Nos jouets en espace

There was a charming story on the French news about a dad, Nicolas Morel, from the Rhône-Alpes region who made his kids’ dream come true. Apparently, the five and seven year old wanted to send their little plastic toys into space. (Don’t ask me why. I just collected caterpillars at that age.) Dad invested about a month investigating how to pull this off, not to mention a sizeable outlay on equipment.

 

On a windless day in July, it was time for the launch. Kitty, Bad Piggie, and a tiny French flag were ensconced in a plastic box for a rocket, fueled by a helium balloon. Two GoPro cameras were affixed to capture the adventure, as was a GPS in order to find the astronauts after the fact. And they whizzed skyward to an elevation of 20,000 meters, or almost twelve and a half miles! Two and a half hours later, they touched down 50 kilometers (31 miles) away in a corn field thanks to a parachute. In the YouTube video, Nos jouets en espace (no zjoo ay on espass), or “Our Toys in Space,” you can see that they landed not far from a nuclear plant. They’re lucky they landed on the right side of that fence or there might have been tears at the end of the adventure. Kitty and Bad Piggie saw the stratosphere! How will their dad ever top this?





Le flétan poêlé

I visited Québec City about four years ago with students and thoroughly enjoyed the ambiance. The buildings and stone wall seemed to have been transported straight from Saint Malo in Brittany. I kept trying to get my husband and daughter there. Finally, everything came together in late August. The weather was unseasonably cool and damp, but we all enjoyed our French mini-vacation with no jetlag.

We stayed at the Marriott in the Place d’Youville, right next to the old city. We left the car in the parking garage and walked everywhere. The first evening that we were there, the concierge recommended the Hobbit bistro to us as a casual place with traditional food made with quality ingredients and a modern twist. Rue St.-Jean was just a couple of blocks from our hotel and the bistro was surrounded by lots of little boutiques that warranted a closer look another day.

T

he interior is divided into two main rooms and there are also some tables for outdoor dining. Due to that chilly weather I mentioned, however, we opted for an inside table. The menu had lots of interesting options.  I chose the filet de flétan poêlé, salade de fenouil, huile verte et purée de betteraves rôties au miel, or halibut with fennel salad and honey roasted beets (top photo). My more adventurous daughter ordered the tartare de truite à l’orange et coriandre, or trout tartar with orange and coriander. It was served with thinly sliced grilled bread and frites (second photo). She let me try some, and while it was delicious, I personally thought it would have made a better appetizer than a main course. My husband had the confit de canard (above), which he pronounced OK, but he’s given to understatement. Nonetheless, I clearly won the dinner ordering round.

 

Next, we tried three desserts. We have a theory about desserts. Not unless you’re in Europe should restaurant desserts pass your lips. They should definitely be eliminated if they have photos on the menu. Since Laurien and I had really enjoyed our main courses, we decided to risk it. After all, there were no photos. Laurien ordered the cake with white chocolate and berries, Cliff ordered the apple pie, and I ordered the crème brulée topped with maple syrup. Well, it’s a good rule. And as much as Québec City feels like Europe, it’s not when it comes to desserts. They were just OK. And I’m given to exaggeration. We should have stuck with the rule.

Still, the Hobbit bistro was an enjoyable experience. A- main courses balanced B- desserts. We’d recommend the Hobbit to other visitors to Québec City.  

 Frommer’s Montreal and Quebec City

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Un emballeur

 

Our house is scheduled to go to settlement in a few days, all going well, and I’m not the only person who’s hoping that there will soon be a sold sign on the lawn. We’ve gotten several mailings from companies who want the pleasure of packing and moving all our earthly good to our new home.

 

 

Professional packing used to be about far more than moving. If you were a member of the bourgeoisie in mid-19^th century Paris, you might have had occasion to call on a professional packer, or emballeur (ahm-bal-ur) to fill your customized cases for every item of your enormous wardrobe when you traveled. Demand was so great that about 200 emballeurs were kept busy in Paris alone.  The idea was that, in an age before synthetic fabrics, upon arrival at your destination, you would simply be able to unpack your wrinkle-free clothes and begin your round of social engagements. This was no easy matter – it was certainly not a question of whether rolling or folding is the way to go. It might take three hours to pack two ball gowns, suspended by a network of pins and ribbons.  When Empress Eugénie traveled, she took about thirty trunks with her that would have taken about three days to pack.

