Love letters to Paris (Part 2)
The sound of (street) music
While Paris has a full seasonal schedule of indoor music at their two opera houses, endless churches, and concert halls, what I love best is their infinite source of street music. It is not unusual to happen upon a group of young musicians playing Fauré, Ravel, or Debussy in the square opposite the Louvre on the Rue de Rivoli. Naturally, the violin case is open for contributions as it is considered poor form in France to listen to the young artists and not throw in some coins.
Street music is everywhere. There is a middle-aged gentleman who looks like Jean-Paul Belmondo, with his fedora hat and swagger, who wanders around my neighborhood in the Marais. In one hand is his trumpet and in the other a speaker on wheels for his background music. He plays nostalgic tunes from the 30’s and 40’s which never fail to put smiles on the faces of his impromptu audience.
My favorite street music experience happened years ago when Ed and I were dragging home our bounty from the local open-air market ten blocks from our apartment. The sound of a street organ grinder was wafting through the air at a distance. As we got closer to our apartment, we found the source: a beret-clad man, slightly rotund, wearing a bright red vest and multi-colored scarf around this neck. He was hamming it up for the small crowd gathered around him on the sidewalk as he casually fed perforated music cards through his orgue de barbarie.
When I went to take a photo, I realized I had forgotten my iPhone at home. Ed and I wandered back to our apartment disappointed at the missed photo opp. On a whim, I decided to see if I could relocate the musician. I suppose I was inspired by memories of the film “The Red Balloon” (where a balloon follows a little boy through the streets of Paris). I left the groceries for Ed to unpack and headed back outside. I listened intently while retracing my footsteps. Ed stayed home saying my efforts were futile.
Finally, I detected the faint sounds of the organ-grinder as I meandered through the maze of narrow, cobble-stoned streets of our neighborhood. The sound which evoked those sentiments of my youth became more and more audible in the distance. Eventually, I found my organ grinder taking a pause from his work casually smoking a cigarette. He was delighted with my request for a few photos plus the anticipation of a few coins.
As we started chatting, I noticed he was speaking quite slowly and had a pronounced “r” as he chatted in French. Turns out, the musician was from Belgium although he hastened to tell me that he had lived the past twenty years in Paris.
For fun, I asked Monsieur the proverbial foodie question: who makes the best frites: The Belgian or the French? Clearly, I had injured his national pride. With a huff, he replied indignantly. “We taught the French how to make les frites. Ours are more délicieuses as we use an old Belgian variety of potato, Bintje, and instead of peanut oil, we use blanc de boeuf (beef drippings) for frying. Even the French. Madame, will admit the superior taste of Belgian frites.”
Open-air markets treasures
If you love open-air markets, Paris is for you. In addition to food markets with their pyramids of colorful seasonal produce, you can find outdoor stalls selling a whole range of treasures: books, stamps, art and antiques, local crafts, clothing and more. There is even a market on Ile St. Louis where you can buy flowers and small trees six days a week. Then, on Sunday, it transforms itself into a bird market offering everything from canaries to cockatoos.
Within walking distance of my apartment are two markets, Richard Lenoir and my favorite, the famous Marché d’Aligre in the 12th arrondisment (Métro: Ledru-Rollin.) It’s the trifecta of markets. Not only does it have an enclosed market building—a registered historic site with some of Paris’s finest food purveyors—but it is also offers an active street market leading up to its main entrance. To round it out, a marché aux puces, or flea market, spills out into the semi-circular “square” outside the building’s back door.
Parisians of all ages know and love le Marché d’Aligre. This is an authentic shopping experience which most tourists bypass as it is in a somewhat grungy, less affluent part of town.
You can spend most of your day here starting first with the indoor market. I like to stroll around inside to see what is being featured at its many stalls. Even if I am not planning to buy tripe or horsemeat, the stand still fascinates me. I never fail to make numerous purchases inside Beauveau, the name for the enclosed market. I have a favorite butcher who makes his own foie gras, a cheese monger who offers hundreds of perfectly ripened, local French specialties, plus a stand where I buy pâtés, prepared salads and vol au vent (puff pastry rounds filled with mushrooms, ham and béchamel).
After filling up my cart with fancy provisions, I prepare for the onslaught of the ruckus outside of fruit and vegetable vendors, many of whom are North African. They promote their produce with the boisterous enthusiasm of a circus barker. “Goûtez! Un euro le kilo!”
Whereas indoors at Beauveau the atmosphere is gentile and bartering is definitely out of the question, outdoors on the street where calm turns to cacophony, it is permitted. However, you need to be relatively fluent in French to negotiate with the fast-talking vendors who are usually also busy slicing pieces of their ripest fruits to seduce passers-by.
