Elizabeth Bard's Blog, page 5

Old Wives Tales

Five generations of my Russian peasant ancestors are rolling over in their graves. Long did they toil, sweat, struggle, to escape the shtetl. To make it to the New World, to live the American dream of streets paved with gold and Hebrew National salami. A chicken in every pot and a dryer in every mudroom. And now their progeny reduced (voluntarily, no less) to hanging her clothes out on the line in the garden. Oy.
G., of course, thinks it's perfectly normal to hang our undies out under the stars. It smells good. It saves electricity. Yes. But. I'm American. God help me, I love a good tumble dryer.
Not only does the sun not fluff your towels, it comes with folklore as well. The other night, G. hesitated on his way out with an armful of laundry. "I feel like there's something about not hanging your white sheets out in the full moon." he said.
Huh?
This was how I felt the first time I burned my finger in our apartment in Paris. G. sliced open a raw potato and put it on my hand. The starch, he said, would soothe the skin. I swear, sometimes it's like being married to a Trappist monk.
PS – The potato actually works. As for the sheets in the moonlight, I've since heard various theories, all having to do with UV rays and bleach. Anyone. Anyone?
PSS - My mother arrived this week. I left the sheets up on the line, just to see her reaction. (What's the point if you can't have a little fun at the expense of the city folk. Especially since, until about three weeks ago, I was city folk...)

Tomatoland

Hello All - Slowly getting my Provencal act together! We found a lovely babysitter for Augustin, so now I have a few hours each morning to work (and share). I know everyone is expecting house photos - and I'm on it - just found the charger for my camera after a (desperate) two week ransacking of the boxes...

I could say I've been cooking - but that would be a slight distortion - it's more like arts and crafts: combining, stacking, slicing and dicing a few essential summer ingredients: tomatoes, tomatoes, melon, jambon cru (raw ham), peaches, plums, figs, tomatoes. And did I mention the tomatoes? I haven't turned on the stove in weeks.
The Provencal tomato is a thing of wonder - small as a marble, large as a human heart, red like a valentine, yellow like a sunflower, orange like an overripe apricot, bright green like a brand new leaf, even purplely olive, like seaweed seen through moving water. The names are equal to the colors: Ananas (Pineapple), Noire de Russie (Black Russian), Brin de Muguet (Lily of the Valley).There's no messing with perfection (ok, a little messing, just for fun) - a few crystals of coarse sea salt, a drizzle of local olive oil and a sprig or two of purple (yes, royal purple, my favorite childhood color) basil. I did do some impromptu matchmaking...Baby tomatoes with smoked mozeralla, red onion, fennel and balsamic vinegar. A giant yellow tomato (That's him. Her? Him, I think. It's a very muscular tomato) with a local sheep's milk cheese (feta would do nicely) and green basil. Last night I got a little fancy and layered slices of beefsteak tomato with artichoke puree and slivers of parmesan. I love to think of the utterly pretentious name this would be given in a trendy Parisian bistro...millefeuille de tomate Provencale, tapanade d'artichaut frais et coppa de Parmesan d'Italie (AOC) sur son lit de salade sauce apricot. The "sauce apricot" was an happy accident. While making the dressing for the green salad, I mistook a bottle of peach/apricot syrup for the olive oil. Since it was already at the bottom the bowl, I decided to try my luck. Mixed with dijon mustard and some olive oil, it was very nice - much sweeter than a French vinagrette, more like an American-style honey dijon. I decided to add it to my pretentious Parisian bistro dish because (believe it or not) they love imitating American food. Anyone who has been in Paris this past year or two will note the rise of "le Tchizzburger" (that's bistro for "cheeseburger").
Friends who sold all their worldly goods to go on an extended trip around the world stopped in for lunch (yes, even people freshly moved to Provence can experience travel envy) - and I discovered that my vegetable peeler makes very nice parmesan curly whirlies for yet another tomato salad. Excuse the close up. Tomato porn. Yes, must move on.
The days are hot and sunny - lunchtime is a search for shade. The evenings are cool and often breezy - ideal for long dinners in the garden (G. managed to snap this photo of both tomato salad and the view from our upper terrace.) I too am being eaten - the misquitos have been feasting on my ankles. My dad used to say it's because I was "sweet meat"...

Hope you too are enjoying the sweet days of summer!
P.S. I'm thinking of another tomato experiment - "tomato tatin" - which amounts to an upside down tomato tart. We'll see if I get up the courage to actually turn on the oven to slow roast the tomatoes...

