Masala Millionaire?

Anybody else into theme evenings… dinners out that match the location or mood of the movie you are going to see? (Remember all those Italian places we went to after Big Night came out?)

Well, I was in a Slumdog Millionaire mood tonight, the Oscar-nominated film set in the slums of Mumbai. I’ve never been to Mumbai, but I have been to India and I LOVE Indian food.

But finding good Indian food in Paris is a real challenge, especially if you don’t want to part with the equivalent of  what an Indian slum dweller makes in their entire lifetime for your plate of Lamb Tikka Masala!

Eventually, through the magic of the Internet, my movie-going pal and I ended up at a place near the Arc de Triomphe. We shared a chicken dish, a lamb dish, a plate of rice and a couple of small Kingfisher beers. The bill was 50 euros. Kinda pricey for food that should have been a lot tastier, but in that tony type of neighbourhood, we probably got off easy…

A quick Metro ride down to the St. Francis Xavier stop and we were at La Pagode theatre… an old cinema house done up on the outside like a Japanese pagoda, with a real Japanese garden and bamboo plants. Inside, it's ornately decorated inside with golden cranes and brocade fabric on the walls. (If I’d realized that, we could have gone for sushi!)

Anyway, the movie was beautifully shot, although the scenes in the orphanage were hard to watch. Another friend says she wasn’t impressed at all with the story line, but I thought it was clever, and I especially liked the ending in light of it being a parody in some ways of a Bollywood romance, with a heavy dose of gritty realism thrown in, most likely for Western audiences!

 Anybody else out there seen Slumdog? Thumbs up or down? And any recommendations for Indian places in Paris?

A Foostastic Week

I’m on the 3 p.m. train out of Nantes, France, sitting next to a group of tall handsome guys also known as the Norwegian foosball team.

 I’ll be back in Paris in just two hours with authentic French ‘’souvenirs’’ or remembrances of all the people I met attending the World Cup of Foosball tournament.

 Forr example:

The German women’s team that beat the U.S. team n the longest, closest tie-breaker possible and then went on to win the World Cup with an easy win over the scrappy Austrians.

The men’s team from Great Britain who proved to be part of the Coalition of the Winning by supporting the U.S. Men’s team by singing and chanting them on to victory in a language we could all understand.

Seeing one of the guys from the American team providing coaching tips to the young squad from the United Arab Emirates, proving that all sorts of cultural differences can be bridged through sports.

Everybody on the U.S. men’s and women’s teams, a group of folks who came together from all over the country, united by Old Glory. Special shout-outs to Lotus, Kathy, Cindy, Dusty, Tiffany, and all the U.S. women who were so welcoming to a non-player like me. Extra special THANK YOUS to my niece of course, who had the courage to branch out by tasting all the strange French food I made her try, and to her doubles partner Shelly, pictured above. Shelly, of Colorado,  bought herself a killer pair of long black leather boots while in France, and really makes Foosball look glamorous!

Shopportunity 2

So while I spent much of my weekend watching the actually very exciting play on the foosball table, I have to confess that I did escape twice: once to tour the historic castle. The Chateau of the Dukes of Brittany,  in the center of town (famous for a royal named the Duchess Anne), and to head to the mall!

 Just two blocks from the sports center is a huge shopping emporium where I managed to acquire a multi-toned blue cashmere scarf from Beneton at half price, a cool Mad Men-esque scoop-deck top in a Sixties print for 30 percent off at a French boutique whose names now escapes me.

But one of my favorite places to shop is actually at what I like to call the French version of Target, a giant grocery chain called Carrefour.

 I was sorely tempted by the lilac cashmere sweaters, but opted to go small scale instead and grabbed one tasteful fawn-colored cashmere knit scarf. Well, one for me and a second one for my niece.

 After all, doesn’t every gal deserve a taste of cashmere?

The first Foosball post is here:

This afternoon, I’m on the TGV (high speed train) heading from Paris to Nantes in northwestern France.

The occasion? To watch my niece from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, compete in the World Cup of Foosball.

 World Cup?  Foosball? Who knew! Maybe because in France, it's called Babyfoot.

 I hope to meet some fabulous folks from all over the world at this tournament: one woman, a Swiss-born Italian named Samantha, is especially intriguing with her long blonde dreadlocks, tattoos, piercings  and impressive competitive focus.

