florence peering at all the restaurant doorways to see if they had a snail symbol. “No snail? Well then we’re not eating there,” I would declare to my husband.

No, what I find confounding is that the movement started in Italy, not in France.

For me, Italian food, with its pizzas, anti-pastas and gelatos, comes fairly close to being the fast food of Europe.

That could never be true, of course, of French cooking. (And what better symbol of French cooking than a snail, btw?)

I feel certain Julia Child would agree with me. An expat in Paris for many years, Julia belongs in the Displaced Nation’s Hall of Fame because of her refusal to be satisfied with her native country’s Anglo-derived plain food consisting of meat and potatoes and two veggies — let alone the fast-food version: meat (as it were), bun, French (quel insult!) fries, no veg.

Addressing just one of these nefarious ingredients, Julia once said:

How can a nation be called great if its bread tastes like Kleenex?

For Julia, France was a spiritual as well as culinary homeland. As she wrote in her memoir, My Life in France:

I fell in love with French food — the tastes, the processes, the history, the endless variations, the rigorous discipline, the creativity, the wonderful people, the equipment, the rituals.

A date with destiny

Julia’s first forays into foreign cuisine occurred when she worked for the Office of Strategic Services (the precursor to the CIA) during World War II.

She was posted first to Kandy, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), and then to Kunming, China. Along the way, she met, and fell in love with, Paul Child, an early example of a foodie. At Paul’s initiative, they entertained themselves by exploring Ceylonese and Chinese cuisine and culture.

The pair married the year after the war ended, and Paul went to work for the American Embassy in Paris — a move that proved fortuitous in the extreme for his wife’s career.

For their first meal on French soil, Paul ordered sole meunière. For Julia, it was an epiphany — “the most exciting meal of my life.” The scales fell not just from the fish but from her eyes. She could see what American WASPs like herself were missing out on: sauces made with fresh herbs, butter, wine, and so forth.

The rest is history.

Bon appétit — say what?

Well, not quite. To be honest, I don’t think Julia’s approach to French cooking ever really took hold here in the U.S. We pretended that it did because we loved Julia so much. We loved her for her jolly-jape sense of humor and melodious voice.

But half the time, we didn’t understand what she was wittering on about.

Now, Julia knew that her fellow citizens were mostly flimsies (her word for people who aren’t serious about food). But she thought that the key to converting us was to provide a step-by-step outline of the centuries-old techniques that the French learn like a language: how to make foundation sauces, how to do a roux, how to lay in flavor, how to be patient.

The blogger Julie Powell tried to cook all 524 recipes in Child’s encyclopedic Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in a single year. Some say it was a gimmick, but I say, hey, she deserves the fame — including the honor of having Amy Adams play her in the ensuing Nora Ephron film, Julie & Julia.

‘Fess up: when was the last time you cracked open Julia Child’s magnum opus and gave her recipes a try?

Food writer Regina Schrambling wrote in a post for Slate just after the film’s release, analyzing the problem:

Consider the boeuf bourguignon depicted so romantically in the movie… The ingredients and instructions for its recipe span three pages, and that is before you hit the fine print: The beef stock, braised pearl onions, and sautéed mushrooms all require separate procedures. Step 1 involves making lardons and simmering them for 10 minutes in a precise amount of water; seven steps later, the fat is finally skimmed off the sauce, which is either boiled down to thicken or adjusted with liquid if it’s too thick.

And this is considered an entry-level recipe….Even simple sautéed veal scallops with mushrooms involve 18 ingredients and implements and two pages of instruction.

TDN’s October theme

Still, if expat blogs are anything to go by, a Julia Child-like curiosity with France and French cuisine has continued unabated since Julia’s own time. There is no shortage of Americans (also some Canadians and South Americans) who have relocated to France and intend to stay for as long as it takes to learn the art of French cooking at some level.

Partly out of curiosity, partly out of jealousy, The Displaced Nation will peer into the lives — and kitchens — of several of these expats during October.

What is it actually like to make the Ultimate Slow Food your focus? It any less daunting because of living in France and adopting the French lifestyle? And like Displaced Hall of Famer Julia Child, do today’s expats have (or hope to have) a spoon in the soup back here: are they planning to stir things up and convert us?

Readers, do you have any questions you’d like us to explore on this theme? Vas-y! Let us know!

If you enjoyed this post, we invite you to subscribe to The Displaced Dispatch, a weekly round up of posts from The Displaced Nation, plus some extras such as seasonal recipes and occasional book giveaways. Sign up for The Displaced Dispatch by clicking here!

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