So, in case any of those mean old dieties/people are reading my blog, here are a few things that make  it impossible for me to live free from the shadow of rage/helplessness/hopelessness/misery hanging over me and will prevent me from ever having a day of peace.

• Waiting in lines.  French people will chat away with the cashier/postal worker/butcher/baker/candlestick maker with absolutely no concept of how many people are waiting behind them.   I’ve seen lines outside bakeries here that resembled apple stores on iPad2 launch day.
• Lots of loud motorbikes.  Don’t know why, they’re louder here.   Why would anyone want to drive something that loud?   They should be banished.   I’m certain that the drivers of these audio monstrosities are compensating for something.   Maybe they have tiny voices or something.
• So many people here have no grasp of the English language.   To be fair, I found the same problem in California.
• The guy at the Marche Provencal who sells roses.   NO I DON”T WANT TO BUY YOUR DAMN ROSES!!!!!   IF I DO I’LL LET YOU KNOW.  STOP BUGGING ME!!!!
• Speaking of being bugged, they have telemarketers over here too and they call every bit as often (about 5 calls a day).   The good news is, I just say “je ne comprends pas” and hang up.   I guess I could have done that in the US too.   Live and learn.
• There’s dust here.   It’s like every time I dust, five minutes later, there’s new dust.
• I just spent 10 Euro on a lightbulb only to discover the lamp doesn’t work.
• I just spent 10 Euro on a lightbulb.
• I forgot to buy milk at the grocery store.
• my cat just threw up on the clean sheets.

I start by raising a mojito macaron to Wayne’s new job.   It’s surprisingly good–tart but sweet with a subtle whoosh of mint.   Damn, I’ll have another.   Oh, make that four.   It’s for Wayne.

Wayne is experiencing a bit of a sugar rush so I race past all the gorgeous fruit and vegetables (you can get them anywhere) towards the Socca oven that’s up and burning at the other end of the Marche.   Yes, Wayne must have a socca.   It’s distinctly from this part of the world!   Socca is basically a crepe made from chickpea flour, water, olive oil and salt and it’s much better than it has a right to be, especially with a healthy shot of black pepper.   It’s a specialty of Southeast France and the Ligurian Coast of Italy.   It’s like a tidy falafel.    It’s a particularly good choice if Wayne happens to be on a gluten-free diet.

Next up, the Grande Aioli lunch.   Very South of France.   Very traditional.   It’s basically boiled cod and vegetables with an aoili dipping sauce.     It would be very healthy if Wayne didn’t insist on slathering it with the aioli.

Now I figure Wayne could go for something sweet, so I pick up a pack of the nougat that is popular here and in Provence.   I get the multi-flavored assortment to try all the nougaty essences.   It’s sort of a sophisticated version of Turkish taffy.    While there’s a similarity, it’s not as sweet and much more, as the package says, “tendre”.   Also, the flavors are more subtle and natural tasting.   The roasted almonds are a nice touch.   I get another pack for Wayne to enjoy later.

As I make my way out of the marche, all the people selling cheeses, olives and tapenades invite me to sample their wares.   I’m kind of full, but it’s a good opportunity for Wayne to try a lot of delicious Provencal products for free.  He particularly enjoys the the sundried tomato,caper, anchovies, basil, garlic tapenade and the brebis cheese.

As I stagger food-drunk through the old town, I make my customary stop at the window of the bakery and ogle the michettes.  Only today, I go inside and order an assortment.   For Wayne.   They’re yeasty little rolls filled with all kinds of savory things.   Onions, saucisses, chorizo, tuna, spinach, ratatouille, several varieties of cheese, etc, etc.   You could definitely make a well-balanced meal out of them.   The chorizo and chevre ones are particularly good.

I’m not sure if it’s me or Wayne, but one of us is starting to feel a little sick and needs to lie down.    On the way home, I can’t help noticing a beautiful little cake in the window of another bakery.

I start thinking that we really haven’t had any fruit and this cake is full of fresh strawberries.    On the other hand, it’s a little pricey, I’m pretty stuffed, and I think I’ve fulfilled my going away lunch commitment.   But it looks so delicious.

Then it hits me.    I think Wayne’s birthday is coming up.   So I buy it.   Anything for Wayne.

]]> http://realfrance.wordpress.com/2011/11/27/eating-for-two/feed/ 6 swamp2 marche provencal antibes mojito macaron socca oven antibes marche provencal socca grand aioli nougat olives and stuff marche provencal michette img_8037 http://realfrance.wordpress.com/2011/10/11/french-pharmacies-a-source-of-drugs-cosmetics-knowledge-and-something-akin-to-serenity/ http://realfrance.wordpress.com/2011/10/11/french-pharmacies-a-source-of-drugs-cosmetics-knowledge-and-something-akin-to-serenity/#comments Tue, 11 Oct 2011 13:32:30 +0000 Lesley Stern http://realfrance.wordpress.com/?p=6649 ]]>  You know how men are supposedly drawn to hardware stores?   That’s how I feel about French pharmacies.