 But of course I tend to turn any occasion for travel into an occasion for shopping and my trip to the Gare Montparnasse to catch the train today was no exception.

 With the departure delayed for about 30 minutes, I grabbed the chance to make a beeline directly to the nearest French pharmacy, which was conveniently located next to the giant train timetable so I could shop and keep an eye on the departure time.

 So I went straight to the Occitaine counter and sample the honey eau de toilette, hoping my co-travelers wouldn’t be allergic to scents.

 Then I browsed the shelf with those fabulous Caudalie products made from  fabulous French grapes (not just for drinking any more!) and perused the assortment of colorfully packaged Roget Gallet soaps.

 Finally, I settled on two travel-size products: an adorable 2.1 ounce  glass jam-far full of  Caudalie’s Merlot-based facial scrub for 7.90 euros (they also has a sauvignon version that was more mild), and a tube of Baume Prodigieux Levres (protective lip gloss) in a shade called  Shimmering Chocolate and containing ingredients like  mango butter, sweet almond oil, sunflower and vitamin E, for 17 euros. I had never heard of the Paris-based company, NUXE, that made the  lip gloss, but the multi-language brochure says it was  founded in 1957 by a pharmacist with a ‘’passionate interest in aromatherapy.’’

 And as I zip past the snow-dusted farms, forests and wind farms of rural France with my newly glistening lips, I can appreciate that passion.

Chocolate Bliss Part 3

I can't believe we drank the whole thing... and with whipped cream too!

So I met my house guests at Angelina's across from the Tuileries Gardens in Paris.  I was running late so they had already ordered thick, rich hot chocolate for three, and were well into the first pitcher.

I knew I would need to grab some non-liquid form of lunch before heading off to work, so I suggested that we order a quick quiche and side salad before polishing off the rest of the chocolat.

My Iowa visitor immediately asked ''What's a quiche?''

Okay, in her defense, she is way too young to recall the best-selling ''Real Men Eat Quiche'' and she grew up eating Kraft macaroni and cheese and Hamburger Helper.

So this was her chance to branch out and try something news.

So for her it was Quiche Lorraine, a baked egg custard with bites of fat lardon bacon in a flaky crust on a bed of lettuce.

She liked the quiche but not the lettuce! And we somehow managed to  drain all three servings of the hot chocolate. Afterward I raced off to catch Line 1 of the Paris Metro to get to work, and my Colorado visitor sat back, enjoyed the scenic murals on the walls and chatter of the international customers in the beautiful high-ceilinged room.

She also ordered a fresh-raspberry-filled giant pink macaroon!

Part 2:

The post-holiday dietary cleanse is just going to have to wait.

I have two house guests visiting from the States: one from Colorado and another from Iowa, and of course they have trotted off to see the Eiffel Tower this morning. But in an hour I will meet them... at Angelina's!

It has been sub-freezing in Paris this week, and yesterday it even snowed, which is rare here, so a hot pot of thick steaming chocolate is just the ticket for these chilled travelers.

We plan to get there early enough to also have lunch. But to save room for the black gold at the end of the meal, I'm thinking I'll just have a salad or a thin French omelette.

Yeah, right. Well, we'll see how far will power holds out on this one!

Will report back soon!

Meantime, here is the original posting:

OK, so sometimes you DO have to go to the famous places, because sometimes, they really are good.

A friend was in town during the week and one chilly evening after shopping the vintage stores in the Marais where she got a sparkly cocktail bag for 10 euros and I bought a tan snakeskin clutch for 15, I decided that we should make the trek up to the tuileries and to the famed seller of thick rich hot chocolate: Angelina's.

Many visitors know this place because of its proximity to the Louvre. It's in all the guidebooks and is known for its Mont Blanc pastries as well as its old-worled atmosphere and decor.

But the hot chocolate is the real deal. Served in a china pitcher, with real whipped cream on the side, it's 6.90 euros well spent in my book.

And don't worry. That line out the door moves quickly.

The Big Chill, 2009

Thanks to everyone who sent it suggestions for the New Year trip to the hills of Provence... also known as, the Big Chill 2009 because my friend's old stone house had no heat!

