my latest sources of intense sensual pleasure

Ulti Jus d’orange, pamplemousse et frambois. 

Nectar of the gods, I tell ya!   Monoprix makes one that’s equally delish under the “daily monop” label.    And not terribly easy to find outside of big cities.   So far, I’ve only encountered it in Paris, Nice and Marseille.   It’s fresh and so good you want to savor it like a fine wine (or in my case, chocolate milk).   With every sip I take, I’m boggled by its deliciousness anew.   I think there must be something in it like crack.

A friend of mine tried it when she was visiting France and is showing signs of a burgeoning addiction.   Now when she calls me, her first question is “are you drinking that juice?” her voice thick with desire.     She’s now planning to retire here, in part, I believe for this juice.

Domaine Ramateulle 2010 Rose

I am by no means a wine connoisseur.   In fact, I never been a big wine fan.   Until I met rose (with an accent over the “e” — someday I’m going to have to figure out how to do a accent grave on my computer).   I always thought they were the white trash of wines, but boy was I wrong (well, either that, or I have white trash taste).   They’re dry but refreshing.   Light, but fuller bodied than white.   They’re jush desilicious.

So far, this is my favorite.   It’s hauntingly good.   I find myself thinking about it at various points during the day, looking forward to the moment my lips touch its cold, dewy glass.  And the best part is, it not only tastes ambrosial, it gets me drunk!    I never want to be without it ever again.

Sun dried tomato/anchovy tapenade

I can’t vouch for all of them, since every recipe is different (and they often have different names such as bagnattou, or croistillade.”   I’m in love with one at the Antibes Marche Provencal that has olives, sun dried tomatoes, basil, anchovies and god knows what else.  They call theirs “bagnattou d’angele”, which seems apt.    Everytime I eat it, I’m surprised at how utterly freaking good it is.   I find myself having it for dessert.   Who knew something without chocolate in it could be so addictive?

Rotisserie chicken from a truck

I have yet to eat a chicken as perfect as those from a truck in France.    I don’t know if it’s that the chickens are better, or fresher, or better prepared but dang, those are good chickens.   Perfectly seasoned, moist, flavorful.   I have sought tastier chickens all over the world and have yet to find one.   Particular kudos to the hot guy and his pretty wife at the Vidauban market (not pictured here).   The best of the best, IMHO.

Oreillettes de Languedoc

I happened upon these babies while waiting in line at Monoprix to pay for my Ulti jus d’oranges, pamplemousse et frambois.   They’re one layer of pastry drizzled with lemon juice and sugar.   I ate the entire box in an hour an am now planning to go to Nice first thing in the morning to stock up on more (I’d go right now, but it’s Sunday).   I guess they’re a specialty of the Languedoc, which is making me consider moving there.

Meil de lavande from La Maison du Miel in Vidauban

I always thought honey was honey.   And lavender honey just sounds like so much BS.   So when Gilli told me people travel from far and wide for this honey, I took it with a grain of salt (or pollen).

Well, over here they have honey degustations (the next gourmet preoccupation?) which I’m glad to take part in (hey, free food!).   After tasting honey from across the land, I’ve come to revise my thinking.   Honey is not honey, and this stuff is amazing!!!  I wish I could describe what it is exactly that makes it taste above and beyond every other honey–a subtle hint of spicy-ness?  The round, almost buttery depth of flavor?   Yes, it’s a miracle honey.   I think it probably cures illness and eliminates wrinkles when applied topically.

Produce

Holy shit!   So this is what these things are supposed to taste like.

macarons I have known and loved

My love affair with macarons began on a rainy afternoon in Paris four years ago.   It was a chocolate macaron at Dalloyau that was so perfect, so dark, so rich I became obsessed.   I would only eat the chocolate ones for fear of being disappointed by a lesser flavor.

When I moved back to California, I tried to substitute them with cupcakes, but quickly grew bored.   I tried desperately (sometimes on a daily basis) to recreate the perfection of that chocolate macaron in my kitchen, and failed miserably every time.   Now that I think about it, I really had no choice but to move back to France.

When I returned, I vowed to try every flavor.   I figured that given all the macaron colors I’ve seen in Paris patisseries, it will take awhile before I get to the flavors that sound really disgusting to me (fois gras, for example)

One thing I learned quickly is that the assortment of flavors of macarons you can find in a particular village or ville is directly proportionate to the number of people who live there or visit.   Vidauban, with a population of approximately 10,000 really offers a selection of six flavors:   chocolate, pistachio, lemon, vanilla, coffee and strawberry.   After sampling all Vidabuan has to offer, I began to travel further afield to broaden my horizons.

Once again, it’s in Paris where I’m able to rediscover that total bliss I experienced with that first chocolate macaron, not once, but twice in one day:   First, by the Bon Marche food hall, La Grande Epicerie Paris (how I love that place) rhubarb and vanilla macaron…OhMyGod…and later that day by Laduree‘s caramel beurre de sale…OHMYGOD…   The Laduree Cherry/almond macaron is a close third.

I’m partial to the macarons that don’t have jam fillings.   I prefer something creamier like ganache, nougat or caramel.   Jam seems so common, like someone grabbed a jar of Smuckers and slathered it on.   Even a curd or paste will do.

A quick note toLaduree:   Yes, your store is beautiful.   Yes, your macarons and packaging are to die for.   But why can’t I take a picture in your store?   It’s not like you’re the freaking pentagon, for godsakes.

A note to places who sell very expensive macarons and yet when you buy four, they get shoved into a little prissy bag that will get your macarons crushed if you were to carry them any distance: put ‘em in a box!!!!   I’m talking to you, Jean Luc Pele.   Do you think these flimsy bags are going to get these macarons from Cannes to Antibes unscathed?   And while we’re at it, Laduree, anybody who spends 10 euros on four macarons deserves a box, carrying case or jeweled encrusted chest with built in refrigeration.

There are two macarons vendors with excellent selections in Antibes who concoct these nifty little carrying cases from the larger casings.   I want to bedazzle one, put a strap on it and carry it everywhere so I’m always prepared for an unexpected patisserie event.

