The Sweet Life in Paris

by David Lebovitz

  The problem with the BHV is that you have to go there if you live in Paris. You have no other choice. Well, there is another choice. You can spend days and days searching through every obscure alley and passage to find that special shop that sells only laces for shoes with four eyelets, or the vacuum cleaner bag shop on the fringes of the faraway seventeenth arrondissement for those very special bags that only a French vacuum cleaner takes. But unless you have a couple of weeks to spare to search far and wide, you just suck it up and head toward the behemoth on the rue de Rivoli.

  During the winter, if I have to go to the BHV, I wear as little as possible. It’s worth freezing my backside off on the way over because I know that moments after I step inside, I’ll soon be withering from the stifling heat and the lack of any sort of ventilation whatsoever. I’ve made the mistake of going in there bundled up against the cold outside—after a few minutes, I’m ready to keel over from heatstroke, and find myself staggering toward the nearest emergency exit in a sweaty stupor.

  Come summertime, no matter how well prepared you are, whether dressed in wispy linen or a skimpy tank top, if you make it to the second floor without needing to call SOS Médecins, you’re a hardier soul than I. They should just replace the bulbs with tanning lamps and Parisians could visit two of their most cherished institutions at the same time.

  A trip to the BHV is always a test of not just my stamina, but the limits of my French vocabulary as well. If you want to see my favorite part of the BHV, you might be surprised to learn that it is not the well-stocked kitchenware department (where I once gave a cooking demo with cookie samples during the Saturday crush, and which ranks right up there with touching squid as one of the most terrifying experiences of my life). Instead, head straight down to the basement, where the hardware is. A mad jumble of hammers, windows, door jams, wine-making equipment, screws, power tools, lightbulbs, doorbells, heaters, insulating tape, locks, safes, flashlights, Beware of Dog (Chien Méchant!) signs, and lawn mowers.

  It’s not enough to prepare myself physically by dressing appropriately to go to the BHV; I need to prepare myself psychologically, too. It’s barely controlled pandemonium. A friend went with her husband, who loved hardware stores and insisted on checking out the hardware department. As the president of a major American financial institution, he’d weathered some pretty stressful situations. Yet after three minutes in the madness, he had to find somewhere to sit and decompress: the floor of the New York Stock Exchange is simply no match for the basement at BHV.

  Adding to the confusion for me is my lack of vocabulary for all the hardware. Anyone know what you call a “kickplate” in French? An assiette à coup? If I tell them I’m looking to “kick a plate,” that’s one time they’d be within their rights to send me upstairs to another department: housewares. What’s window insulation tape called? I wasn’t sure either, so I asked for “Le chose comme le scotch à l’emballé les fenêtres pour l’hiver” otherwise known to me as “the stuff like masking tape for wrapping the windows for the winter.” Or maybe they were wondering why I was asking for “the stuff like Scotch whisky to coat my windows for winter.”

  After a few years I got a bit tired of tripping over the loopy-length shoelaces that I settled for and I headed back to the BHV thinking that by now, they’d have the correct size. I pulled open the glass door, barging into Parisians as if they weren’t even there. I’ve stopped apologizing when I run into people now and haven’t had any repercussions. (Why should I? After all, who do they think I learned it from?) I headed for the grand staircase leading downstairs, peeling off articles of clothing as I started to feel the perspiration welling up on the surface of my skin. My fingers were poised on my cell phone, set to speed-dial SOS Médecins, as I strode past the smelly Chanel counter and the fancy eyewear boutique, dodging oncoming Parisians with the finesse of an Olympic slalom champ.

  (Except a thought just occurs to me—I’m beginning to understand the relationship between les bousculeurs and those fancy eyeglass shops that are running rampant across the city. Parisians must have terrible eyesight from sitting in dark doctor’s offices. They’re not really rude at all—maybe they just can’t see where they’re going.)

  As I sprinted toward the basement that day, I wondered if I might need glasses as well, because everything had changed. The place was clean and bright, and the sense of complete chaos was almost gone. There was actually some sense of organization. And on the wall—no, wait—over there. Could that really be a map of the aisles?