But the trip was wel lworth the occasional shivers. And thank goodness for my sub-zero, Everest-worthy down-filled mummy sleeping bag. It truly saved me. That and some cashmere pyjamas!

Among the culinary highlights:

A New Year's "linner" (late lunch, early dinner) at a restaurant in the middle of a vineyard, where I sampled rare steak topped with a fresh slice of nearly raw goose liver... a spicy goulash made with wild boar meat... and the best French vanilla ice cream I ever tasted.

Other memorable meals included a couscous topped with spicy merguez sausage, a delectable coq au vin made by the personal chef to the Formula 1 manager accused, and eventually cleared, in those allegedly Nazi sex tapes (!), a wonderful veggie breakfast frittata, and even chocolate-topped Rice Krispie treats.

Of course, to work off all the calories we hiked through the hills and vineyards and lavender fields of Provence, once to a river gorge and once to a castle. Another day we help chopped down trees and schlepped the logs to the wood shed.

And in the end it was the wood that made the weekend what it was... because the wood fed the two fireplaces we gathered around each night to fend off the chill.

And it was in front of one of the fireplaces that the best moment of the weekend occurred. Two of the friends had taken out a marriage license in New York City the week before... another had been certified as a "minister" of some type online, and so as the town's church bells struck midnight, the couple were wed, with seven other friends gathered around, clad either in their New Year finery, or in my case, in my cashmere pyjamas, as we all hoisted glasses of champagne in their honor.

Christmas oysters galore

So while the 8 course Christmas Eve meals are being enjoyed by traditional French families, we singletons have adopted the oyster and champagne tradition.

For this holiday season, we are enjoying bottles of Bellefon with dozens of Belon oysters at home, then going to friends' homes for even bigger shellfish extravaganzas. 

One friend, who is married to a French woman, and therefore is imbued with the assumption that he knows the secrets to oyster selection, provided a dining room table covered with a yard-long plate of chipped ice, upon which sat dozens of oysters of four different varieties, including my favorite whose name means something like White Pearl.

No I didn't find any pearls inside, the the oysters were gems in and of themselves! We descended on the table and slurped nonstop. It's the first time I have ever really been able to say that I have had my fill of oysters. Yum. 

The parties jogged my memory a family tradition from when I was a child. My Midwestern Mom always made oyster stew on Christmas Eve. Far as I know, it was canned oysters that appeared in the grocery store only during the holidays, added to hot milk in a saucepan with a bit of butter. So delicious that even a kid would eat it.

What were your family holiday treats? Do you still make them?

Spanish swirl, Part Dos

Getting ready for a big weekend here in Paris starting off with a Tracy Chapman concert in Porte Maillot and then a holiday party off the Champs Elysee.

Tracy is on a European tour and I am thrilled to be seeing her. Last time I saw her live was at the Old Vic in Chicago where she was the opening act for Ten Thousand Maniacs. Just Tracy on stage with her big old guitar and it was magic. Can’t wait!

Anybody else out there a fan?

Another of the stops on Tracy’s tour is, funnily enough, Barcelona, which I just visited for the first time. I’ve chronicled the first day already, so here goes for the roundup of Day Two:

n     Confession: I slept in! Yes, I felt guilty, but this weekend getaway was also about relaxing and not rushing around like I do in Paris. There’s just something so seductive about hotel sheets that makes me want to spend more time cocooned in them. But I did make it out of the hotel by 11 because I had a mission: find a hot cup of coffee and a pastry for breakfast, stroll through the Gothic Quarter and up the shopping street La Ramblas, and then hit the Boqueria market and sample some fresh seafood.

n      First I went to a chain café place for a totally tasty croissant filled with ham and cheese (meat fillings are not as common in Paris) and a Cappucino Nero (half coffee and half thick dark hot chocolate).

n     Then a stroll over past city hall where several groups of well-dressed Spaniards were waiting to greet couples who were getting married there that day. I saw plenty of ladies in fur stolls and fancy hats that seemed out of another European era standing around amid the city’s Nativity scene, complete with real palm trees but fake camels.