I could spend hours tinkering with French skincare creams, nail polishes, cosmetics, haircare products and contemplating the ingredients in a bevy of drugs, herbs and salves.   French drugstores have a lot of the stuff you might find in Barneys or Sephora such as Caudelie, Nuxe, Darphin,  a smattering of Eucerin, Oil of Olay amongst lots of things with exotic sounding names that I’ve never seen before.   I just know there’s a  miracle unguent in there somewhere.

I don’t know if French drugstores are more or less expensive than American ones.   I got 7 Zyrtec,  24 Advil and some cough syrup for 8.50 Euro.  I do know that Tiger Balm is exorbitant at about 12 Euro.   On the other hand, Roger and Gallet is like Dove over here.

In addition to all the homeopathic, aromatheraputic medicines, the over the counter drugs are much more interesting than ours(for starters, their over the counter cough syrup has codeine!)   Once, long ago in Paris, they gave me the most wonderful pain killer that had me floating through the Tuilleries which I have devoted part of my life trying to find again.

In Europe, they’re big on plant based cures.   For example, when I had a cold and asked for something to help, they gave me these capsules of essential oils and Advil.   I don’t know if it worked or whether the cold just ran its course, but I’m feeling better, thank you.

I’ve learned a lot of French words in French pharmacies.   Appaisant means calming.   Minceur means thin as in lose weight.      Grippe means flu.   Toux is cough.   Cellulite means cellulite.

Today’s word:   allaitement.

While taking leisurely browse at the Grande Pharmacie d’Antibes I find an exciting product I’ve never seen: Weleda Tisane Allaitement pour Serenite.  Weleda makes these lovely plant based moisturizers, bath oils and skincare products, which I’ve always liked.   I figure the tea must be delicious and will calm my rattled overworked nerves.

I take the box to the cash register along with the Mavala Daring Pink nail polish and hand them to the cashier.   I point to the tea and say boldly “j’ai besoin de serenite”.

She looks at me really funny.   My mind started whirling as I try to figure out what word I’d mangled and how badly I’ve offended her.   I stammer out some words trying to explain…”j’ai beaucoup du stress… beaucoup de travail… donc j’ai besoin d…”   At this point she looks concerned, shakes her head, studies the box and babbles something to the other cashier.

I’m thinking, “oh merde, what have I said?   They’re gonna kick me out of the pharmacy, no, Antibes for this…maybe even France.

The other cashier blurts out with it (in English):   “this tea is for breast feeding!”   Now I know what “allaitement” means.   They must think I’m nuts trying to buy a tea for lactating mothers.   I’m one step away from being known as that crazy old American woman in Antibes.

I turn the color of Malava Daring Pink nail polish, slap myself upside the head and say…”Okay. Merci.  Le vernis de ongles seulment.   Ces tisanes ont tres, tres, tres pas pour moi”    Then we all have a good laugh.

I make a conscious decision not to spin myself into an uproar wondering how she knew I’m NOT breastfeeding (clearly I’m old and flat chested).   And despite the lack of serenity inducing tea, I swear to God, every time I look at my newly painted toenails, I feel pretty damn good.

Never in a million years did I imagine I’d wind up living on the French Riviera (or any Riviera for that matter).   I figured I would have to be rich and fabulous.  But here I am.

I live in Antibes now, which is smack dab in between Nice and Cannes.   The population is about 75,000 which may seem small by urban US standards, but is huge compared to Vidauban (population 8,000), which is where I was originally.

The vibe in Antibes isn’t in the least bit fancy schmancy. Where Cannes is leathery skin squeezed into tight, trendy, un-age-appropriate clothes, trout pout and faces that aren’t quite human, Antibes is leathery skin in shorts and flip flops.   Well, that’s not exactly true.   There are a lot of Brits here, so there’s a lot of pasty skin as well.

Here are a few other reasons I love Antibes:

The weather 

Mostly sunny.  Not too hot, not too cold.  It’s like living in California without the Californians.

The train station Every train stops here, so I can get to a lot of places quickly and easily.  No car necessary.   It’s 20 minutes to Nice, 12 minutes to Cannes, 35 minutes to Monaco, 40 minutes to St. Paul de Vence (with a bus transfer), 5 minutes to Biot or Cagnes sur Mer, 1 hour 15 minutes to Italy, and so on.

The daily market (marche provencal)

Most villages have a market once or twice a week.  Antibes has one every day except Monday, plus a bunch of antique, clothes, crafts and flea markets.

One of the best ancient medieval villages ever

The new part ain’t bad either

Ten minute walk to the beach

Or 10 minutes to a morning cup of coffee on the ramparts overlooking the Mediterranean with the alps looming in the background..