  Breathing heavily from the excitement (or was it the oppressive heat?), I wandered around, amazed at the startling transformation. All the chainsaws and tree trimmers, so popular with city-dwelling Parisians, were lined up neatly against the wall. There were two fully stocked aisles of joints d’isolation (when you live in a drafty rooftop apartment, you learn the correct word for “insulating tape” pretty quickly). And I counted six shelves that held nothing but bells, from ones you’d hang around a cow’s neck to the kind the town crier might ring to summon a town meeting. And to top it off, they were all on sale! A five-inch brass bell that I could use to call the gang to dinner was a mere €185, which I could now get for 20 percent off. I think I need to change my tune about there being no bargains in Paris.

  Optimistically, I rounded the corner to the cordonnerie: the shoe repair department, which had been completely redone, too. I raced past the cobblers, tapping soles onto shoes with great concentration. There were dozens and dozens of insoles hanging from the wall, including those that promised to be capteurs d’odeurs. A good portion of display space was given over to all the various types of shoehorns (chausse-pieds), another obscure bit of vocabulary I learned during an earlier experience involving nylon hosiery and unintentional nudism.

  But there still weren’t any 110-centimeter shoelaces to be found. Because I didn’t want my visit to be a total loss, I decided once and for all to find out the French name for kickplates for doors. It was driving me a little crazy and was something my French friends couldn’t figure out when I asked them, even though I accompanied it with a demonstration on my door at home. But then again, it is pretty perplexing to be invited over to someone’s apartment and to watch them repeatedly kick the bottom of their front door.

  Next time my handyman comes, I’m going to ask him how to say it. He likes to come by my apartment, since it always means a scoop of homemade ice cream, a wedge of cake from a recipe I’m testing, or a handful of cookies in a little bag to take for his lunch break. Although lately, I’ve begun to suspect him of sabotaging my pipes, since a few days after he comes, another one suspiciously springs a leak, prompting yet another visit.

  I’m not really worried about what he’ll think of me, since we’re on pretty good terms. And I don’t mean hardware terms. After I find out that particular one, I’m going to forget about learning the rest of them for a while. I’ve got more important things to find around here—like shoelaces.

  SOCCA

  CHICKPEA CREPES

  MAKES 3 LARGE CREPES, ABOUT 6 APPETIZER-SIZED SERVINGS

  Many visitors come to Paris and ask me where they can find the best bouillabaisse or an authentic salade Niçoise, and they’re surprised when I tell them they can’t. Many regional specialties don’t travel well out of their region, and because Parisians can’t resist adapting other cuisines to their own tastes (which is why you’ll disconcertingly find warm cheese served alongside les sushis), if you want to find an authentic version of a specialty, it’s best to go to that particular region and taste it there.

  Few Parisians would even know what socca is (which the Niçois should probably be thankful for), but on the Côte d’Azur, it’s a very popular and well-known street food, cooked in huge rounds over a roaring fire. Once cooked, pieces are scraped off the griddle onto a napkin, sprinkled with flecks of coarse salt and freshly ground pepper, then handed over. After my first bite, I was hooked.

  I played around with various techniques, trying to duplicate the s
ame effect in my home oven. But it wasn’t until Rosa Jackson, who teaches cooking in Nice, offered a few cooking tips, which included using the broiler, that I perfected socca in my Parisian kitchen. The best results were obtained using the well-seasoned 10-inch (23cm) cast-iron skillet that I lugged over from America, cooking one right after the other in the same pan. You can also use a similar-size nonstick cake pan, although you may need to add more oil between cooking each socca.

  It’s important to remember that this is street food, not something hanging in the Louvre. Socca isn’t supposed to look precise or perfect: the more rustic, the better. But it does need to be served right from the oven. And just like in Nice, glasses of very cold rosé served over ice are an obligatory accompaniment.

  1 cup (130 g) chickpea flour (see Note)

  1 cup plus 2 tablespoons (280 ml) water

  ¾ teaspoon coarse salt, plus more for serving

  ⅛ teaspoon ground cumin

  2 ½ (40 ml) tablespoons, olive oil, divided

  freshly ground black pepper, for serving

  Whisk together the chickpea flour, water, salt, cumin, and 1 tablespoon of the olive oil until smooth and lump-free. Let batter rest, covered, for at least 2 hours. (It can be refrigerated overnight, then brought to room temperature before cooking.)