So far, here are the macarons I’ve tried and a review of whether or not the flavor works for me in macaron form or not.  Basically they fall into 4 categories.

• ****OMG i will spend the rest of my life trying to recreate this experience.
• ***this is really good.   I’m not obsessed, but I will want to have another..
• **Good.   Been there done that.
• *Ewww, this is disgusting.

***lemon (citron)   I have yet to have a citron macaron I didn’t like.

***mandarine  I feared it might taste like cough medicine, but it was pretty dang good.   I’m not obsessed, but I’ll definitely have another.

***yuzu   Very good.   Citrusy with this tantalizing whiff of something good.   A rare example of a slightly perfume-y flavor agreeing with my taste buds.

**bergamot   Bergamot is weird.   It’s a citrus, but it’s more perfumey that it is citrusy.   Twice I’ve had a bergamot macaron and promptly forgot what it tasted like.

***chocolate   What’s not to like?

****rhubarb vanilla:   There it was behind the counter at Bon Marche epicierie.   It wasn’t the brightest macaron, but something about it spoke to me.   One bite and it was all over for me.   Bliss.   Perfect combo of sweet/tarte/creamy/crunchy.   I may never see another rhubarb vanilla macaron, but I’ll always remember the brief time I had one.   I’ll live my life as it never happened but deep in my heart, around every street corner, in every window a vague wish will flicker through my heart — that another rhubarb vanilla macaron will be there, waiting for me.

***chocolate noir  What’s not to like?

****caramel beurre de salle I pledge thee my troth.

***coffee (cafe):   Come to think of it, maybe it’s only two stars.   Oh I don’t know.   It just seems unsophisticated to not like the coffee flavored one.   Whatevs.

**lime (citron vert):   maybe it was the patisserie (Jean Luc de whatshiznosis cannes)

**mint (menthe):   It’s kind of a two and a half.   I’ve had one I loved and one that was okay.   The one I loved will induce me to get another.   I won’t take it over a beurre de salle or even ginger, but it’s not bad.

**vanilla   good, but I don’t really need to have another unless someone tells me that so and so makes the most delicious one in the whole wide world.   Or they add rhubard.

**strawberry (fraise)

****cherry almond (griotte amande):   Oh laduree, I will put up with your slightly snippy sales girls and high prices for little miracles like this.

***pistachio (pistache) Anything pistachio is good.   But when you get right down to it (and I’ve given this a great deal of thought), I’d rather have pistachio ice cream than a pistachio macaron.

**cherry (cerise)

**chocolate banana

**cassis

**champagne   Here’s the thing.   It tasted more like roses than champagne.   I don’t like eating flowers, so it’s not my favorite.   But I wonder if he gave me the wrong one?   It’s really pretty pink with a slight golden glow.   May have to try again.   I like champagne.   I even like roses, i just don’t like eating them.

***gingerbread (pain d’epices)  This is really good.   Like three and a half stars good.   Kind of like a pumpkin pie only better.  Really, really, really good.   I wonder if the store is still open….

**raspberry (framboise)

**blackberry (mure)

***passionfruit chocolate   I’m not sure if I like it or hate it.   It’s intriguing, possibly because I both love it and hate it.   I might have to try another one someday just to figure it out.

***amaretto Nice and almondy.

***bitter orange (orange amere) Much better than I expected.   Delicious, in fact.

***nutella I’m not a huge nutella fan, but these are good!

***peanut (cacahuette) these will be my replacement for Reeses peanut butter cups, when I get a craving.   Do you know how hard it is to find anything peanut butter related over here?

goody bags from cannes

I’ve been to Cannes once many years ago and frankly, I wasn’t all that impressed.   So even though I’m only about 50 minutes away, I haven’t been compelled to pay a second visit.   But it’s the Cannes film festival and I’d have to be some sort of full fledged agoraphobic (as opposed to the partial agoraphobic I am) to not go check it out.

The train ride is lovely.  After 15 minutes of riding through rolling hills , medieval villages perched on hills and vineyards, the train gets to the ocean, which is a deep teal blue, offset by coves and rocky outcroppings (slate/green and terracotta colors) and medieval villages clustered in coves along the shore.

There are armed police and military officers, all over the Gare de Cannes,  but other than that everything looks pretty normal.

The streets near the station are pleasant and almost Provencal, except for an occasional person with the tell-tale identity tag hanging around their neck rushing  by, cellphone clutched in white knuckled hand.  I figure they’re crew members, bloggers or actually working the festival or they’d be in limos or staying in a lavish hotel on the Croisette.

Once you hit the Rue d’Antibes, you’re in the Cannes zone.  From then on, it’s a bunch of fancy stores and restaurants that cater to “les trou du culs’ as one shop person put it. Up until now, I haven’t seen ONE Sephora in France, even in Paris.   In Cannes, there are two.   I know that says something deep and significant about the people who come to Cannes, but how can I concentrate when…ooooh, look!   Shiny!I watch an American woman drool to her significant other over a 350 Euro pair of flip flops in a window that look just like my $2.00 party flip flops I got at Old Navy except they have a Hugo Boss logo on them. which makes them worth 348.59 Euros more (approximately $495 US  as of today), apparently.   I’m starting to feel a little self conscious about my ON (Old Navy sounds classier as an acronym, don’t you think?) flip flops.

It appears that men over 5’7″ are not allowed in Cannes… (unless they’re locals on their way to their jobs serving men who are all 5’7″ or shorter).   They’re usually accompanied by woman teetering down the streets in their designer clown stilts preceded by their lips, boobs and an unpleasant whiff of eau de trying too hard.   It looks like a convention of Real Housewives here.

I know I’m getting near the Croisette by the shiny black cars lined up, security guards standing at attention, photographers and peasants lined up to look at anything that happens to be behind a barricade (especially if a red carpet is back there somewhere).Here, everyone is either speaking English or Italian, car horns are honking, photographers are everywhere.

I stand with the crowd, curious as to who might emerge from those guarded doors Then it hits me;  I’m in arguably one of the most beautiful strips of land in the world, and I’m looking at someone’s head who’s looking at someone else’s head who’s looking at someone else’s head who’s trying to get a glimpse of someone else’s head.