 

 



 

As I learned at the Louis Vuitton exhibit at the musée des Arts Décoratifs last summer, the luxury leather-goods manufacturer started as a trunk-maker. He located his business around the corner from the couture houses, in a stroke of brilliant marketing. Vuitton wasn’t the only game in town: Moynat and Goyard were the other big players.

 

 

Moynat is the oldest of the three malletiers. Pauline Moynat was a rare female entrepreneur for the era. She adopted a substance known as gutta-percha, a precursor to modern latex that made her trunks waterproof, instead of just water repellent. Bernard Arnault, of LVMH fame, bought Moynat in 2010, which may seem odd when you consider that the “LV” in the company name stands for Moynat’s competitor. Frankly, however, Moynat is even more exclusive. Their boutique at 348 rue Saint-Honoré is on my must-see list for my next visit to Paris. It’s a mini-museum to the company’s history. Today, they also make exquisite purses as well as picnic baskets for your bike.

 

 

 

Goyard was considered the most elegant and exclusive of the trunk makers. It’s still located at the shop it has occupied since 1834. Here's a video explaining some of the history. Karl Lagerfeld is a major fan and orders a new piece about every six months. Superstar chef Alain Ducasse had one fitted with everything he needs to take on the road when he has a cooking gig. These days, Goyard is enjoying a new life as the purveyor of bespoke pet carriers. Maybe that’s what my two cats need for our move; they are NOT going to like it when our emballeurs arrive.

 

 

Luxury Brand Management: A World of Privilege

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Un belvédère

 

One of the beautiful garden features at Versailles is le Belvédère on the grounds of the Petit Trianon.  Un belvédère (uhn bell-vay-dare) refers to any small building that offers a viewpoint. It was built between 1778 and 1781 for Marie-Antoinette as a gift from her husband as an element of the highly desirable English garden style. The original plan had been to create a pagoda since Asian art was all the rage, but this neo-classically inspired octagon won out. It was described by Austrian Prince Charles-Joseph of Ligne as “the height of perfection, taste, and carving.” The interior decoration was delicately painted with musical and animal motifs and the Queen used it as a music room and for her morning breakfast to watch the rising sun. Sounds idyllic.

 

Over the centuries, the damp environment hastened the decay of the surfaces. Recently, the damage was hastened by water running along the façade and into the foundation (sounds like the disaster that we experience in our daughter’s bedroom). Moss and lichen flourished on surfaces that had been painted and gilded fit for a queen. Parts of the balustrade around the top were missing. Cracks ran along the walls and the floor.

 

 

In a site as vast as Versailles, there is simply not enough money to undertake every restoration project. In 2009, the World Monuments Fund in New York undertook the work at the belvédère. The one million dollar project, completed in 2012, tackled the stability of the structure, the restoration of the interiors, and the redesign of the landscaping. They restored the marble floor and repaired the bronze decorative features as well as cleaning and freshening the painted interiors. Do you think they’d serve me breakfast if I showed up nice and early some morning wearing a powdered wig?

 

Versailles: A Biography of a Palace

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Sous le manteau

 

My brother forwarded me a link to a story about an audacious group of French POW who escaped from their camp during World War II. I grew up watching Hogan’s Heroes, a comedy about a group of international POW’s who came and went from their camp at will. It all seemed rather like summer camp. Last year, I visited Dachau outside of Munich with a group of students. It was an absolutely chilling experience that I don’t think any of us will ever forget.

 

 

In 1940, after the fall of France, 5,000 French officers were held in Austria on the Czech border in Oflag 17a. As an act of resistance, and to pass the time that hung heavily on their hands, they decided to clandestinely film their daily lives, which was, of course, strictly forbidden. Thanks to a little help from the outside world and an enormous dose of ingenuity, they succeed in shooting enough footage to create a twenty-six minute documentary entitled Sous le manteau (sue luh mahntoe). This title literally means “under the coat” and figuratively means “clandestinely.” In this case, it was both under the coat AND clandestine.

 

 

The pieces of a camera were smuggled into the camp in pieces hidden inside sausages. The officers fitted a small camera into a box that looked like a book that they held beneath their coats. They hid the reels of film inside the hollowed out heels of their shoes. You can watch a shorter version of the film here and a 52 minute documentary about the whole story here.