  To cook the socca, position the oven rack in the top third of the oven and turn on the broiler.

  Pour the remaining olive oil into a cast iron skillet or nonstick cake pan, then place the pan in the oven to preheat.

  Stir the batter, which should be runny (the consistency of buttermilk). If it’s very thick and holds a shape, add a spoonful of water or two, to thin it out.

  Once the oil is shimmering hot, ladle enough batter into the skillet or pan to cover the bottom, tilting the pan to distribute the batter.

  Cook the socca, with the door ajar, 3 to 4 minutes, depending on the heat of your broiler, until the socca begins to brown and is blistered. Remove from the oven, slide onto a platter, and crumble with your hands into irregular pieces.

  Sprinkle very generously with coarse salt and a few turns of pepper, and eat right away. Cook the remaining socca batter, in the hot pan, the same way.

  STORAGE: Socca don’t store well and they lose something when reheated. They really should be eaten right after they’ve been cooked.

  NOTE: Chickpea flour can be found in stores that specialize in Indian or Asian foods. It’s often labeled besam or gram. If using fine Italian chickpea flour, use only 1 cup (250 ml) water. Check Italian shops in your area for farina di ceci (or see Resources, page 271).

  If you come to Paris and want to try authentic socca, visit the stand in the marché des Enfants Rouges, in the third arrondissement. The scruffy, but friendly, Alaen fries each socca to order, crumbles it into crispy shards, then hands it over with an avalanche of black pepper. (Tip: Unless you like a lot of salt, just tell him “un petit peu” when he reaches for the shaker.)

  FINDING MY BALANCE IN A CHOCOLATE SHOP

  On my first day manning the counter at one of Paris’s finest chocolate shops, my very first customers were a less-than-elegant American couple. Forgive my cultural bias, but their nationality was easily discernible by his high-above-the-knee shorts, plastic flip-flops, and faded T-shirt, in marked contrast to everyone else in Paris—most people were bundled up in wool coats, scarves, and hats, it being mid-November. Dressed for a vacation at Orlando’s Disney-World, he must have been freezing. It was obvious his wife wasn’t faring well either, since her tight and dramatically low-cut stretchy shirt couldn’t hide pointed evidence that she was feeling the chill of winter. Or was she just as excited as I to be around all those chocolates?

  I greeted them in French. And to put them at ease, I followed up with a salutation in English right afterward.

  “Bonjour, monsieur dame. Good morning.”

  “Uh … oh! … urn … good morning,” he replied, surprised, but obviously relieved.

  “Oh … hey … you’re an American, right? That’s great. Uh … hey listen, buddy … can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” I said, assuming it would be a question about the exceptional chocolates spread out in front of him.

  “Can I ask you how much you make working here? What’s a guy like you get paid for working in a place like this?”

  In one of my rare, speechless moments, I stammered—and told them that I was a stagiaire, working there as a volunteer to learn the métier.

  Not embarrassed at all, nor content to leave it at that, he pointed with his chin toward the other salesperson who was working with me in the boutique.

  “So, how much does she make then?”

  Lifting my jaw back up into place, but barely able to muster a response, I said I didn’t know. I explained that Corinne, who runs the shop, is the sister of the owner and chocolatier, and hoped this would put an end to his embarrassing line of questioning.

  But after a bit more back-and-forthing, he still couldn’t come to grips as to why I was working at Patrick Roger’s chocolate shop, without pay.

  His wife finally chimed in:

  “So then … this Roger-guy must be your boyfriend or something, right?”

  And people ask me why I moved to France.

  After my experience working at the fish market, I realized that my forte was chocolate, and that I’m too old to learn new tricks and should stick with what I know best. So I went to work in the boutique of Patrick Roger, one of the best chocolate shops in Paris, which opens at the sensible hour of 10:30 a.m. and whose merchandise lacks beady eyes or tentacles.