An hour or so later, I pry myself away from the still waiting crowd and cross the street.  Looking back several in case Johnny, Brangelina or whoever aren’t finally making their entrance.

But when I get to the beach side of the street, I only get glimpses of the water, sand or even the view because of all the tents, posters and crap blocking the view.  It kind of reminds me of Waikiki.  Or Waikiki Disney.   I wonder if Cannes gets this crazy when hosting a Dental Convention?   Do they plaster the Carlton Hotel (which is actually a very cool old building) with pictures of famous dentists?

Do poseur dentists wander the streets of this Americanized version of a quaint Mediterranean town and buy ridiculous stuff they can get anywhere at a higher price here just so they can say they got it in Cannes?

I find a nice stretch of blocked off road and stroll up the Croisette towards the castle, past the Palais des Festivals to get a look at the coast, which is stunning. Some photographers are snapping pictures of somebody launching a yacht for somewhere.   Pigs!   My iphone can’t get a clear picture of whoever it is from this distance.

I retreat to the quieter backstreets and find lunch for under 15 Euro (I’m splurging, it’s Cannes, forgodsakes).    I order aile de raie with lemon, butter and capers because I’ll eat anything with lemon, butter and capers.   It’s not the best aile de raie I’ve ever had, but it’s not bad with the lemon, capers and butter, and not at any point during the meal do I consider the possibility that the chef may be trying to poison me–always a plus.

After lunch, I stumble upon a macaron store.  Not a patisserie with a few macaron flavors, a macaron store.   This is the biggest assortment of macarons I’ve ever seen outside of Paris.     It even has ridiculous fois gras flavors (I’m sorry, that’s just wrong!!!).   And some of them have some kind of shiny almost glittery substance in the meringue portion of the cookie which in my opinion is gilding the lily.   But who cares?    They have the coveted beurre de sale (salted caramel), a flavor that has thus far has eluded me everywhere except Paris.   You know that feeling when you’re falling in love and you’re having this perfect moment that you never want to end?  Eating a properly made beurre de sale macaron is like that.   I also get a chocolate one, which is my “go to” flavor.   These two little gems will be my rewards when I get home.

Ooooh, they also have my favorite tea.   It’s ridiculously expensive, but it’ll really top off the macarons.

On my way back to the train station I find Maison du Chocolate tucked away in a quiet little spot off Rue d’Antibes and discover some of the biggest chocolate covered orange peels I’ve ever seen.  Not grotesque big, mind you.   That would be…well, grotesque.   Instead of twigs these are about 1/6 an orange peel each.

One of the many beauties of chocolate covered orange rinds is you can tell yourself they’re healthy.   Did you know the rind is where most of the nutrients are in an orange?  It’s the ultimate in being environmentally friendly by reducing waste, since what else was anyone on going to do with those orange peels?   They would have just become landfill.    So I pick up a couple of those in the name of sustainability.    Now I really can’t wait to get home.

The return trip is a little tense only because I have to be careful not to crush my delicate treasures.

So here I am, back in Vidauban.   I’m sipping my freshly brewed Mariage Freres Yuzu Temple tea with my Maison du Chocolate orange rind and Jean Luc Pele macarons, I ponder Cannes and the shallow, label loving, acquisitive, pleasure seeking hedonists who seem to gravitate to it.   I really don’t like the place at all.

I bite into the beurre de sale macaron and my eyes roll back in pure bliss.

I wonder if I’ll have time go back to Cannes later this week.

a day of concern

It’s my birthday. I won’t mention which one, because once the number crosses my lips (in any language), I’m sure I’ll go into some sort of emotional/spiritual decline that will end with me wandering the streets of some city (I hope in Europe) with long unkempt grey hair talking about the royal paradox and why all white possums must be destroyed or we will suffer the wrath of Tutankhamun who will rise from…you get the picture.

My point is, I’m approaching this day as a “Fete de moi”, rather than a birthday to avoid any unnecessary introspection, self-reflection or taking stock of my life. That must be avoided at all cost.

I have important things that must get done today. Especially since yesterday one news source informed its readers in bold red type that today is “a day of concern.” I read the article and the concern wasn’t for my creeping age. Yes, some experts were predicting something really, really terrible happening on this day. It’s got to do with the Islamic calendar and we should all be vigilant. I guess Armageddon could be considered the birthday celebration to end all birthday celebrations. All I know is I better get my derriere to the Musee Marmottan and see all those Monets before it closes permanently, so to speak.

I’m atwitter because I’ve discovered there’s a train from St. Ouen Aumone/Pontoise that takes me straight to the Musee Marmottan neighborhood which is in the 16th arrondisement. That means no time consuming stop at Gare du Nord and transferring to the metro. One hour from door to door. And what a relief to avoid a major train station on this day of ill portent.

I’m not at all familiar with the 16th arrondissement, but when I get above ground at the Boullanvilliers stop, I can see the tip of the Eiffel tower looming above the first tree topped roof. I walk towards where the action appears to be and wind up on Rue de Passy. The streets are lined with wonderful boutiques of both the material and edible kind. I’m pulled in different directions…do I find the point where I can see all of the Eiffel tower right across the Seine. Or go into the shoe store. Or the Asian traiture. I’m not sure whether it’s the wisdom of old age or poverty that propels me to find the view.

palais de chaillot from place du mars

There’s a huge palatial building at the bottom of the small hill and I head towards it. Turns out it’s the Musee/Palais Chaillot. Its terrace has one of Paris’ most spectacular views. The plaza is literally across the river from the Place du Mars, where the Eiffel tower is. But the terrace is on a higher plane, than the base of the Eiffel tower, so I get to look down on about 1/4 of it and up at the rest. I also get to look over Paris. I’m particularly enamored with the gold dome of the Invalides building glistening in the sunlight. I curse my stupidity in rushing out of the house without the camera. We’ll see if Monet can top this.

I spend a few hours with Monet at the Musee Marmottan and emerge culturally sated.   Now I must indulge my shallower urges (it’s my birthday and the world is about to end, dammit!!!).