Tomatoland

Hello All - Slowly getting my Provencal act together! We found a lovely babysitter for Augustin, so now I have a few hours each morning to work (and share). I know everyone is expecting house photos - and I'm on it - just found the charger for my camera after a (desperate) two week ransacking of the boxes...

I could say I've been cooking - but that would be a slight distortion - it's more like arts and crafts: combining, stacking, slicing and dicing a few essential summer ingredients: tomatoes, tomatoes, melon, jambon cru (raw ham), peaches, plums, figs, tomatoes. And did I mention the tomatoes? I haven't turned on the stove in weeks.
The Provencal tomato is a thing of wonder - small as a marble, large as a human heart, red like a valentine, yellow like a sunflower, orange like an overripe apricot, bright green like a brand new leaf, even purplely olive, like seaweed seen through moving water. The names are equal to the colors: Ananas (Pineapple), Noire de Russie (Black Russian), Brin de Muguet (Lily of the Valley).There's no messing with perfection (ok, a little messing, just for fun) - a few crystals of coarse sea salt, a drizzle of local olive oil and a sprig or two of purple (yes, royal purple, my favorite childhood color) basil. I did do some impromptu matchmaking...Baby tomatoes with smoked mozeralla, red onion, fennel and balsamic vinegar. A giant yellow tomato (That's him. Her? Him, I think. It's a very muscular tomato) with a local sheep's milk cheese (feta would do nicely) and green basil. Last night I got a little fancy and layered slices of beefsteak tomato with artichoke puree and slivers of parmesan. I love to think of the utterly pretentious name this would be given in a trendy Parisian bistro...millefeuille de tomate Provencale, tapanade d'artichaut frais et coppa de Parmesan d'Italie (AOC) sur son lit de salade sauce apricot. The "sauce apricot" was an happy accident. While making the dressing for the green salad, I mistook a bottle of peach/apricot syrup for the olive oil. Since it was already at the bottom the bowl, I decided to try my luck. Mixed with dijon mustard and some olive oil, it was very nice - much sweeter than a French vinagrette, more like an American-style honey dijon. I decided to add it to my pretentious Parisian bistro dish because (believe it or not) they love imitating American food. Anyone who has been in Paris this past year or two will note the rise of "le Tchizzburger" (that's bistro for "cheeseburger").
Friends who sold all their worldly goods to go on an extended trip around the world stopped in for lunch (yes, even people freshly moved to Provence can experience travel envy) - and I discovered that my vegetable peeler makes very nice parmesan curly whirlies for yet another tomato salad. Excuse the close up. Tomato porn. Yes, must move on.
The days are hot and sunny - lunchtime is a search for shade. The evenings are cool and often breezy - ideal for long dinners in the garden (G. managed to snap this photo of both tomato salad and the view from our upper terrace.) I too am being eaten - the misquitos have been feasting on my ankles. My dad used to say it's because I was "sweet meat"...

Hope you too are enjoying the sweet days of summer!
P.S. I'm thinking of another tomato experiment - "tomato tatin" - which amounts to an upside down tomato tart. We'll see if I get up the courage to actually turn on the oven to slow roast the tomatoes...

Not So Little Lamb

"Today we sacrificed a lamb in honor of my firstborn son." I always hoped I would have a reason to write a sentence so thoroughly biblical. Except is wasn't today, or even yesterday - it was two and a half weeks ago, and this is literally the first chance I've had to sit down at the computer. My new life in Provence is getting the better of me. We left our childcare in Paris, so my days are spent between Augustin and his new blow up kiddie pool (love at first splash), sorting cartons and preparing meals with veggie baskets kindly brought over by the neighbors. (I swear, the photo below is not a mise en scene - it was just that pretty when Mr. C brought it over.) Back to the not-so-little lamb. No sooner had we stacked the cartons in our new house in Cereste then we were off to visit G.'s godparents in Brittany. When Augustin was born, G. asked them to host the traditional mechoui (a whole lamb roasted on a spit over an open fire). There was one when G. was born - and for every subsequent child in the family. Rumor has it, there exists an alarming photo of my late father-in-law, munching - Neanderthal style - on a leftover leg of lamb.

