The Sweet Life in Paris

by David Lebovitz

  To add to the chaos, the students struck at the same time. And so did the teachers and customs officials. And postal workers and hospital workers and civil servants and tax inspectors. And newspaper and television employees. Many banks shut their doors, too, since getting to work was pas possible. Most of Paris just shut down.

  The demonstrators, instead of sitting at home and staring at a blank television screen or rereading last week’s newspapers, took part in festivities that the Associate Press reported had “a picnic atmosphere, with music, roasted sausages and balloons.” Strikes in Paris are often rather convivial, aided by good food and free-flowing, cheap wine. In fact, I’m thinking I should go on strike once in a while, too.

  Contrary to what a lot of people imagine, many French workers aren’t part of any syndicat at all. In 2005, just under 10 percent of the workers here were members of a union, one of the lowest rates in Europe. The same year, 12 percent of Americans belonged to a union. Yet the unions hold a lock-hard grip in France, much stronger than elsewhere, and they certainly enjoy more widespread public support than they do in America.

  I remember a few transit strikes that occurred when I lived in the Bay Area. At first, they were just a nuisance. By “at first,” I mean for the first five minutes. As the day wore on, people were not just upset, they went ballistic. Streets were clogged, sidewalks mobbed, folks couldn’t get to work, and by noon, people’s patience with the strikers had reached a boiling point. Negotiations for a resolution soon ensued.

  By contrast, the French shrug off the strikers with pursed lips and a look of resignation, as if to say, “We are French. That’s what we do.”

  When the smoking ban was implemented at the end of 2007, I thought, “What are the smokers going to do? Take to the streets against something that’s killing sixty thousand of their fellow citizens a year?”

  Well, yes, they did. The biggest manifestation was four weeks before doomsday for les fumeurs, when ten thousand of them invaded the streets of Paris to assert their right to smoke-out everyone around them with the stinky, unhealthy fumes from their cigarettes. I’m not quite sure what they hoped to accomplish: even in France, it’s hard for smokers to arouse a lot of sympathy from the general public. And since the health minister was wise and declared the ban to be not a law, but a “decree,” it was impossible to reverse. But I’m glad they got what they needed to off their chests, so the rest of our chests could breathe a little easier when eating out.

  Another hopeful group of strikers was the pesky motor scooter riders, protesting a crackdown on parking and driving on the sidewalk. Personally, I don’t mind if scooters park on sidewalks. You can walk around them. But I do mind when riders rev them up to high speed before flying across the walkways, sending everyone scattering in multiple directions while they barrel through. One day at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, I felt someone jostling me from behind, even more aggressively than usual. I turned to discover it wasn’t exactly a person doing the shoving, but the front wheel of a scooter that was nudging me forward. I don’t know if there’s ever been a demonstration for the rights of pedestrians, but I’d be happy to organize one to take back the sidewalks.

  And oddly, there was also a firemen’s strike where les pompiers de Paris lit dramatic fires as part of their protest, in the place de la Bastille, prompting the police to come and calm things down. Now that was something I never thought I’d see: police in riot gear battling firemen.

  The Bastille, where I live, is best known as the site where the infamous prison was seized and ransacked by the masses, igniting the French Revolution. Two hundred and twenty years later my doorstep is still the starting point for almost all the marches and strikes that happen in Paris. Fortunately it doesn’t happen all that much. Just once a day or so.

  I don’t need to read the paper or watch the news to find out when the strikes will be taking place; I just have to listen out my window. I know something’s up when the normal cacophony of traffic slows to a halt followed by a few minutes of silence, while the police clear the streets. My whole apartment will start to quiver from the dull thud of thousands of feet heading my way. (Being from San Francisco, the first time this happened, I almost dove under a table, thinking it was an earthquake.) As the mob closes in, there’s unrelenting shouting, cheering, and screeching into bullhorns, all accompanied by the smell of roasting saucisses and blaring music, while throngs of people march down the boulevard carrying banners, clogging the streets, and causing general havoc for the next few hours.