I find Paris curiously tourist free except on the Champs Elysees, at the Louvre and Galleries Lafayette. The 16th is no exception. But from here, it appears every tourist in the world has assembled on the huge manicured Plaza of the Eiffel tower and is waiting in line to go up. Either that or it’s the armies of good and evil assembling for the final battle. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get my derriere going.

It’s getting late and I’ve got to get back to Auvers because I’m having dinner next door with Carole and Jerome later so I should really try to catch a train before the world ends so I can catch a quick nap (hey, I’m old). But before I go back, I check out the shoe store I’d forsaken earlier for the view. It’s fete de moi, after all. I should be able to indulge myself with a little peek. And heck, if I happen to love something, the world is gonna end later today, so it probably won’t even show up on the credit card bill. But of course, now that I have all the money in the world (as long as the world ends), there’s nothing here I really want.

I return to the Asian traiture and fulfill my earlier desire for a shrimp summer roll and eat it in the park. Then I get a beautiful pink pamplemouse/rose sorbet on the sidewalk on the way back to the metro (how could I resist?). I have now indulged my every whim of the day. I am fulfilled. Armageddon, come and get me.

a few hours with monet

To get to the Marmottan, I walk through yet another one of Paris’s beautifully kept parks. This one even has pony rides. The museum itself is an elegant mansion on the edge of the greenery. It has three floors, each featuring a different collection. There’s the illuminations from middle age religious manuscripts, the collection of art and artifacts collected over centuries from the Marmottan family and the Monet stuff.

The place is practically deserted. I begin to wonder if the end of the world happened and I missed it.   I squelch the urge to find the nearest satellite television and tune into CNN. Instead, I head for the Monets, which just happen to be in the relative safety of the basement, which has been rebuilt into a grand museum space.

This collection was donated by Monet’s son and is quite impressive. Tons of Monet paintings, sketches and even an old palette of his. Also displayed is Monet’s collection of work by his friends and peers, among them, Renoir, Morisot, Rodin, my buddy Pisarro…

Monet as painted by Renoir

I like Monet, but find a lot of his work spotty. There are periods where his work soared and then other periods, not so much. I guess that’s the curse of living a long life.

Monet lived to the ripe old age of 87. He did not die impoverished and unappreciated. I guess that’s the benefit of living a long life, if you happen to have any talent. He was making a good living which enabled him to live his final couple of decades in a gorgeous environment of his own creation—his house and gardens at Giverny (add Givererny to my “to go” list). He apparently died bitter and cranky despite the fact that he lived what seemed like a pretty idyllic existence. Of course, he did have advanced cataracts and had been legally blind for at least 10 years, which had to be a real bummer. You can actually see the effect of his cataracts on his later paintings.–they’re practically unrecognizable and there’s a reddish/mauvy cast, which is apparently how cataract sufferers see things.

 

Japanese footbridge, painted 1899

Japanese footbridge, painted 1919

Like Van Gogh, Monet tried to kill himself in his early years. But only once (Van Gogh tried all the time). In Monet’s case, at the time, his girlfriend was pregnant, he was broke and unappreciated and it seemed to be an isolated crisis rather than a way of life or being a drama queen.  He married in 1870, his first wife died in 1879 and he remarried a family friend (Alice Hoschede) who was helping him raise his sons in 1892, a year after her husband died (she died in 1911).   One cool, slightly perverse fact:   Monet’s son from his first marriage married Alice’s daughter from her first marriage.

Judging by the photographs, In his younger years, Monet appears to have been a real hottie. And now he’s single (dead, but single)!   I know all I need to know about Monet.  I must visit Giverny.

Address, hours and reviews of the Musee Marmottan

four hours in purgatory

I have such a great time in Amsterdam, I’m almost hesitant to leave. Here I have friends. kids my emotional age to play with, people who speak English and wafflenstroopen…. But it’s time to face up to the horrible reality facing me.

Oh…wait. How horrible can reality be it if I’m going home to France?

Okay, horrible may be an overstatement. But reality can definitely be annoying on a European holiday. It’s Pentecost, which rumor has it, is a Christian thing. As a result, the trains are screwed up and running on a Sunday schedule which is an hour later than I anticipated. It’s crowded. And I have to transfer in Roosendale (wherever that is). Damn Christians!

This bald short jewelry wearing macho type jerk of a guy and his mildly less jerky friend with too much luggage enter the car. They put their luggage in the aisles, leaving no way for anyone to pass, and then sprawl out in the seats across from me and the nice quiet Belgian girl sitting next to me. The grosser of the two stretches out until his feet are nearly touching the bottom of my seat, legs spread so mine are trapped between his. I’m fuming. How dare this toad actually, he’s more like a banty rooster) take up everyone’s space with his huge enormous ego?

He talks loudly in what sounded like Greek, but is probably Russian to his friend and looks at his cellphone a lot. I hate him with the white hot passion of …I don’t know, but If my hatred could be converted to an alternative fuel source , it could fuel Manhattan for years (another career idea?)

The girl and I exchange several tortured glances.

When she gets off, I use the opportunity to storm off to another seat. Not that there’s much to choose from.

I end up sitting next to a slim American guy with a southern accent who reminds me a little of Edward Norton’s character in “Primal Fear”. It doesn’t help that he bears a strong resemblance to a guy I saw with one of the hookers in a red light district window the other day.

He says he’s from South Carolina, staying somewhere in Brittany for the next three months in some training program learning how to make better industrial tubing. He and his buddies decided to check out Amsterdam over the weekend,  but it was a little weird for him because he doesn’t smoke weed. His two buddies are sitting in he window seats across the aisle, giggling like Beavis and Butthead.

Sure he seems like a nice innocent kid from the south, but there’s something else going on here. Something dark and sinister and creepy.

Somewhere near the Belgium/France border I mentally shift from wondering how my seat mate will murder and rape me (probably in that order) to worrying about what fresh mess I’ll be returning to in Auvers.