G.'s godfather, A., has been a cooking mentor to me. His recipes read like poems - not much more than a list of ingredients with a flourish of interpretation. I try to stick close to him in the kitchen - it's the only way. Precious bits of advice drop like pebbles that I sort and collect over time. A. and his wife live in a stone farmhouse that has been in her family for several generations.They've turned the old barns into a gallery. There are two resident tortoises, who eat very well.A. keeps a pair of binoculars handy, to show his grandchildren the foxes that sometimes sprint across the neighboring fields. When we arrived, the fire was already going in the old boulangerie attached to the main house. On it was a paella - a surprisingly ubiquitous dish in France.The rice was bubbling away in a saffron sauce, and A. added the raw shrimp as we arrived, which started to pink up immediately in preparation for the hungry crowd. Our aperitif, always champagne when my mother-in-law is around, was served on an old wheelbarrow. The day of the mechoui, G. was waiting eagerly at the door (with a surprising number of other people), for the Super U to open so he could fetch the lamb. For my first mechoui, several years back, A. bought the lamb from a local producer. He killed and prepared it himself - but restrictions were getting tighter on this sort of thing, he said. So he decided to order.

Prepping the lamb was quite the surgical adventure. A. had been up since 6am roasting peppers, peeling tomatos and slicing onions for the stuffing. He asked me to fetch thyme from the garden and bay leaves from the tree at the front of the lawn - never quite sure if his favorite city girl will come back with the right thing...

I love this last photo - I think it looks like a Dutch still-life.
To keep everyone going until the main event, the mechoui always begins with brochettes of grilled lamb's liver - marinated briefly with a slick of olive oil, spicy red harissa pepper, salt and a good earthy dose of cumin. When A. butchered the lamb himself, he would save la voilette, the delicate, lace-like membrane of fat around the organs, to wrap the hunks of liver - and give it a bit of sizzle on the grill. Unfortunately, the supermarket butcher chose to throw this part away...
There's me in my shades, preparing brochettes - who knew liver could be so glam... Augustin, at 11 months, LOVED the liver, which is proof enough, I think, of his French nationality.

Meanwhile, the lamb was hoisted - not by me - into the flames. A.'s spit is a homemade affair, rigged with rusting bicycle gears.

The smoke in the boulangerie stung my eyes, but I made it in there a few times to baste. After several hours, I got the honor of the first piece of crackling. Take your diamonds, boys – just give me the skin. The finished lamb could bring out the carnivore in anyone - I had to resist the urge to pick my entire meal off the spit with my bare hands.

There were other traditions to attend to. There is a photo of 3 generations of G.'s family in front of the yellow cherry tree in the back pasture. We took a picture with Augustin to complete the album.

We ate our evening meal of merguez and baguette sandwiches with considerable relish -considering what we'd devoured at lunch. Our friend Anne had driven halfway across France with two cases of melons in her backseat, perfectly ripe and impossibly orange.I can't say this mechoui went as late as the one I remembered, with songs and wine, wine and songs, stretching into the night. The kids, the rare Brittany heat wave, and the good Bordeaux wore us out. We slept like little lambs - and woke up (if you can believe it) hungry.

Picnic in Provence

What would happen, dear reader – if we decided, one day soon - very soon - to have lunch a bit south of here? Provence to be exact. Just a simple picnic of oozing goat cheese from Banon, wrapped in a chestnut leaf. A wooden panier of the first white peaches, downy with fuzz. I haven't found the good bread yet, but the local boulangerie sells a excellent apple cake – moist and yellow with the give of slow cooked apples and the glint of sugar crystals on top. Would you care to join me? Let me explain. We've done something a bit crazy. We've up and moved. To Provence. A small village called Cereste, about an hour outside of Avignon. I've been keeping it under wraps because I didn't want to jinx what, until now, seemed like a long shot - a distant dream. I love Paris; it's been my home for nearly a decade – maybe even the first real adult home I've ever had. But G. and I have been looking to make some changes – refresh and take charge of our personal and professional lives – and of course, give Augustin, who just turned 10 months old – a world of green to conquer.We found the house by happy accident. My husband is a great admirer of René Char, famous French poet and leader in the Resistance during WWII. Last Spring, when I was 6 months pregnant and unable to fly, we decided to take our Easter holidays in the South of France – to explore the region where Char lived during the war – the landscapes and events described in his most famous poems. When we arrived in Cereste, our English hosts were curious. They were accustomed to guests passing through for a day or two on a tour of the hilltop villages nearby – but here we were, a round and waddling woman and a frankly tired looking man, staying for ten days. We know now, it was a date with destiny.
When our hostess learned about our special interest in René Char – she got very excited. Turns out, history was living just up the road. During the war, Char had a passionate relationship with a young woman from the village, whose own husband was a prisoner of war of Germany. Char's lover had a daughter, Mireille, who was 8 years old in 1940. Now 76, she had just written a book about her childhood with René Char. Would we care to meet her…
And so it went. The next afternoon we found ourselves invited for coffee in Mireille's vaulted stone sitting room, the ground floor of the old postal inn they had meticulously renovated – looking at letters in Char's hand, his pencil box, his radio equipment – listening to tales of the Resistance, the Gestapo, and Char helping her with her homework by the fire. In true Provencal style, we lingered on through the afternoon: one coffee, a second, one cognac, and another.Before we left, Mireille asked G. if he had any other questions. He did. Char refused to publish under the German occupation; instead, he buried his manuscripts in the cellar of Mireille's family home. After the liberation in 1945, dug up the notebooks and sent them to his close friend, the author Albert Camus, in Paris. Published as Feuillets d'Hypnos, these poems remain Char's masterpiece. Where, G. asked, was this famous hole in the floor? That's easy, said Mireille, we still own the house.
The next morning, we found ourselves in the 17th century cellar of La Maison Pons, which had been Mireille's family home for 5 generations. Gwendal and I ducked as we followed Mirelle down the impossibly narrow steps at the far end of the room. The vaults of sand colored stone above our heads gave the space a slight chill, which, apparently, extends even into the heat of the Provencal summer. Mireille cleared away some empty wine bottles and pointed to a low wooden shelf, about a foot from the earthen floor. "That's where Char buried his manuscript," she said. "He came back for it after the war."
Gwendal looked down. This is the man I love, I thought. A man who can be so visibly moved by a dent in the dirt.