 

 

 

Certainly, they filmed their Spartan lodgings and meager rations, but they also filmed their preparations for an escape. Because this was not a labor camp, the officers had time to read, talk, and plan how to get out of the camp. These plans always involved tunnels to get under the barbed wire. The officers got permission from the Germans to build a theater. The makeshift structure was built between the cell blocks and the barbed wire, greatly shortening the distance. They partially covered the structure with branches that hid it from view. The officers had been given shovels to dig their own bomb shelters at the insistence of the Red Cross and they used these to start digging a tunnel. Among the officers were highly trained mathematicians, geologists, and architects who had the expertise necessary to carry out the plan. The prisoners were divided into teams, each with specific tasks. One group was responsible to create civilian clothes to redress the officers once they’d gotten to the other side. Another was responsible to create false identity papers. One group had the very practical task of hiding the excavated dirt under the seats inside the theater.

 

 

By September 18, 1943, seventy years ago today, everything was ready. At nightfall, the first group slipped inside the tunnel. When the German guards didn’t notice the missing men the following day, another group took their chance. The survivors remember the escape with great clarity. There was very little air in the tunnel and they had to spend about ten hours inching along. Some passed out. All feared a firing squad at the other end of the tunnel. When they got to the other side of the barbed wire, they were under strict orders to scatter in different directions. Notwithstanding all of their precautions, however, almost all of the 32 escapees had been recaptured. Only six made it back to France. One of them, Jean Cuene-Grandidier, just celebrated his 100th birthday.

 

Thanks for passing on a great story, Andrew.

France during World War II:  From Defeat to Liberation

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Tout le monde a ses raisons

French director Jean Renoir was born on September 15, 1894. His baby pictures were a little better than average, since his father was Pierre-Auguste Renoir (although he does look like a little girl in several!). He was born in the rough-and-tumble neighborhood of Montmartre, but as his father’s career took off, he was sent to a series of posh boarding schools, from which he habitually ran away.



Renoir received a bullet in the leg during World War I. During his recuperation, he sat with his leg propped up and watched dozens of films, particularly those by Charlie Chaplin. The whole family seems to have inherited a bit of the great painter’s talent, and Jean was encouraged to become a ceramist. A few weeks ago, I saw some of his pieces at the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia, where they were juxtaposed against his father’s paintings. The same sense of color was evident. Jean’s heart had been captured by the cinema, however, and he set aside his potter’s wheel for a movie camera.

 

He started out making silent films that starred his first wife, who had been one of his father’s models. To finance his work, he sold the paintings he had inherited. His career began to take off with the arrival of talkies. He wasn’t afraid to take on political subjects. La Grande Illusion, a film about escape attempts by French POW’s during WWI was banned in Germany and Italy. It was also the first foreign film to be nominated for the Best Picture Academy Award.

 

 

The financial success of this and other films allowed him to create La Règle du Jeu, a satire about French society. It was a commercial disaster upon its release. Then it was banned at the outbreak of war. The original footage was destroyed during a bombing raid. Film enthusiasts and Renoir were able to find enough copies of the footage to stitch together an almost complete movie, which was re-released in the 60s. These two films often top critics’ lists of the greatest films ever made.

 

 

 

A famous line from this movie is, “Ce qui est terrible sur cette terre, c’est que tout le monde a ses raisons” (suh key eh tare-ee-bluh soor set tare, seh kuh too luh mohnd ah say rayzohn), which mean “What is terrible on this earth, is that everyone has his reasons.” Having experienced the insanity of war twice would certainly make Renoir well-qualified to shake his head in incomprehension of our ability to justify even our most unjustifiable actions.

 

 





Renoir fled to Hollywood during the war where he experienced some professional success. He was nominated for an Oscar for directing The Southerner, a film about Texas sharecroppers. He eventually became a US citizen. 

 

 

After the war, Renoir pursued color-film projects around the globe. He began to adopt experimental techniques similar to those used in live TV. In one of his last films, he returned to the theme of French POWs, this time from WWII. In total, he made over 40 films, in a career that spanned silent films to color. As he neared the end of his life, he began to write. His biography Renoir, My Father is a testament to a loving and supportive relationship. Renoir also wrote his memoirs and screenplays. He received a life-time achievement Academy Award in 1975. That same year, Renoir was made a commander in the Légion d’honneur. He died in Beverly Hills on February 12, 1979, but his body was placed in the family cemetery in Essoyes, France. After Renoir's death, Orson Welles eulogized him as “the greatest of all directors.”