What if the bamboo is dead?   Or the entire garden.   Did I turn off the stove?   I can’t remember if I heard the door click when I closed it…what if the door is open, the kitties escaped, the house got robbed and  the kitties got hit by a car or eaten by…whatever indiginous wild beasts reside in Auvers .   I spend the remainder of the trip in mourning.

After we pass the Chaponval stop, I press my face against the window so I can check and see if I can see the smoldering remains of the house when we get to Auvers.   I pray the gray lowing lying grey cloud-like objects aren’t the billowing flames from the house.

As we pull into, I can see the house seems to be standing.   But there are more potential horrors ahead.

I leap out of the train before it stops moving and sprint back to 29 Rue du Pois, not even checking to see if the patisserie is still open.   My hands are shaking as I open the gate.   I dash to the door, which is closed and locked.   The delphinium are blooming, the bamboo is fine and the kitties are waiting for me at the door.

A few moments later, Carole drops by with a piece of homemade cherry clafoutis she made.   Now, I’m in heaven.

a slightly bitchy assessment of van gogh’s dr. gachet (the person, not the painting)

This is the Dr. Gachet you’re probably familiar with.   He’s at the Musee d’Orsay, wearing what Van Gogh described as “the heartbroken expression of our time.”

Dr. Gachet by Vincent Van Gogh, 1890

If you were really paying attention, you might have noticed Dr. Gachet hanging out in other famous museums, looking entirely different.

Dr. Paul Ferdinand Gachet was no ordinary artists’ model.   Nor was he an ordinary doctor.   His specialty was melancholy, professionally and personally.   Van Gogh was under his care during the last 80 days of his life (and proclaimed the doctor “sicker than I am” in a letter to Theo).

Gachet was friends with and treated Pissarro, Renoir, Manet and Cezanne just to name a few. He had amassed one of the largest impressionist art collections in Europe before he died in 1909.   Oddly, the information out there on him is pretty sketchy.

A little backstory:   He was born to a well to do manufacturing family in Lille in 1828.   He became interested in art as a teenager, but went on to study medicine in Paris.   In addition to earning his medical degree in Paris (his thesis was a study of melancholy), he became friends with some of the more revolutionary minds in Paris who acquainted him with the modern art scene brewing in the city.  He was hooked.

As he grew his coterie of artist friends (and his art collection), Gachet also married Blanche Castets in 1868.   He was said to be passionately in love with her, although I’ve yet to find a photo or evidence of her existence, except their two children, Marguerite and Paul fils (jr).   More on them later.  Here are some portraits of Gachet by his friends and patients.

Paul Gachet, portrait by Ambroise Detrez (1850/52)

 

Gachet in uniform, Regiments der Jäger zu Pferd (1849)

Paul Ferdinand Gachet by Armand Gautier

Dr. Paul Gachet by Armand Guillaumin, 1972 (or so)

The painting below is Van Gogh’s second painting of Gachet.  It’s been missing since the 90′s when it was purchased by a Japanese industrialist.   Shortly after that, he went broke and died.   Nobody knows where the painting is.   He may have sold it off when he went broke, but there were also rumors that he was buried with it (which would be pretty selfish of him). 

Shrouding the painting in more mystery, is the theory that it’s actually a copy made by one of the Gachets from the blue one (both Dr. Gachet and his son were notorious copiers of art in their possession).   But before we jump to forgery conclusions (which I’d love to do), I should mention that Van Gogh mentioned painting this one as well as the blue one in letters to Theo.    Also, copying art was a learning technique of the day and practiced by other painters and teachers.

The missing Dr. Gachet by Van Gogh

 

Etching of Dr. Gachet by Van Gogh, 1890

 

Paul Gachet, by Norbert Goeneutte, 1891 (also in the Musee d'Orsay)

Here’s a photo of Dr. Gachet for comparison.

 

Dr. Paul Ferdinand Gachet

 

After a brief stint as a front line doctor during the Prussian seige of Paris in 1870, Gachet moved his family and ailing wife to Auvers-sur-oise, where he became friends with Pissarro, Cezanne and Guillaumin (clearly the dude was an artist groupie).   His wife died in 1875.   His home, garden and daughter became a frequent subject for painters.

House of Dr. Gachet by Cezanne, 1972

Dr. Gachet’s garden by Van Gogh, 1890

The following two paintings were done when Marguerite Gachet was 19 years old.   The novel “The Last Van Gogh” is based on the premise that Van Gogh and Marguerite were having an ill fated, secret affair.   There’s no evidence of this, but it’s a good story.   Marguerite was rather mysterious, never married and rarely left her father’s house in Auvers until she died in 1949.   Van Gogh did have a habit of falling for the first available female in the room, even if they happened to be his own relative (he was heartbroken by a cousin who rejected his marriage proposal when he was a young man).   The author, Alyson Richman Berkley, says she was inspired by Van Gogh’s portrait of her at the piano

Marguerite Gachet in Garden, by Van Gogh, 1890

Marguerite Gachet at Piano by Van Gogh, 1890

Here a a couple of photos of the subject, Ms. Gachet:

Marguerite Gachet at piano, clearly taken when she was older

Marguerite Gachet, date unknown

Dr. Gachet was more than a mediocre doctor.  He fancied himself an artist and engraver.   He practiced his art under the nom de plume (or is that nom de peintre?), Paul van Ryssel.     His most famous work is a sketch of Van Gogh on his death bed..   In my book, it makes him more like paparazzi than a doctor.   Michael Jackson’s final doctor (Dr. Conrad Murray) comes to mind.

Van Gogh on his deathbed by P van Ryssel (aka Dr. Gachet)

Here are some other examples of Gachet’s art that  I’ve found:

Cholera ward, by Dr. Gachet (signed P van Ryssel)

Gachet’s version of Cezanne’s “A Modern Olympia”

See the original by Cezanne.

"les pommes" by P van Ryssel

Snow on the route to Auvers by P van Ryssel (aka Gachet)

Unlike his artist friends, Gachet had enough money to buy a press and copper etching plates.   He shared it with his good friends Pissarro, Guillaumin and Paul Cezanne.   One blog I read claims that the artists had such similar approaches, they each adopted an emblem to distinguish their work from one another.   Pissarro was a flower, Guillaumin was a cat, Cezanne was a hanged man and Gachet was a duck.   The stamps on some of the following prints don’t quite jibe with this theory.