"We used to store pigs down here," continued Mireille, "In those days we ate everything. We sealed the cutlets in a layer of fat, and when you wanted one, you would dig it out." As we were turning to leave, she stamped her foot on the packed earth floor. "My uncle Rene – he was Char's driver during the war – before he died he said their might still be guns buried under here. But we never looked."
We entered the house through the small sitting room, it's open fireplace stained with smoke. It was a strange little house, two steps up and three steps down to every room. Walls thick and cool and white.
Before we left, we went out to the garden, two large stone terraces overlooking the surrounding fields. "You can feel that your family was happy here," I said. "We were," she smiled briefly, "but I am sad now. I gave this house to my daughter, thinking that she would come back to the village, but instead she wants to sell it."

And there it was. Our date with destiny. We both felt something of our future in these walls. We went back to the B&B, spent a sleepless night in front of an excel spreadsheet, and the next morning went back to ask them if we could buy the house….

It's taken the better part of a year to get ourselves sorted. One of the oddest things about writing and launching the Lunch in Paris book these past few months is that I've been reflecting on the past while also trying to construct our future. So here we go. We are off on a new adventure, and I hope you'll join us. There's so much to discover.
Char said it best:
Impose ta chance, serre ton bonheur et va vers ton risque. A te regarder, ils s'habitueront.

Les Matinaux (1950)
Impose your chance, hold tight to your happiness and go toward your risk. Looking your way, they'll follow. (The translation is mine, and rather liberal...)

Tea and Sympathy

One my favorite spots for tea in New York was a little palour called Tea & Sympathy, all doilies and scones. I finally caught up for tea in Paris with Karin, a fellow blogger (an alien Parisienne) and one of the first readers of the Lunch in Paris blog. It was such a treat to transform an online connection into a real life one - a uniquely 21st century encounter.
The blog will be a year old next month. After I finished the book - I knew I wanted to continue sharing stories and creating recipes from Paris. But I was very new to the online community - afraid I would be writing into thin air. Instead I've discovered a world full of enthusiastic, like-minded indivduals checking in to say hi, share their tips and Paris longings - and of course, their recipes.
Karin is a big gluten free cook - and she brought over some lovely carrot muffins made with coconut flour courtesy of almond flour fairy Elena Amsterdam of Elena's Pantry. I'm normally suspicious of gluten free pastries (I'm a texture nut), but these were moist, not overly eggy - and the coconut flour added a tropical ray that was just right with the grated carrots and juicy raisins. Never mind the fact that it was gloomy and chilled in Paris in the middle of June - we had the perfect excuse (and nibbles) to sit and talk the afternoon away.
PS - Karin changed a few things from the original recipe. She used Agave syrup instead of Yacon, and made 9 regular size muffins (baked for 20 minutes), instead of 32 mini muffins. Enjoy!

If you stand that close to Carrie...