  To make matters worse, the drivers of the cars blockaded on the side streets somehow imagine that leaning on their horns nonstop will persuade twelve thousand protesters to stop what they’re doing and kindly move aside for them to pass. The upside is that I’m saving a fortune on newspapers; a glance outside is all that’s necessary to keep me up-to-date on current affairs.

  I was very excited the first time I saw a manifestation. (The French just say manif; since they’re so frequent, there simply wouldn’t be enough time in the day if they had to pronounce the whole word every time one happened.) I was absolutely entranced. “Oh look! The people are taking to the streets, shouting in French. How charming! It’s going to be so much fun living here. I can’t wait to see the next one!”

  But when it happens the second day… then the third … then the fourth (sometimes twice a day), les manifs quickly lose their appeal—especially when members of the striking syndicats plaster your neighborhood with solidarity and brotherhood stickers, and set up a wall of speakers, each the size of a Renault, right underneath your window, blaring music while steamed-up drivers in backed-up cars lean on their horns. My whole apartment vibrates until everyone’s had their say and they pack up the grills and head home. There must be a different syndicat of people responsible for scraping all the stickers from the lampposts, walls, and Métro stations—workers whom the previous group don’t feel the need for any solidarité and fraternité with.

  The aforementioned strike in November of 2007 marked a big turning point for modern France. Nicolas Sarkozy had been elected by promising deep and tough reforms, vowing to tighten up France’s notoriously generous benefits. His Napoleonic ego was infamous and he was about as stubborn and feisty as they come. Sarko (as he was quickly dubbed by the abbreviation-happy French) had stood up in a huff and bid adieu to Lesley Stahl during a television interview for 60 Minutes when she asked about his wife, who had left him several times for her boyfriend in New York, before finally splitting for good. (Previously, when Sarkozy’s ex-wife was asked by an interviewer where she expected to see herself in ten years’ time, she replied, “Jogging in Central Park.”) Just after his contentious election, the French were positively scandalized when he had the nerve to take a short vacation on—gasp—a friend’s yacht. Other transgressions included his distaste for wine, mingling with American celebrities, and engaging in the unseemly practice of le jogging.

  Jacques Chirac, the previous president, had a history of giving in. But right from the start, Sarko said he wouldn’t be having any of that, and everyone knew he meant it. The strikers could bring the country to a screeching halt for all he cared, but he was even more stubborn than they.

  So the strikes of ‘07 began. All transit came to a halt and no one could go anywhere. If you absolutely insisted on coming into Paris from the suburbs, traffic jams lasting three hours were the norm. Although everyone said this was going to be the great test of the new Vélib’ free-bike program, I gave it an F, since every time I showed up at the rack, all the bikes were gone. Or claimed by crafty Parisians who had chained the communal bikes to the station with their own personal locks.

  After ten days of strikes, public disapproval of the strikers was at a whopping 70 percent and Métro and bus drivers in Paris started going back to work regardless of the strike, since they weren’t getting paid to stay home and do nothing. In an almost unknown show of conciliation, the union actually agreed to head to the bargaining table with the gov
ernment.

  While the strikers did demonstrate that they could hold the country hostage for days on end, they also proved how fed up modern French people were with the tantrums of a small minority of very well compensated workers. And a subtle yet very powerful shift in power was felt across the country: people were no longer behind the workers, regardless of whether they were right or wrong.

  A Parisian friend who is a member of the Communist Party said, “The French strike because they are selfish people. It’s all about ‘me’; they strike for their own benefits. And if they say they’re going on strike in sympathy with the other unions (like La Poste striking along with the train workers), it’s only because they think they’re next.”

  As a casual non-Communist observer, I’m not exactly sure how true that is. But since I’m around fifty, I know if I were expecting my gold watch soon, I’d be miffed, too. I’m interested in seeing what happens down the road. (And I don’t mean the road in front of my apartment.) Have the French people and their government lost patience with the unions and their frequent strikes? Or will things go back to normal, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves on the sidewalks of Paris?