n     Working off breakfast, I wandered up and down La Ramblas making mental notes of cute clothing shops to return to later. But the main sights here were the human statues: artists in costume who stand still, or pose for photos for small tips. Spaniards seem to think bathroom humor is particularly funny as evidence by the gentleman pictured here… you can barely make out the yellow whoopee cushion under his jacket that he would press to make embarrassing noises each time someone gave him a tip. This was an incredible crowd pleaser. I did manage to duck into a show store, creatively titles “Outlet” and found two great pairs of soft black (of course!) all-leather pumps with medium-high heels. One pair is strictly for holiday wear (this weekend’s party perhaps?) because the leather has been tooled in a way that makes them sparkly. Bizarre, I know, but it works. Marked down from 84 euros to 20. I also ducked into the H&M to do my park to forestall the Spanish (and Swedish) recession and found a beautiful v-necked turquoise top for 19 euros that will definitely go into the holiday party rotation with the sparkly shoes, black lace pants and a Mongolian lamb boa.

n     Shopping worked up an appetite so it was off to the open air market known as La Boqueria. Wow. The colors, the bustle: this may well be the best market in the world. Locals were buying whole turkeys, live lobsters, special hams. I bought a sealed packet of pork to take back to Paris. The saleswoman assured me it was worth the 10 euro price tag. “It’s the very best. Black pig!” Well okay.

n     Then I couldn’t resist taking a counter seat at one of the fresh-fish grills to order a combo platter of mussels, clams, shrimp, tiny little octopi, razor clams and a fat sardine. The waiter let me taste both the house wine and something better… I opted for the something better and spent the next 45 minutes tackling the overflowing platter and chatting with other visitors.

n     Then it was time for a culture stop, so I went to the incredibly designed Palace of Catalan Music, bought a 27 euro ticket and treated myself to a four hour classical performance of a Moldavian orchestra playing Beethoven’s Ninth and then the Medieval-poetry-based work Carmina Burana. It was hard to know what to watch: the orchestra, the choir, the conductor or the astoundingly decorated concert hall;, with it’s Tiffany glass-like ceiling, giant carved horses with real leather reins and art nouveau style carved roses at every turn. Too bad that taking photos is not allowed inside the venue! But eating and drinking are, so at intermission I enjoyed a cold, crisp glass of Spanish cava and a tapas of smoked salmon and sweet onion on toast.

n      Afterward, I strolled around past the Picasso museum, alongside several  incredible looking churches and ended up back at the artists’ quarter I had visited the night before. Tonight there was an “important” soccer match involving the Barcelona team, so many eateries had empty seats. I opted for the Bodega La Palma, taking a seat at a round marble table next to a Danish couple enjoying a cheese platter and across from two Spanish women in an intense discussion of romance as they hoisted their pints of beer. I ordered a rioja wine and some small dishes: one was an eggplant puree toped with wild mushrooms and salty cheese. Another, called La Bomba, was a fist size ball of mashed potatoes and chopped roast beef, fried and slathered with a thick garlic sauce. I felt like I wished I had gone there with a whole group of friends so that we could order more different things and have a taste of each, but eating an entire La Bomba doesn’t leave room for much else!

n     I ordered a second, different wine and sat back to relax and mentally review my Barcelonan adventure. Did I have fun? Indeed. I found the city easy to navigate and the people friendly. Price were very reasonable compared to Paris.

n     Will I go back? What do you think?

When in Rome...

 This Rome-ing reporter just got back from a European jet-setting jaunt, in this case a quick flight from Paris to Rome, Italy to meet up with a PNN pal.

 Rome is once of those cities that exemplifies the French phrase, plus a change, plus c''est la mme chose, or the more things change, the more they stay the same.

The landmarks are still there of course -- the Colosseum, St. Peter''s -- as well as some of my personal landmarks, like La Capannina restaurant behind the Pantheon, where we went for lunch on Friday and found that Enzo and Vittorio still make the best spaghetti with clams EVER.  (La Nuova Capannina (8 Piazza delle Coppelle. Tel. 06 688 03921)

Dinner was a delight at Ditirambo, off the Campo dei Fiori. The highlights included a ricotta and black truffle-stuffed pasta and a tender veal-with-potatoes dish plus a refreshing salad of thinly sliced fennel and oranges with a sprinkling of pomegranate seeds. We somehow managed to split a triangle of magnificent chocolate hazelnut torte washed down with a glass or two of the bitter-sweet house digestive, or herbal digestive.