You're bound to get your picture taken! Laurel and I decided to make a Sex in the City foursome with Jamie Cat Callan, author of French Women Don't Sleep Alone. Thanks to all who came to grab a cocktail and fill up on multicutural chatter at the Sex and the City Cafe on Friday. There were even ice-cubes. Very NYC.

I was up late reading Laurel's book, Sorbonne Confidential - alternating between fascination and horror at her experiences of the most prestegious French teaching exam - which has nothing to do with teaching - and everything to do with the mental formatting of the French elite. I'm glad Augustin will be sticking to the building blocks for a while. I'm not sure I'm ready to handle my son being told that Joseph Conrad (who was born in Poland) could have been a great French writer, but for reasons passing understanding, he chose to write in English instead...
Lunch in Paris was part of a really interesting article on travel memoirs in the New York Times - a new breed of travel writers who focus on staying, rather than just get-up-and-going.I've been trying to tone down the sugar this month - in preparation for bikini season. So of course, for the last 24 hours, all I can think about is cake! I'm debating between my classic yogurt cake and an olive oil cake recipe given to me by my friend Jen. That's her homemade rhubarb compote as well. Maybe I'll put olive oil in the yogurt cake...

If you stand that close to Carrie...

You're bound to get your picture taken! Laurel and I decided to make a Sex in the City foursome with Jamie Cat Callan, author of French Women Don't Sleep Alone. Thanks to all who came to grab a cocktail and fill up on multicutural chatter at the Sex and the City Cafe on Friday. There were even ice-cubes. Very NYC.

I was up late reading Laurel's book, Sorbonne Confidential - alternating between fascination and horror at her experiences of the most prestegious French teaching exam - which has nothing to do with teaching - and everything to do with the mental formatting of the French elite. I'm glad Augustin will be sticking to the building blocks for a while. I'm not sure I'm ready to handle my son being told that Joseph Conrad (who was born in Poland) could have been a great French writer, but for reasons passing understanding, he chose to write in English instead...
Lunch in Paris was part of a really interesting article on travel memoirs in the New York Times - a new breed of travel writers who focus on staying, rather than just get-up-and-going.I've been trying to tone down the sugar this month - in preparation for bikini season. So of course, for the last 24 hours, all I can think about is cake! I'm debating between my classic yogurt cake and an olive oil cake recipe given to me by my friend Jen. That's her homemade rhubarb compote as well. Maybe I'll put olive oil in the yogurt cake...

Best of Both Worlds - A Conversation with author Laurel Zuckerman

Hi Everyone – Laurel Zuckerman and I will be at the Café Etienne Marcel in Paris on Friday night for cocktails and conversation about "having it all" – how we've tried to combine the best of French and American culture in our lives, marriages, experiences of parenthood – and of course, our dinner tables! All this is part of the WHSmith reading series around the launch of Sex and the City 2 – Manolos optional.

I was so pleased to finally meet Laurel, the author of Sorbonne Confidential and an very active member of the Paris writers community. We decided to get the conversation going early a bit early (does that mean I can have a Cosmo at 8am?) with a few thoughts on the best and worst of French culture. Why do we love it here, and some days, why do we want to be beat someone over the head with a baguette? Funnily enough, though we met only yesterday - our loves and longings seem to be remarkably similar...

EB's reasons to love Paris:

Food for pleasure, not fuel: I love the idea that a French meal is something to be planned for days, lingered over for hours, and talked about forever. I love that fresh ingredients make it simple to cook great food. I love that people don't eat in their cars, or on the street, or at their desks. I love that meals are still the central thread in the social fabric of France.

My husband's three week paternity leave: Never mind that I spent six days in the hospital FREE of charge. I'll say that again – six days of hospital care, midwifes, and doctors FREE of charge. Not only were my bump and I graciously waived to the front of the line at the supermarket, taxi stand, airline check etc. New French daddy's have three weeks with their partners and newborns; It was such a special bonding time for us as a new family – we got our feet wet, could share sleep shifts, and take baby Augustin for his first café crème.

If I lived in the States right now, I'd turn into a cupcake: I'm finding it harder and harder to make good food choices when I'm back in the US with my family. My mother's fridge is lined with a wall of condiments, and there's a cupcake (or a muffin, or a scone) at every turn. Why, every time I see a newsstand, do I crave Dots and Twizzlers? I struggle with the enormous portions, if it's there – of course we'll eat it…

Weekend is not a dirty word: It's no exaggeration to say that the French are always going on, returning from, or planning their next vacation. Time off is sacred to them, and although my husband and I work a lot, balance is essential – in the end, I think it makes us more productive…

Don't join a gym, take a walk: As a girl who thinks sweating should be reserved for vigorous sex – I'm totally in line with the French idea of exercise. Take a walk, drag the groceries up six flights of stairs, don't eat till your pants split. Common sense that seems to keep French women slim without a stairmaster.