An engraving by Dr. Gachet “Le chemix creux d’Auvers” 1972

A study of Van Gogh’s “Les vaches” done by Gachet

See Van Gogh’s original

by Paul van Ryssel (aka Dr. Gachet)

Paul Gachet fils (son of Dr. Gachet) was an art dealer, which makes perfect sense for someone who inherited hundreds original works art and no discernible talent or skill.     Like his father, Paul Gachet fils  dabbled in creating mediocre art.   He painted under the name Louis van Ryssel (L. van Ryssel).    He was born in 1873 and died in 1962.  A couple of samples here.

Copy of Dr. Gachet's sketch of Van Gogh on his deathbed by L van Ryssel

By L van Ryssel (aka Paul Gachet fils)

Gachet’s house and garden today:

Dr. Gachet's house from the street, today

overhead view of Gachet's house

Dr. Gachet’s homeopathic garden today

Gachet grew his own herbs and made his own extracts and sold them to patients to cure what ailed them.   Can you say “snake oil salesman?”

Dr. Gachet's homeopathic medicine kit

Dr. Paul Ferdinand Gachet died in 1909 at the ripe old age of 80.  He’s buried at Pere Lachaise in Paris.   Even in the afterlife he’s mingling with people more talented than himself.   I’m sure he’d like that.

Some good articles on the subject:

“Dr. Gachet, Friend to the Painters,” New York Times 1999

“No Cachet in a Gachet”, The Independent 1999

“Van Gogh’s Vanishing Act,” US News and World Report, 2000

embarking on a life of crime

Don’t ask me why I didn’t consult the weather report before getting on the train to Paris. Maybe it was destiny.

The plan was to start in the Canal St. Martin area in the 10th arrondissement. It’s supposed to be an up and coming neighborhood. From there I’d cut through the Marais, and cross the Seine to the 6th and 7th arrondisements (which is ideally where I’d like my future husband to have a pied de terre).

After a short sweaty walk down the Canal St. Martin I head for the Seine…maybe there’s a breeze there. There isn’t. Which leaves two options. Jump in the Seine or find a nice air-conditioned establishment to seek refuge from the imaginary global warming. The refuge just happens to be Dalloyau Patisserie. Here I will cool off, get something to drink and reassess my game plan.

In the Sex in the City version of my life, there would be a handsome Frenchman also seeking shelter in Dalloyau. It would just be him and me and the windows steaming up. We’d start to chat, the windows would steam up some more, maybe there’d be a hot pastry sharing scene followed by a thunderstorm. Of course, we’d run through the rain to his fabulous nearby pied du terre. That doesn’t happen. It’s just the pastries and me.

Since I have a short attention span and am easily distracted by bright, shiny objects, I immediately forget my game plan. Oooooo, pretty tart…pretty puffy thing with cream and berries…pretty chocolately square… Since I haven’t set foot into any sort of boutique for months, all my most shallow consumer cravings are bursting forth here and now and I’m not sure if I have the self control to stop them.

I’ve always been a little stand offish about French pastry. Sure, there’s your croissant, your tarts, your pan au chocolat, éclairs, panniers, beignets…all delicious. But there’s a whole world of pastry out there I’ve never tried. The custardy things with apricots on top, the huge chocolate bombs, the things that look like opaque green jello, the napoleons of many stripes. Frankly, I never thought I’d like them. Most of them look a little too gooey, too sweet, too much (although right now, I’m sure my life will never be complete without consuming each and every one of them).

It doesn’t help that I’m afraid of the women in the Auvers bakery. I pretty much buy my bread, catch a quick glance of the desserts out of the corner of my eye and get out of there. No hemming and hawing trying to decide between the cannonball sized snowball rolled in shaved dark chocolate, the tried and true fruit tart with plump perfect raspberries, the white creamy looking cakes with imbedded strawberries…nope, she’s giving me a dirty look…she’s gonna yell at me…’un bagette s’il vous plait…une Ooops, desolee, UNE bagette, s’il vous plait.’ I always wind up skulking out in shame.

The pastries here at Dalloyau look like jewels glimmering behind the glass. I get lost in them until reflexively, like a guilty dog, I look up at the woman behind the counter to see if she’s giving me a dirty look or about to smack me with a newspaper. She’s not. She’s smiling at me. I take this as a sign that fate brought me here for a bigger purpose than whatever my initial game plan was.

I should make it my business to try every pastry out there and write a thorough review. Sort of a verbal painting depicting the beauty of each pastry. I’ll be the like the Van Gogh of French Pastry description. If I try one pastry a day, I think I can still get every possible pastry in. There couldn’t be more than 90 french pastry varieties out there, could there?. I suppose if there are more, I’ll have to double up.

I know, it seems like an indulgence. A pastry a day can really add up. But it’s cheaper than lipgloss or a pack of cigarettes, both of which I’ve given up. And my efforts will serve mankind as a guide to what sort of pastries they may like and dislike. Yes, I’ll do it in the name of helping my fellow man navigate the intricate world of French pastry. And for art. Now that’s a lasting legacy.

Of course, the venture does involve critical risks. Like spending my hard borrowed money on deserts I may not even like (and where will that leave me when I crave something sweet and I blew my wad on some lavish frou-frou concotion that sickened me earlier?) And the capital risk is enormous considering that at this very moment, I only have 5 Euros. How will I afford a pastry AND get back to Auvers? And what about tomorrow? Will I be forced to beg for pastry? Will I become poor AND fat? Nobody feels sorry for a fat homeless person. Now I’m sweating out of pure stress.

But sometimes, you’ve just got to go for it. At least I know I won’t have to shoot myself in a field when my time here is up. I can just have a heart attack on my way up to the field. Nobody can say I didn’t consider all the angles.

I order a chocolate macaroon. A relatively safe bet being chocolate and only 3 Euros. Now, this isn’t your classic coconut cookie you think of in America. Not even close. It looks like a scooter pie. It’s two chocolate almond merinque cookies sandwiching a thick layer of dark chocolate ganache. I hold my breath and take a bite….ahhhhh, this is decadent.