Another memorable meal was at the swanky vegetarian place called Il Margutta RistorArte on the artsy Via Margutta near the Spanish Steps. My aperitif of sparkling Prosecco wine was followed by a delicious broth with pumpkin-filled ravioli and a platter called "artichokes done 6 ways." 

I made sure I walked all the way back to my hotel, a former sort of convent in Trastevere (more on this later!), in an effort to try to work off some of the calories, but wouldn''t you know it, I just had to stop in a pasticceria on the way home to grab a sfogliatella napoletana.

 Yup. For me, this Naples classic has long been a culinary Roman landmark.

Bopping around Barcelona

So I am back in chilly Paris with fond memories of sunny Spain and its equally warm people (including this Brazilian singer who sells  fabulous bags)! Here’s a quick recap of the highlights…

And for those of you who have been to Barcelona, I’d love to know what your favorites places were, for the next trip!

And this is only Day One:

     n     after a less than two-hour flight, an easy check-in to my single room at Hotel Banys Orientals, a nicely appointed hotel in a great, artsy neighborhood called el Born. I also enjoyed the hallway fridge full of free bottled water and the bowls of fresh apples. I enjoyed talking to the front desk crew, including Camilla Sacchetti, waving at us in the photo above.

n     a quick subway ride followed by a long outdoor escalator ride to the Park Guell designed by Antoni Gaudi. It’s an Alice-in-Wonderland place of curvy walls, open plazas and decorative tiles. Great place for a picnic lunch of, say, bottled water and free hotel apples!

n     another subway to another Gaudi site, an apartment building called La Pedrera. I like house tours in general and this one is fantastic. You start by looking at the undulating outside of the building and then take an elevator to the attic which is full of displays and gothic style arches. The best part is when you step outside onto the roof. If you’ve seen the new Woody Allen film, then you’ve seen Scarlett Johannson playing a tourist on this very  rooftop! On the way out you can walk though one of the apartments inside the building, in this case decorated with period art nouveau furnishings.

n     a side trip to the unfinished Gaudi church, La Sagrada Famiglia and the Christmas market across the street where I picked up some ornaments and the most interesting figurine for a Nativity scene. Click here to read all about a peculiar penchant the Catalans have for a bit of scatological humor on the holidays! And yes, I did purchase a squatting wise man. I did not get the bent-over Obama. 14 euros was too high a price.

   n  back to El Born for a glass of cava, the sparkling Spanish wine, and some tapas of Iberian ham and anchovies in olive oil.

  n  it was still too early for dinner (Spaniards tend to eat late, like 10 p.m.) so I did a little shopping at this great little street fair where local artists sold their wares. I bought a handmade, rose shaped silver ring (30 euros), and coveted an 80 euro handbag whose strap is made from an automobile seatbelt! Her are some pictures of some of the artists and sales people at the fair.

n  finally a 9:30 p.m. dinner reservation in the Gothic Quarter at Pla, a fine-dining establishment. I began with a seabass on a bed of small white beans with a Catalan sauce, and followed with a refreshing salad of vegetable like carrots and zucchini cut with a device that left them in spaghetti-like tendrils I could wind around the tines of my fork. It came with a dressing of crushed red berries and cava. All washed down with a glass of chilled Verdejo white wine that had just the right mineral tones.

n  on the way back to the hotel after dinner, traveler's kismet kicked. I noticed that the streets were lined with  luminaria and the various artist studios were open for visits and a young hip crowd was gathering and spilling out into the cobbled alleyways. At one, the paintings of a British woman, Paula Cox, reflected her impressions of meeting Palestinian women.

 n  my last stop was the hotel restaurant, Senyor Parellada, for their dessert specialty, a Catalan flan and a steaming cup of hot coffee con leche.

Day One, savory and satifsying. What will Day Two bring? Stay tuned!

Le Shopping List

Sometimes I wonder if food here in France is really as expensive as it seems to be.
 
It could be that I just haven’t shopped enough at stores in the U.S.
Maybe I’m becoming the quirky aunt who brags about remembering yesteryear when a loaf of bread cost a nickel! 
 
So I’ve decided to translate (into dollars) the receipt from my most recent shopping trip.