  I can’t say for sure. But there is a similarity between the two most recent mouvements sociaux: I feel a little bit healthier breathing in less second-hand smoke when dining out or sitting in a café, and I know I’m a lot safer not sharing the sidewalks with the motor scooters. I’ll let Sarko duke it out with the unions over how much longer people will have to work. But could they please do it under someone else’s window for a change?

  MELANGE DE NOIX EPICEES

  SPICED NUT MIX

  MAKES 4 CUPS (400G)

  In advance of a strike, signs are posted at the various bus and Métro lines a few days before so we can adjust our plans accordingly. Regardless of how disruptive they are, at least the strikers are kind enough to think of others.

  Similarly, when Parisians have a party in their apartment, they post a note in the lobby of their building or in the elevator, letting others know they’re having a gathering that may get noisy. My neighbors are lucky since my apartment is too compact for large, rowdy gatherings. When I do have guests, we tend to be a fairly subdued crowd. So far, I haven’t had any complaints.

  This is my favorite party mix and I keep a small box of bretzels d’Alsace on hand so I can toss a batch together at the last minute. It makes an excellent nibble.

  2 cups (275 g) raw nuts—any combination of pecans, almonds, peanuts, cashews, and hazelnuts

  1 tablespoon (15 g) salted or unsalted butter, melted

  3 tablespoons (45 g) dark brown sugar

  ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  1 teaspoon chili powder or smoked paprika

  2 tablespoons maple syrup

  ½ teaspoon unsweetened natural or Dutch-process cocoa powder

  1½ teaspoons coarse salt

  2 cups (100 g) small pretzel twists

  Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Spread the nuts on a baking sheet and toast for 10 minutes.

  Meanwhile, in a large bowl, mix the butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, chili powder, maple syrup, and cocoa.

  Stir the warm nuts into the spice mixture to coat them completely, then sprinkle on the salt.

  Mix in the pretzels, then spread the mixture on the baking sheet and bake for about 15 minutes, stirring once or twice, until the nuts are well glazed and browned. Remove from the oven and cool completely. Once cool, break up the clusters and serve.

  STORAGE: The nuts can be stored in an airtight container, at room temperature, for up to five days.

  THE VISITORS

  The biggest thing Americans living in Paris complain about isn’t the constant strikes, or tangling with French bureaucrats. Nor is it the lack of customer service or the availability of necessities, such as molasses, cranberries, organic peanut butter, and chocolate chips.

  It’s visitors.

  At first it sounds like a lot of fun having friends arrive. You can take them to your favorite restaurants! Spend afternoons meandering through museums! Introduce them to that charming little bistro on your corner! Visit chocolate shops! Best of all, you can catch up on all the latest gossip about everyone back home.

  But all too soon, the morning check of e-mails that have cascaded in during the night includes an ever-increasing number with subject lines like these: “Guess What?!” or “We’re On Our Way!!” or “Remember ME??” The worst are the ones that assume I’m able to drop everything I’m doing for their impending arrival: “In Paris … this weekend!”

  It’s one thing when the messages are from people you know, and visits are spaced out over the course of a few months. But when word got out that I lived in Paris, I had no idea what a popular guy I was. And not just with my friends, but with friends of friends. And their friends, too.

  You click to open … “Hi David! We’re friends of your brother’s friend, Tom, the guy who used to cut his hair. He said that we should look you up since we’re on our way to Paris, and you’d show us around.” And it gets better: “… and we’d love to meet up with you for dinner one night. You can help us order since two of us are vegans, but we don’t eat vegetables. Oh, and my sister is deathly allergic to shellfish, and the triplets can’t have gluten, dairy, or anything with DNA. We can’t wait to have dinner with you!”

  By necessity, I had to formulate a policy of getting together for a meal only if the word “invited” was included somewhere in the message. Simply “meeting up for dinner” doesn’t rouse me to action. Because once committed to “meeting up,” I know I’ve got my work cut out for me.