It’s like the world’s biggest truffle, with a slightly crispy coating that crackles like a thin layer of ice and melts into the ganache. How could heroin possibly be more addictive than this? There’s that pure chocolate endorphin rush, but there’s also the taste…no, not just taste, it’s bigger than taste, it’s a feeling. It almost engulfs the brain. I’m in Paris and I’m eating the most chocolately delicious thing in the world and I’m soooooooooooo happy!

When I come to, I’m already wondering how when and where I’ll get my next fix. And do I really want to try those custardy things? Maybe I should limit myself strictly to macaroons. Seriously, I haven’t even dented the surface of macaroons. There are caramel, coffee, vanilla, strawberry, green ones, chocolate noisette.…

No, that would be the cowards way out. I must explore the entire pastry realm. But damn, I could go for another chocolate macaroon right now. Maybe I should marry a Patisserier. I nonchalantly check the back kitchen of Dalloyau to see if Mr. Right is back there. He’s not. I guess that would just be too easy.

I gather my remaining two euros, thank the girls behind the counter profusely and step out out into the torture chamber. I was going to walk back to Gare du Nord and save myself the Metro fare but I forgot how hot it is. I fear I’ll become one of those elderly woman heatwave death statistics if I do. And how tragic would it be to die after experiencing such happiness only an hour before? On the other hand, perhaps THAT’s my destiny. Nahhhh. The metro entrance is about 50 yards away.

As I walk briskly toward my train, I don’t even notice all the handsome men I’m sure must be checking me out. I’m deep in thought, ticking off my options methodically. I hope I could be mistaken for a high powered businesswoman (wearing “don’t socra-tease me” toenail polish) making a career altering decision as she rushes to her train for the burbs. Nobody has to know what I’m really thinking: “I could try the chocolate cannonball next, but maybe I should try something fruitier. Or would it be smarter to bite the bullet and get one of those things that look like jello with berries out of the way. Hey, there’s probably something for two Euros at the bakery in Auvers.”

I jump the turnstiles and head for my train.

***

Read David Lebovitz’s compilation of all things macaron, including recipes.

 

paris fashion notes

Ever since I quit my advertising job, I’ve spent very little time on Madison Avenue (meaning Barneys and Bergdorf, or as I liked to call them with a certain amount of sour grapes, fashion victim central). I havn’t looked at a Vogue, Harpers Bazaar or Elle since pink was the new black

Needless to say, I’d been feeling hopelessly out of place on the New York city streets for quite awhile. Sure, there was my out of style Levis and non-brand name tee shirts, but more importantly, my face still moves. I often got the feeling that women I knew recoiled in shock, horror and pity when I smiled or furrowed my brow. I was also convinced that I was the only remaining B cup left in Manhattan, which I think may have qualified me for my own personal display in the Museum of Natural history.

Aside from the 600 dollar price tag for a lousy shot of botulism toxin (wouldn’t it be cheaper to cultivate my own? I had some funky looking cans of soup that were probably chock full of the coveted poison), the whole idea of injecting something that used to have a skull and crossbones on the label into my face seemsto be pushing fate. And major surgery to insert huge plastic globes in my breasts seems more ridiculous than…well, cutting off my ear.

So when I go to Paris, I watch the women with interest trying to get an idea of what’s in style and whether my next move will have to be to a country where Burkas are mandatory.

The good news is, I won’t have to move to Iran for several years, at least.

The first thing I notice (or don’t notice) is the omnipresent low cut satiny lingerie type blouses with huge plastic breasts on display with cleavage up to the chin aren’t present. Not a one. Nor is the night of the living dead parade of bandaged women on the streets that’s so popular on Madison avenue and Soho. Maybe the French just have the good taste not to emerge until their plastic surgery scars have healed. And I won’t have to invest in absurdly low cut jeans or acquire the obligatory rolls of fat that accompany them (where is lipsuction when you need it?

I scrutinize the French womens’ faces and smile at them. They smile back and their eyes actually crinkle. Some of the women even have grey hair, god forbid. Further, their faces are not caked with Lancome, Chanel and all the other ridiculously expensive make up products American women seem to believe are the height of fashion in France. And the B cup seems to be the norm here—for the first time in ages, I almost feel adequate. These women actually look human.

Before I left New York, I consulted a couple of fashion experts to see what the summer trends would be, just to make sure I didn’t stand out like a sore thumb. I was told to wear wedgies with two inch platforms and another four inch of heels, brightly colored skirts, tiny little sweaters and to carry a large brightly colored leather bag, preferably by Louis Vuitton or Prada if I didn’t want to feel hopelessly out of place. Thank goodness I couldn’t afford to take their advice or I would have felt hopelessly out of place.

The women here seem to be much more casual, usually wearing jeans, cargo pants or a simple dark slightly above the knee length skirt, blazers and very basic small leather purses. Their shoes are generally stylish, yet comfortable looking. And there’s not a tiny sweater in sight.   I’m pretty sure Carrie Bradshaw would have been laughed out of town.

As further research, I enter a couple of drug stores and the cosmetic departments of department stores. Unlike the mile long displays of exhorbitantly priced French named cosmetics found in the US, the array is small and simple, mostly devoted to skin care, rather than cover ups. And unlike the 200-500 dollar miracle creams peddled in the US, the creams here are in the 50 Euro range and seem to have the same miracle incredients.   Creme de la Mer is nowhere to be found.

The clothing lines are simple, consisting of names that for the most part, I haven’t heard of. And the only place I can find Channel, Louis Vuitton, Versace, and the other designer names popular in the US is on the Rue St. Honore-Fauborg, where the only languages spoken seem to be American, German and Japanese.

Isn’t Paris the fashion capital of the world? What’s going on here? Is it possible that the women here are guided by some innate sense of style, rather than the fashion magazines?

I begin to think that the designers and fashion magazines have been pulling the wool/gabardine blend over Americans’ eyes all these years. Is the still  booming billion dollar plus US beauty and fashion industry based on a lie?   Why not?   It seems most of our billion dollar industries are.   So now my only remaining fashion question is how can I cash in on that lie so I can afford to buy the $2,000 dollar Louis Vuitton purse I saw in a store window.