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Dans les coulisses

 



You probably already know Paris’ Opéra Garnier for its flamboyant exterior or maybe for the story of the Phantom, written by Gaston Leroux. It’s been classified as a historical monument for 90 years, but the parts that are behind the scenes are equally fascinating. Designed by Charles Garner, the 2,000 seat auditorium is just the beginning. There are 17 floors in total, as better appreciated in this model of the interior, above.

 

 

Starting at the top, there is the level known as the collier de perles or the “pearl necklace” for the white globes of the lamps that encircle the ceiling. From this catwalk, you will have a wonderful view of the ceiling by Marc Chagall and the 2.5 ton chandelier. It used to be gas lit, but has been electrified since the beginning of the last century.

 

 

Moving down to the boxes, the most famous one is loge 5, the fictitious exclusive vantage point of the Phantom. He was ostensibly able to come and go thanks to a hollow column. Tourists tap it in vain. It’s as solid as the myth is enduring.

 

 

Speaking of the myth, according to the story, there is a lake beneath the opera house, where the Phantom rowed his boat. Five floors below the stage there is une cuve, or a cistern, that contains the nappe phréatique, or groundwater, that was uncovered during construction. Garnier tried in vain to drain the water, considerably delaying construction. He couldn’t stem the water that flows abundantly beneath the city. While there is no Phantom and no boat in the cistern, there are eels and carp. Let’s go back upstairs!







 



 





To chase away the gloom of the cistern, finish your dans les coulisses (dahn lay kooleese), literally "in the wings" or “behind the scenes” tour on the roof of the Opéra Garnier. Here, you’ll be 250 feet above the ground and you’ll enjoy one of the best views in the city.

 

Charles Garnier’s Paris Opera: Architectural Empathy and the Renaissance of French Classicism

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Paris en bouteille

Paris, the city of fashion, the city of history, the city of . . . grapes? In the 70s, restaurateur Jacques Mélac planted a few baco grape vines from the Auvergne that clambered over his Parisian bistro (42 rue Léon Frot, 75011). In mid-September each year, he harvested enough to make 30-50 bottles of wine. Neighbors and habitués of the restaurant gathered for the annual mini-harvest and grape stomp. I can’t help thinking of Lucille Ball’s famous episode.



The harvest is a huge street party where regular attendees sing, dance, and feast. A tirage-au-sort, or draw, determines who gets the chance to buy one of the coveted bottles from last year’s harvest. Mélac called the home brew Château Charonne after the street nearby and described it as Paris en bouteille (pairee ahn bootay), or Paris in a bottle.


Earlier this year, the bistrot was taken over by Didier and Denise Madamour from the Auvergne. Although they will no doubt be making many changes to put their own mark on Bistrot Mélac, this is one tradition they will not be messing with. It was as distinctive a marketing coup as Mélac’s handlebar moustache (a moustache so fabulous, he was once photographed by Robert Doisneau). Jacques Mélac, on the other hand, has decided to devote himself to wine making on a much larger scale than a few bottles. Santé!

The Road to Burgundy: The Unlikely Story of an American Making Wine and a New Life in France, by Ray Walker

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L’essence de toute intelligence est de connaitre et d’aimer

Several years ago, I developed a serious case of envy for the life of author Vicki Archer. In My French  Life, Archer recounts the story of her family’s move from Australia when they purchased a 17^th century mas, or farmhouse, in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. The mas was in pretty rough shape, and the book detailed the work that was done to restore the house and olive groves that surrounded it. As Archer wrote, “What happens when raw instinct and unusual circumstance take the place of the well thought-out and the certain? Our lives changed with one simple decision; everything I had taken for granted and knew throughout my adult life had been transformed. My future and the future of my family became foreign. Our database of knowledge and inherent familiarity was no longer of any use.”