EB's reasons to beat someone over the head with a baguette:

Five people, five explanations, no answer: This is one that makes my head wobble. It's very hard to get a definitive answer to anything – opening hours, tax law… round and round you go, picking up tidbits of information here and there, piecing together a patchwork of knowledge. I'm sure there is a right way to do things, but no one seems to know what it is…

No one ever asks what you do for a living: I'm lucky enough to love my work – so it's a shame that it's the last thing a French person will ask you about in a conversation. The old American "So, what do you do?" line is a non-starter here. Professional lives often take a backseat to other things.

The first answer is always "Non": I come from the land of Yes, so imagine my surprise when I arrived in France and the first thing I heard was "Non, c'est impossible" – you ABSOLUTELY CAN'T keep your maiden name on your bank account, have your sweaters folded rather than hung, or get a last minute train ticket! After almost a decade in France, I now understand that "Non" is merely the beginning of a negotiation; once you explain that your grandmother is ill and you're going to burn your chocolate cake if you don't get home in time to take it out of the oven in time and surely the woman behind the counter has a sick grandmother too, n'est-ce pas?, you'll get your train ticket, and a smile as well…

LZ's reason to love Paris: (actually a little town just outside Paris)

I walk everywhere. My children walk everywhere. We don't have a car, don't NEED a car. And when we walk, it's side by side, not Mom the Chauffeur in front shuttling from one appointment to another. We can talk, admire at sights, breathe the air (ok not always a plus). Kids can run to the store by themselves to pick up milk or eggs. It feels right.

Having babies. Giving birth is scary enough, and it's a relief not to have to worry about the cost. Also, your job is protected and you get three months off, paid—and the possibility of a leave of absence. There is a reason why France has the highest birthrate in Europe.

Child care: while finding a nanny or a crèche can be difficult, from age three all children can attend école maternelle, which is free, well organized and generally staffed with kind and well trained teachers. It's the best part of Education Nationale.

Food, of course the food! I love the ritual of preparation, the anticipation, the effortless culinary skill off friends and neighbors, the civilized pleasure of eating, drinking and talking together—the banishment of vulgar talk of carbs and proteins. I am eternally grateful to France that my daughter at 12 can prepare a beautiful three course meal.

LZ's reasons to dream, sometimes, of elsewhere

French negativity. More energy gets swallowed up in constructing explanations why change is impossible than simply analyzing and fixing a problem. This is most true for the education system, which cries out for reform which cannot happen, no matter how obvious the need.

The fact that the terrific fruits and vegetables we relish are poisoned with pesticides. While France is not the only country where industrial lobbies control regulatory agencies, that food and water are allowed to be contaminated, year after year, is a scandal of the highest order.

Sometimes, I must admit, the way history is taught to children is too much for me. Slavery, colonialism, racism, imperialism, and ghettos tend to be presented as strictly American inventions which miraculously spared France. World War II was a profit making venture. Vietnam was never Indochina. My children, caught between competing versions of history—French, American and (thanks to my husband) Russian, learned early to distrust schoolbooks and check facts. Though I suppose that's good, really.

There is a charming expression which sums up a certain attitude which has caused me grief: "A promise only engages the person who believes it." It's like a weird national anthem. Especially for builders. tradesmen. repairmen and installers. How many expat books owe their existence to this distain for contracts? There is a scene I love in "Asterix and Obelix: Mission Cleopatre". Monica Belluci's Cleopatra orders that her new palace be built swiftly because she's made a bet with Caesar. "Ok," answers the sweet but incompetent little architect (Jamel Debbouse), "but how many months late?"

Please join us for a drink on Friday - and check out Laurel's blog - and of course, her books!

PS - This one makes me want to beat someone over the head with the Eiffel Tower - I just found out that I paid taxes on 125% of my revenues last year...This is not a joke. I paid taxes on money I didn't earn. "Travailleur Independent/Profession Liberale" BEWARE - since the law changed in 2006, if you are an independent worker and not yet a member of an "Association de Gestion Agreee" for your profession - you are being automatically taxed on the basis of 125% of your earnings. Vive la France. The fiscal advantages are explained very clearly here. Unfortunately, it is too late to join for 2010, the deadline was May 31st - but don't forget to do it for 2011!