***

The real housewives of elysee palace A look at President Sarkozy’s many wives and their many lovers.  Lots of information and pix of Carla Bruni-Sarkozy.    And you thought the Kennedys were busy.

***

A sad addendum regarding French women and cosmetic enhancements.    I just came upon this recent photo of Carla Bruni.  Hopefully it will scare other French women from doing it.

the paris marathon

Big day. My first venture into Paris to meet my friend, Alan who is taking the bullet train down from Brussels.

This is huge. I’ve got train schedules, maps and metro paths to figure out. Naturally, I am frightened. His train gets in at 11:35 at Gard du Nord and I have a vague idea of how to get there and an even vaguer idea of where to meet him.

I studied the transillien schedules for hours last night, trying to figure out the right connections into Paris. I’ve been told it’s Auvers to Pontoise and then from Pontoise into Gare du Nord. But the times just aren’t meshing. The train from Auvers to Pontoise gets in two minutes after the train from Pontoise to Paris leaves which means I’d have to spend 45 minutes in Pontoise waiting for the next train. But at closer glance, I notice that if I get off one stop before Pontoise in Saint Ouen, where the train to Paris also stops, the timing would be perfect…6 minutes between trains. I’m  hesitant to try it because everyone told me the point of transfer is Pontoise, and who am I to deviate from the advice of people who know better? And what if Saint Ouen is as confusing as Pontoise and it takes me longer than 6 minutes to find the train to Paris?   But it has to be done, because I sure as heck don’t want to spend another 45 minutes at the Pontoise station.

The lady at the Auvers station confirmed my decision by drawing a picture because I kept looking at her blankly when she spoke. So off I went.

The connection works perfectly and I spend the 45 minute train ride watching a baby in a stroller sucking on a pacifier (much more enjoyable than watching grungy teenaged boys sucking on a joint). Every time the father takes the pacifier out of the baby’s mouth, tthe baby breaks into a huge grin and yelps joyfully. It’s almost like uncorking a bottle of champagne, without the foam, (thank goodness).

As we pass Sacre Coeur perched majestically on the hill, I start to get nervous again. Gare du Nord is huge. A city unto itself. I’m to meet Alan at the gate where his train arrives, wherever that is. I left myself enough time to get lost, and promptly do so. It seems the only way I can meet Alan at his gate is to pay for a train ticket, which I don’t want to do. I consider fleeing, but decide that a better course of action is to ask a woman behind the ticket counter. She kindly buzzes me in.

I arrive five minutes before Alan’s train pulls in. When Alan appears I’m faced with the next daunting task of the day…figuring out where exactly Gare du Nord is in relation to the rest of Paris. Since Alan has no particular thoughts on what he’d like to see in Paris, I wing it and we start walking.

As long as a city is on a grid system, I’m fine. Unfortunately, Paris is not. Every time I think I knew where we are, another diagonal street intersects up and confuses me all over again. We wind up in Les Halles, which isn’t my favorite part of Paris, so we head towards the left bank. Or so I think. I start to feel as though we are walking in circles and the only thing that tips me off that we aren’t is the fact that the naked mannequins in the store window here have nipples while the ones we saw earlier didn’t. The nipples hearten me.

We wind up at the Pompidou center, which has the longest line I’ve ever seen (damn tourists!). Alan knows nothing about Paris, and being the creative person I am,, I tell him that the Pompidou center is a large public toilet. He wants to go in until I tell him that it’s really just a museum.

From there we head over to the Left Bank, but quickly cross back to the Il Saint Louis because Alan HAD to have crepes, and there’s a great crepe place there.

After lunch we wander through the Latin quarter (or maybe it’s Rome), checking out all the food on display on the narrow streets. It’s almost enough to make me hungry again.

We consider going to the Louvre, but decide since I can’t find my way around Paris, the Louvre would be an inescapable nightmare. They would probably find our bones in some obscure, dusty corner years from now.

We pass through the Louvre courtyard, which is impressive in itself and continue to the Palais Royal and Rue St Honore. We take a right because neither of us can afford to even look in the store windows.

At this point we hear sirens approaching and my visceral reaction is to hide, as I’m sure they’re coming to get me for some NY rent violation, but they pass. Dozens of police cars head in the direction of the Eiffel Tower. My second visceral reaction is to find a spot where we can check and make sure that the landmark is not a smouldering pile of ashes. It’s still there. We decide to celebrate by having drinks in the Marais. We find a nice spot under the eaves of the Place du Vosges, which is one of my favorite spots in Paris. I tell Alan a little history of the area (this time the truth…I think). It’s lovely and peaceful until a batch of teenaged girls come screeching through, as loud and obnoxious as any American teenagers.

At this point, I’m starting to get a little nervous that we won’t find the Gare du Nord in time to catch the train back to Auvers. So we pay and head off at about 5:30. I believe I stopped people to ask directions approximately seven times between the Marais and the Gare de l’est. And another four between the Gare de l’est and Gare du Nord, which are about 3 blocks apart. Everyone was very friendly and helpful.

We arrive at Gare du Nord at about seven. And this is the only time I start to feel like I’m in New York. There’s a huge line for tickets and only two people manning the booth. Further, the machines that dispense tickets aren’t working. Alan just follows me mutely as I storm back and forth between the two, my head about to explode in rage.

The line moves fairly quickly and we make the train with a few minutes to spare.

We make it back to Auvers without a hitch.

In all, I ‘m sure we must have walked 26 miles and asked approximately 30 people for directions (that’s a little more than one person per mile, which doesn’t sound nearly so bad). I’m not sure what Alan got out of the experience, except that Paris is beautiful, French people aren’t rude as legend has it, citron crepes are delicious, Victor Hugo lived in the Place de Vosges, the Pompidou center isn’t a public toilet and that mannequin nipples are almost as good as a compass when it comes to finding one’s direction.

I’m very happy to have contributed something valuable to his cultural experience.

See my Paris picture gallery.