Outrageous? Or Reasonable? You decide.
 
Bottle of dried sage: $5.51
Log of goat cheese $2.85
1 lime:  83 cents
Bag of spinach leaves: $1.48
Half-pound of green pea pods $3.70
1-pound pork roast $8.33
Two pieces of chicken breast $8.67
1 large sweet potato $2
Small box of brown sugar $3.23
1 fresh endive 41 cents
1 box containing 2 oven-ready chocolate moelleux (individual cakes with a molten chocolate center) $5.95
1 liter bio skim milk $2.47
6 ounce bag tortilla chips $2.35
 
So, what's the PNN verdict? Is Paris tres chere? Oui or non?

An Extra Hour

Even though I remembered about the Paris time change last night when coming home from a fun night of Indian food and a hipster cocktail bar on what might have otherwise been the last Metro of the night, I of course forgot to reset my cellphone, my clock and my alarm before hitting the hay.

So this morning, I got up, made my French roast coffee with demi-ecreme milk, and got dressed for work. (Yes, even flashy foreign correspondent types have to work on Sundays.)

Anyway, I glanced at my Sunday paper and there it was: the ever so helpful time clock logo reminding me that the day would be 25 hours long... not the usual 24. Yay! Manna from Heaven!

I had another entire hour I hadn't been expecting.But what to do? Should I sleep? Should I cook?

I decided instead to hop on a rental bike and ride nearly all the way to work (this is from the 17th arrondissement through Porte Maillot and into the suburbs) but adding a stop I had never made before: at a weekly fruit and vegetable market that I had always wanted to investigate, but never found the time.

And what a great day it was. Skies like out of a painting by  Rene Magritte and almost no traffic on those annoying roundabouts, because the French were either still in church or still at lunch.

I made it to the market at les Sablons and was not disappointed: row after row of autumn veggies bursting with color. Table after table of freshly cut and fragrant flowers. Umbrellas protecting a rainbow display of alleged cashmere sweaters. Turkish rugs. Crystal vases. Oysters!

In the end I decided to buy only things that were orange, a color of the season. I picked up the ripest persimmon i could find (note to self: not a good eat-at-your-desk item!); I asked a vendor to cut off a three-inch thick slice of a mysterious pumpkinlike squash which will end up being roasted in my tiny Parisian oven; I got a handful of clemetines, with a few leaves still clinging to their stems.

Finally, I bought a hunk of something I saw an older French dude buy: Wild boar pate. I'm not kidding, and no it wasn't orange. Expensive, yes. Tasty? Incredibly so. Fat laden: Don't even ask. But hey, I had just biked to get there so I let myself justify the added globules.

Then I peddled off to work, stopping briefly at an adorable boulangerie for a skinny baguette to go with the piggy pate.

So, what did you do with your extra hour?

Autumn in Paris. Sigh.

Change is good they say, so why am I freezing? Could it be because I haven't yet had time to ferret through my tiny Parisian closet to find where I put last year's warm wool beret and chic burgundy leather gloves?

Or that the wardrobe in my cave-like Parisian bedroom is bulging with lineny summer clothes that I'd like to move somewhere, but don't actually have a somewhere to move them too?

Or is it that my mind just refuses to accepot what's staring me in the face? That these crisp sunny mornings are about to give way to six months of grey skies, biting rain and wet feet?

Buck up, I tell myself. At least it's not Chicago and six months of snow.

Anyone else out there having the "Uh oh. here comes winter" blues?

 Any solutions for embracing the wonders of fall without worrying about Old Man Winter?

Getting a red-hot Eiffel

Sometimes the wacky bi-country life I lead blends and meshes and comes together in one big happy event.

This is one of those times, altho it's not without controversy.

The French Republic has, amazingly, agreed to light up the icon of all of France, the venerable Tour Eiffel, in the colors of the Turkish flag starting this week.

My friends at the French Foreign Ministry tell me confidentially that this was indeed a controversial thing: Not only has the tower... THE symbol of Paris ,... never been lit in the colors of another country, (they did do an European-Union blue when France held the EU presidency a year ago) but this time the colors are not even those of an EU member country.

In fact, the red and white design is taken from the flag of a country that France OPPOSES joining the EU at all!