The flea market in the square is a jumble of junk. However, being an obsessive bargain hunter, I can always find something of interest. My most recent haul was a Quimper ceramic bowl for morning café au lait and a diminutive silver ice bucket to use as a cache pot for small plants.
You can easily build up an appetite being around so much deliciousness at the market. Normally, I do as the Parisians: enjoy a light lunch in the “hood.” Beauveau market is ringed with inexpensive wine bars and casual bistros. My preferred quick lunch is to join the locals for a tray of freshly chucked oysters with a short tumbler of chilled Muscadet. The fun part of eating in this neighborhood is that your lunch is often served on the sidewalk on an upended wine barrel.
If you plan to venture into the world of open-air markets, food or otherwise, these few tips may come in handy:
· Always carry a sturdy bag with you. Parisian vendors no longer offer sacs for your purchases.
· For a pleasant experience, start all transactions with a “Bonjour Monsieur” or “Madame” greeting when addressing the vendor. Remember to also end with a “Merci.” Being polite is considered de rigueur in France. Bypass this rule? You’re on your own.
· If you are looking for bargain prices, go at the end of the day when vendors are less interested in packing up the goods than in getting rid of them.
· Always check the schedule of when the market is open and for how long. Mondays they are usually closed. And when they are open, they normally close by 2 PM. This is France after all and vendors deserve their lunch too!
Qu’ils mangent des baguettes
For years I’ve had a fixation with finding the freshest, best quality baguettes. But it’s not just me. Diehard local fans don’t mind standing in line either to secure their bread right before a meal at home. This means up to three times a day for some people. Why so often? Because it guarantees freshness and a crackling crust, two essential criteria of quality when it comes to bread. Even better is when the baguette you’ve purchased is still warm. In which case, it is perfectly acceptable to break off the heel of the bread (or le guignon) to enjoy on your way home.
But all is not well with France’s ubiquitous boulangeries. Of late, France’s 33,000 bakeries have been threatened by the proliferation of suprettes or small-scale grocery stores owned by major supermarket chains. They offer convenience and a lower cost for their baguettes. This has caused the closure of over 1, 000 family-owned bakeries. In response, the government created a bread decree in 1993 to protect both the artisanal boulangeries and the quality of French bread products.
At this point, the French did something unique: they invented a new form of baguette which they named “la tradition.” It differentiate itself from the regular baguette in several ways. First, according to law, only flour, salt, yeast, and water can be used (whereas cheaper ingredients, additives and fillers are permitted in supermarket breads). Second, all tradition-style bread must be baked on the premises, not in a commissary or factory.
While the government does not control the price of bread, it is closely monitored by consumer associations. Industrially produced baguettes sold at supermarkets cost around 45 centimes. In a bakery, however, a baguette will cost around 95 centimes. However, the taste will also be noticeably superior as most artisanal bakers’ pride won’t allow for shortcuts. Then, for a mere addition 10-15 centimes, you can enjoy a tradition. Your modest investment will be richly rewarded with an enormous leap in quality.
France is particularly proud of its iconic baguette and even more so of its relatively new bread creation, la tradition. In fact, it is now part of the annual Les Meilleurs Ouvriers de France competition. This means “best craftsman of France,” a title which is bestowed on the winners of some 200 categories of traditional, handmade French products from silversmith to chocolatier, from jewelry craftsman to baker and piano tuner to cheese maker.
Within MOF’s category of bread, the artisanal bakers of the best 200 tradition loaves compete in a blind competition. The prize? The winner brings home 4,000 Euros, the prestige of being the official bread of the Elysée Palace for a year, and the envy of his or her peers.
The winner in 2021, Christian Vabret, claims you can hear the difference between a baguette and a well-made tradition: the later sings. To demonstrate his claim during a press interview, he pressed down on one of his golden-brown, crusted traditions. As the croûte collapsed in on itself, it released a staticky, crackling noise. The factory made, pale baguette, on the other hand, barely produced a deflated whimper.
When in Paris, I carry a cardboard box in my suitcase to fill with traditions to carry home. My trick is to cut each loaf in half, wrap them in aluminum foil, then stick each one immediately in the freezer. The box of bread is the last thing packed before heading to the airport. Of course, it is the first thing to unpack when I step into the New York City apartment. Usually, the loaves are still frozen. They are reserved for friends with refined palates who—as baker Vabret might phrase it—“enjoy making the bread sing for their supper.”
To be continued…