 

Archer chronicles her coup de foudre with the mas and France in a coffee table size book illustrated by Paris-based photographer Carla Coulson. Together, they showcase French art, architecture, food, and people, including a trek through Place Vendôme decorated for Christmas. I photocopied the “My French Address Book” section and carried it on my own treks through France, as a 224-page book was a little bulky. She also has a section entitled “My French Inspiration” in which she lists the movies, music, and books that serve as her guide to all things francophone. After reading My French Life, I wanted so badly to pull up stakes and move to France, too.

 

A couple of weeks ago, I discovered that Archer had published another lush large-format book, French Essence: Ambience, Beauty, and Style in Provence in which she recounts her on-going life in Provence. In the first book, Archer was an outsider in France, but here she’s fully at home. Also photographed by Coulson, the book has lovely pictures of garden, interiors, and village life. In the chapter entitled “Ambiance,” Archer says, "It is not about creating perfection, it is about creating sentiment." The soft lighting in the photos really captures the ambiance and the beauty of the south of France.
 

 

But this isn’t just a pretty book. It’s an account of turning a wreck into a working olive farm. Although she recounts the search for a copy of a treasured book, her life is far from just shopping and ladies who lunch. I liked Archer’s account of wild boars attacking her garden and her great love for her olive trees. She writes, "I section my branches and use both hands to remove the olives in sweeping gestures. It reminds me of detangling and brushing my daughters' long hair before school." Archer compares the olive nets to a bride juggling her veil for the first waltz. Lovely image, that.

 

 

Joseph Marie de Maistre said, "L’essence de toute intelligence est de connaitre et d’aimer" (lessahnse deh toot ahn-tell-ee-zjehnse eh deh kon-eh-truh ay demay), which means "The essence of all intelligence is to know and to love." If you know you love the essence of all things French, you can also follow Vicki Archer’s blog and her Pinterest boards.

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Une maîtresse

Diane de Poitiers, noblewoman and mistress of King Henry II, was born on September 3, 1499. As a girl, she was a member of the retinue of Anne de Beaujeu, who served as regent for her brother King Charles VIII. Anne was a highly intelligent woman; perhaps it was from her that Diane learned to love power and influence at court.

She was unusually well-educated for a woman of the 16^th century. In addition to the usual qualities of conversation and dancing, she was also educated in Greek and Latin. She was married off at 15 to a man who was 39 years older than her. As the grandson on King Charles VII, he had the right connections. The couple had two daughters. Diane needed her husband’s good connections a few years later when her father was accused of treason. King Francis I pardoned him when the executioner’s blade was literally suspended over his head.

When her husband died, Diane started to wear black and white clothing. These were permitted colors for a widow, but it was also a style statement. She liked to play on the fact that she was named after the Roman goddess of the moon, and the colors represented the dark and light sides. Dressing as Diana the Huntress also became part of her style. This was the phase of her life when Diane really came into her own. She retained her husband’s assets and titles, even challenging the right of the crown to take back some of those holdings. She also served as lady-in-waiting to three successive queens.

The son of Francis I, Henry appears to have developed a fixation on the much older Diane, viewing her as the perfect lady of courtly literature. Their correspondence suggests that they became lovers when she was 35 and he was 16. Henry was married to Catherine de’ Medici to help strengthen alliances with Florence. Catherine and Diane were actually cousins and knew one another prior to the match, but Catherine did not view her as an ally. Diane could control the other woman and helped preserve the royal marriage for her own purposes. She was in charge of the education of the royal children as well as the king’s mistress and most powerful woman in France. She was so trusted that the King allowed her to write official letters and sign them HenriDiane. The King gave her the Crown Jewels and gave her the Château de Chenonceau, even though Catherine had wanted it.

When Henry was wounded in a jousting tournament, Catherine restricted access to him; when he died, Diane was not permitted to attend the funeral. She was banished from Chenonceau, and Catherine moved in. Une maîtresse (oon maytress) is a mistress. It’s also the word for a trump card. That certainly seemed to be the case between Diane and Catherine. Diane held all the cards until the death of the king, at which point the tables turned rather abruptly.

Her beauty was maintained for posterity in sculpture and paintings. She often appeared topless or representing the goddess Diana. She apparently drank liquid gold to preserve her youth, but tests on her remains in 2009 revealed high amounts of gold in her hair. The theory is that she was inadvertently poisoning herself.
Courtesan : A Novel, by Diane Haeger

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