DeGaulle must be riolling in his grave.. and you know Sarkozy must be averting his gaze with every limousine ride up the Champs Elysee.

This was done to honor the Saison de la Turquie, a months-long cultural exchange program between France and Turkey. So I hope people honor the idea of it and dont get too bent out of shape. We shall see!

I mean, would the US Capitol ever be done up in say, the flag of North Korea? Maybe that's an extreme example, but didnt people object when the Empire State Building was lit in red for the 60th anniversary of the People's Republic of China? Capitalism and Communism blending in a remarkable way.

Offensive? Or a step forward?

Seeing Redhead?

After reading this interesting post by a guy explaining the attraction to women with red hair, I figured I'd weigh in with my own tale of the tresses.

Like many of us, I did something drastic after a breakup. Got the short pixie cut to show my independence.

But that wasn't all: I went red. Not carrot red, nor strawberry blonde. More of a sassy auburny red. And I loved it. It worked with my already exitign freckles, and blue-green eyes, and interestingly, with a lot of my wardrobe.

But it wasn't like I hadn't always wanted to do it: I just needed the courage. 

Of course I had the greatest hairdresser in the world at the time (three cheers for Tammy!), but she moved to Phoenix and others just haven't matched up since.

Lately I've been dying my own. I don't get as good a result, but it sure is a whole lot cheaper than a Paris salon and I don't have to speak French (or Turkish) to anyone in order to cover those roots.

Now it's funny though how other cultures see red hair.

Here in France, it can have a sort of sexy streetwalker appeal, depending on whether one is dolled up in knee-high patent leather boots.

In Turkey, everyone thinks I am German because they have seen a lot of hipsters from Berlin with blazing curls or spiky dos. (And I wonder if they saw Franka Potente in the movie "Run Lola Run.")

One aspect I DON'T like about being a redhead? The frat boys who ask whether "the carpet matches the curtains."

Fat chance they'll find out with a line like that!

Another reds out there? How about wanna be reds? Let's hear from you!

Coconut Is The New Pomegranate

Suddenly, it's everywhere, from regular groceries to celebrity magazines. And here on PNN (see EmilyRo's newest post!).

The Coconut.

But I just had to share this photo and tell about a recent coconut-water tasting I attended at a vineyard in Northern California.

Meet Rochelle, a Yale grad, published book author, and independent businesswoman who on top of all that writes about American life for Japanese publications.

This time around, her assignment was to tell readers in Japan all about the new celebrity craze for coconut milk, or coconut water, you name it. And because she knew I'd be visiting from Paris this month, she brought along her research to a wine-tasting picnic/jazz concert we attended in the Sonoma Valley.

She supplied the long-stemmed and pretty blue glassware. The first thing she poured was a chilled coconut water, sold by the liter in grocery stores. She had read that Gwyneth Paltrow had used it to help her lose her baby weight and I've even read about people like Nicole Ritchie being spotted sipping such nectar.

So taste we did... this "water" was light, cool and refreshing and I could see myself enjoying it on a warm late-summer day. I don't recall the calorie count, but it did not taste sweet, nor artificially enhanced. I'd give it a thumbs up.

But then Rochelle produced the piece de resistance: a fresh, shelled young coconut.
It's the one she is holding in this photo. It came with a straw sticking out of it and despite the bird flu risks we passed it around the table and each took a slurp.

This was real coconut "milk," and it tasted delicious! Thicker than the water, and much more flavorful. Again, no calorie count, but I didn't care at this point.

The only downside for having one of these as a snack would be the oddness of carrying it around as you did your daily errands ... but hey... could a coconut husk become the new Starbucks carryout cup??

Ooh there's a thought: How long before we see a coconut latte on the menu?

What Are You Wearing to Bed Tonight?

Because this is what I am wearing: my favorite cotton classic pajamas.

The fabric is smooth and comfy and the design is loads of fun: the (hypothetical) men in my life.

All the types are represented: the mama's boy, the artist, the wolf, even the jerk!

Of course we all want the romantic dont we?

With these jammies, I can have my pick, every night of the week.

So, who's wearing what (if anything!) to bed tonight????

A $450 cotton bra?

That's NOT a typo: $450 for a cotton bra. But oh, it's hand-made to fit your measurements by a delighful young Frenchwoman named Louise whose shop is in my neighborhood in Paris.