  It’s difficult for Americans to grasp the French concept of a stagiaire. The idea of working for someone for free is shocking to us. When I tell aspiring chefs to volunteer in a restaurant kitchen to see if they like the work before plunking down the big bucks for culinary school, they look at me like I’m crazy. (One friend in Paris who’s a fantastic cook asked for my advice about starting a catering company. When I suggested he hold on to his high-paying tech job and go work for a catering company on the weekends to see how he liked it, he was horrified: “No way! I don’t want to work on weekends.” He must have been planning on catering only the weddings that take place Monday through Thursday.)

  In France, calling yourself a chef carries a lot of responsibility. It’s not just someone who tosses a piece of fish on the grill, drizzles it with olive oil, and tops it with a sprig of thyme. That makes one a cook, not a chef. A chef is someone who has the responsibility for composing menus, managing food costs, overseeing a staff, and most important, has usually risen through the ranks the hard way. Many begin scrubbing pots and pans in the dishroom when they can barely reach the sink, and no job is too menial.

  Although Monsieur Roger doesn’t work in the shop (and no, we don’t drink café au lait together either), the raffish-looking chocolatier commutes between his shop and workshop on his motorcycle. Despite his unshaven appearance, he holds the top culinary honor in France and can wear le tricolore on the collar of his chef’s jacket signifying he’s an MOF, Meilleur Ouvrier de France. That makes him part of the elite corps of chefs in France who are considered the very, very best at their craft. In order to obtain the privilege, one has to pass an extremely rigorous exam that includes creating intricate chocolate masterpieces, for which he’s famous. His startling shop windows always feature an offbeat sculpture, like a garden den of plants made of pure chocolate (including the soil) or a life-size replica of a man harvesting cacao. Corinne’s out there several times a day, wiping nose prints off the front windows.

  I’ve become friends with many of the people who work in the chocolate boutiques in Paris because of the chocolate tours I’ve led. Hesitant about a newcomer in their midst, the people in the shops quickly took a shine to me and my guests, probably because I was sure to give each participant rules for how to behave, which included not wearing shorts and ragged T-shirts. (I never mentioned bras, but it never seemed to be an issue.) So when I asked her, Corinne l
et me come to work there as a stagiaire.

  I had gone to chocolate school and worked in a chocolate shop before, but only spent time dipping and enrobing in the back kitchen. I thought it would be fun to dress up for a change, and find out what it was like in the front of the house. Waiting on customers requires a certain amount of patience and skill, quite evident if you’ve ever watched Parisian salesclerks filling boxes of chocolates ever-so-perfectly. Their ability to use delicate silver tongs to deftly tuck each chocolate-coated square, dome, and rectangle so they fit just-so into the box is really a marvel to watch. I wasn’t sure I was up to snuff. I mean, in my own kitchen I drop things all the time (which, of course, I throw away afterwards) just using my hands. How was I going to handle those puny tongs?

  The other concern I had was that I don’t do “patience” very well. It’s one of the skills I’ve not yet mastered, and I wasn’t sure I had the restraint required to stand there silently while people pondered which two individual chocolates to buy. I’d scooped ice cream in my younger days and was always surprised how long it could take someone to decide on a flavor. Anyone who kept me waiting a particularly long time got a nice big scoop—that was hollow in the center.

  Patience was a skill I admired, but only from afar. I had guests on my tours stand there, glassy-eyed, unable to make a decision, and I’d do my best to make it as easy as possible by offering my opinions and advice.

  Still, there were plenty of unanswerable inquiries, ranging from “Do you think my father would like this?” to discourses like “Hmm. Well, I like almonds … and I like chocolate … but I don’t like them together. I dunno, David … hazelnuts are okay. But I only like them with milk chocolate … they taste funny with dark chocolate. I do like almonds with milk chocolate, though … but only if there’s almond paste in there somewhere … or liqueur. I don’t like liqueur with hazelnuts … unless it’s Cognac … though I don’t like that with almonds. Rum is okay… at least I think it is. What do you think, David? I guess liqueur and walnuts are okay… if there’s another nut mixed in. Can you ask them if they use light or dark rum, because I’m allergic to light rum, but not dark.”