  I’ll start by translating the menu—usually twice, since one person wasn’t listening the first time. Shortly thereafter, I’ll have to explain that “sauce on the side” isn’t an option in France and that it’s going to come drenched in a lot of butter whether they ask for it or not.

  Then there’s explaining the inexplicable: French cuts of beef, which are different from American cuts and don’t correspond. A typical French menu might have on it, say, Pavé de boeuf grillé. Pavé refers to something slablike, and grillé is obvious; order this and you’ll get a grilled hunk of beef. In France wine lists rarely list the grape, because the French aren’t so concerned with knowing the origin and genealogy of every item when they place their order, nor do they expect a narrative from the waiter of how each item is going to be prepared and presented. They just order and leave it up to the cooks in the kitchen to make their dinner. (What a concept!)

  Americans are “customizers” and we want to know before ordering what cut of steak it is, how it’s going to be cooked, which ranch it was raised at, how far away it was, what the cow ate, did he live a happy life, what exactly is going to go into the sauce, what’s going to come alongside it (and can they change that?), whether it’ll be possible to share it, and whether they can take the rest of it home. It takes great restraint for me not to yell across the table, “Just order the damn piece of meat—and eat it!”

  The final straw was when one of those friends-of-friends types, whom I foolishly agreed to meet, deeply insulted a waiter at what was once my favorite café in the Marais. The charming waiter, who liked to joke around with me, said to this fellow, who ordered his drink in English, “You should try to speak a little French, after all, you are in France!” To which my gracious guest glared and shot back, “You know what? I don’t even want to try.” I would have looked a little funny trying to disappear by sliding under the table, so instead, I gulped down my drink quickly and got out of there as politely as I could. And I haven’t gathered up the courage to go back. After that, I swore off guests forever.

  A few years later, when Maury Rubin, owner of the superlative City Bakery in New York, wrote to tell me about a friend who was coming to Paris for a month, I decided to rethink my policy of no guests, since anyone who has Maury’s seal of approval was probably all right. And I didn’t want to risk being cut off from his fabulous salted croissants on my next trip
to New York, either.

  If you don’t know City Bakery, the place just screams Manhattan and is busier than Grand Central Station. Most make a beeline for the thick hot chocolate with a plush homemade marshmallow melting on top, or one of the frisbee-sized chocolate chip cookies. As arduous as it sounds, some people manage to down both. Others wolf down a slice of French toast of such girth, it would feed a French family of four. And then there are the aforementioned salted croissants, which I learned on my last visit I can easily eat three of all by myself. Thank goodness all my friends know better than to ask me to share.

  Maury’s a hard-core New Yorker and opened a branch in Los Angeles, but was having difficulty adjusting to life among us West Coast types. He joked that he was going to have a trap door built and as soon as anyone uttered the word diet, it would open up and neatly dispatch them away.

  Maury’s friend turned out to be Nancy Meyers, a director and screenwriter, whose most successful film was Something’s Gotta Give. I remember not only the film, but the midnight phone call from my friend Lewis, who lives in the nearby place des Vosges, telling me to “get down here—right now!” when they were filming the scenes with Jack Nicholson strolling through Paris. I hadn’t moved so fast since my days in the kitchen at Chez Panisse.

  So I decided to make an exception to my long-standing policy against visitors.

  Shortly after Maury’s matchmaking, Nancy and I were corresponding daily, and I was sending her addresses to all my favorite places for good food near the apartment she was renting on the rue Jacob: I insisted she stop at Da Rosa for pots of Christine Ferber’s confitures and oval pats of handmade butter from Jean-Yves Bordier. She must get her cheese, I told her, from the cheerful crew at Fromagerie 31, and it was obligatory to pick up her daily pain aux céréales from Eric Kayser on the rue de l’Ancienne Comédie. And she must run, as soon as she landed, to Pierre Marcolini for chocolate-covered marshmallows even before she unpacked her suitcase. (In retrospect, she must have thought I was nuts: here I was, planning her whole vacation around things to eat.)