No, I didn't order one. It's Sears for me all the way.

But here's her Web site in case you want to browse.

These are clearly not your Panty Quotidiennes! 

 Do they "fit" anyone's bottom line?

How Cute Is This?

Ok, so it's silly season in the global media world, also known as the dog days of the news cycle.

That's why i find myself at 10 p.m. in the Paris newsroom  of a major global daily looking at pictures like this from the Web Site of the London Telegraph.

The caption says it was taken at a tiger zoo in Thailand.

The tiger, herself raised on milk from pigs, is now breastfeeding  piglets!

My favorite part are the little tiger-striped jammies someone made for the piglets.

Anyone else resorting to such silliness these days? Or am I the only one with a case of  August whimsy? 

My Blueberry Nights

A PNN pal just asked me what I've been cooking in Paris recently. Well this picture provides a clue: Blueberries!

I live near a great bio (biologique, or organic) market that opens every Saturday with tables heaving with lucious ripe and natural produce of every imaginable shape and flavor... and some you could never imagine!

But since it's August, I went looking this weekend for someone I've come to call The Blueberry Guy.

He is only there in August. And he only sells one thing. Blueberries.

Fresh, deep blue berries. Nothing else. Not even jam.

Just blueberries from his organic farm in southwestern France.

So, this being the organic market, prices are sky high. No 99 cents a quart here. Nope.

I bought two cups' worth for 8 euros. Yes folks, that's 12 dollars U.S.

I splurged, but it has become an August ritual for me.

So what did I do with my precious baubles?

I went to a grocery store and bought what I thought was going to be a normal pie crust (yes, I cheated!) and went home and baked a sort-of tart/pie/cobbler thingie.

I have one of those marvelous French ceramic deep-dish pie plates, so I lined it with the pre-made dough, added the cleaned berries, some sugar and lemon juice, pats of French butter and sprinkles of cinnamon. Then I folded over the edged of the crust so they met in the center, with just enough overlap to let some steam escape.

Into my mini oven and voila. Pie. Sort of.

Well, the crust was NOT great... I don't know if I shouold have used the flaky pastry type of crust instead, as this one was a little more suited to a savory dish. But once cooled, I sliced it open and yum.

With a piece for breakfast and a piece for dessert, this only lasted three days.

So this Saturday I'll be out at the market again, searching for The Blueberry Guy.

I'm in Barcelona....

....and discovering some cool things I'll be sharing with you shortly. Stay tuned!

Last Week Was No Turkey

We have a saying in the global newsroom: We may doze, but we never close. So even though it was a restful holiday week for many readers last week, this scribe was burning the candle at both ends per usual... meeting deadlines and then meeting friends out of the rainy streets of Paris.

Here's a quick rundown of highlights from the week that was:

 --Caught the Stereolab show Wednesday at La Cigale (The Cricket)... a lovely old theater venue right in the heart of the seedy Pigalle district. Think indie rock band plopped down into the middle of Moulin Rouge and Triple-X land. After the show, we joined the band in the green room (full disclosure: the walls were bright yellow), enjoyed a few cold beers from the fridge provided by La Cigale, then dragged the band and their buddies down the street to le Formi (the ant), a great laid-back tavern with a long zinc bar and a kooky chandelier made of dusty wine bottles. We asked for the best wine available by the glass and it turned out to be a decent bordeaux.  But then 1 a.m. struck and the Boys in the Band, including the female lead singer who is French, had to board their rock star bus and head to the next show, in Nantes, a university town west of Paris. Ah the glamorous life!

--Friday found us in a triptophan haze we hoped would be dissipated by the Latin Jazz show advertised at the Czech cultural center (who knew?) at 18 Rue Bonaparte in the tony St. Germain district. The center has a bright (possibly too bright!) basement  space which on Fridays turns into the Paris-Prague Jazz Club, and for just 5 euros, we were treated to a couple hours of live entertainment at global-financial-crisis prices. The only thing was, the Latin band wasn't there. Instead it was Soulshine Voices, a trio of talented women from Toulouse  singing American Gospel classics. The standing room only crowd didn't seem to mind the switch and by the end of the second set, the singers had the audience on its feet dancing... to Gospel. Only in Paris.