Little shops

Art, culture, history

Antibes has been around for millennia.      It used to be called Antiopolis.   They’re not sure if the “anti” means opposite from Nice or Corsica.   Ligurians, Ionians, Phoenicians, Etruscans frequented the place before the Greeks settled in 5th century BC.    It fell into obscurity in the 1400′s, and was rediscovered in the early 1900′s (the jazz age).   Napoleon, Monet, Picasso, F. Scott Fitzgerald, all hung out here at one point or another.   And now me.

There are museums, theaters, concerts (the Jazz festival in July is pretty famous).   There must be hundreds of paintings by dozens of famous artists of the place.  No wonder.

Killer views

I may not be living in a lavish villa with a view of the sea (try a one bedroom apartment with a view of another apartment building, lots of sky and palm trees), have no yacht, Rolls Royce or even a car, but to me,  living somewhere this awesome is a luxury in itself.

More pictures of Antibes

It’s located between Nice and Monaco–about a 15 minute train ride from both (from opposite directions) on the Cote d’Azur TER line.    The train stops at seaside Eze, which is pretty much a residential area for rich people (Bono has a villa about 500 meters from the train station).   There’s a pebbly public beach, a couple of cafes and a small tourism office.  As lovely as it is, the main attraction, the charming medieval village with shops, is about 2000 feet above sea level.   It’s up there somewhere behind the cliffs looming overheadSome insane people like my sister or my father might want to make the 3 kilometer hike to the village, I’m perfectly happy to take a bus.   In fact, when I consider the alternatives (walking or driving myself) I’m thrilled to take a bus.  This road is so windy, the lanes so narrow, there’s no way I could have managed this, even if I was driving a car with an automatic.   The mere thought makes me want to abandon all hope, park on a hairpin turn, weep and wait to die.

Being “chauffeured”, makes the journey both less and more hair-raising.   Less because I don’t have the responsibility of driving but more because some stranger who may have had a bottle of Rose for breakfast holds my life in their hands.   And shit, this bus is big.   It’s probably a matter of centimeters between here and oblivion.  Which isn’t to say oblivion isn’t breath-taking.

At one point I notice the man sitting next to me is laughing at me.   I’m outraged until I realize that all the screams, groans, gasps, prayers and “oh my gods” raging through my head during this ride, are also leaking from my mouth.  I’d be laughing at me too if I wasn’t looking down at a gazillion meter chasm of death two inches to my left.  The ride takes an eternity (15 minutes).

When we finally get up high enough in the cliffs, I see Eze.   I wouldn’t even call that a hilltop it’s perched on, this is more like a jagged shard of rock.   Jutting up from a cliff.   The bus drops me off at “base camp,” the bottom of the jagged shard, where there’s a few real estate companies, restaurants, tourist shops, banks and the requisite pharmacy and tabac shops.    I climb the road leading to the entrance of the old town.

Tiny little streets that barely accommodate one average person, cute ancient stone buildings, balconies and rooftops dripping with flowers, tiny shops (tres cher), beautiful, charming hotels where one night costs more than my monthly rent and finally, a killer view.   No, make that a million killer views.

Part of me is thinking this is the most beautiful place on the face of this earth and I must live here.   The other part is thinking what a pain in the ass it would be to lug groceries up all these tiny steps on a regular basis.  And how the hell would I get my armoire up here?

Whenever I reach a plateau, I stop and admire the view which I don’t think could get any more beautiful until I reach the next plateau.

The streets get narrower and more maze-like, until I reach a clearing, which is the entrance to Le Jardins d’Eze, which is essentially a hanging garden with a path leading to the castle ruins at the top through exotic cactus plants, statues, sitting areas and views to die for.   I almost do die for the view when a stumble on a cobble feels like I’m about to fall off the face of the earth.   At this point I’m practically crawling, but I make my final push to the summit.
Holy crap.  I can see past Cap Ferrat, Nice, Cap d’Antibes to San Tropez and all the way to Italy on the other side!   I’ve got the Cote d’Azur at my feet.   I take a moment to savor my accomplishment and the views before tackling the descent back to base camp.   More tourists have arrived,   I believe they are the “boat people” (people from huge cruise ships), because they are constantly looking at their watches.   The narrow streets are getting backed up.  If I don’t start my descent now, I could be stuck here all afternoon.  I’m hungry and thirsty.  I could perish up here!

Down at base camp I find a reasonably priced restaurant and have the recommended lunch (three courses for a set price).    The meal is unmemorable, but fine (fine meaning it’s edible and it doesn’t poison me).   Over dessert, I ponder my next move.   I can actually ascend even further upwards to the Haute Corniche d’Eze.  Imagine the views!   Imagine the horror of getting there!  Or I can go back down to the beach part of Eze.   Imagine the views!  Imagine the horror of getting there!

I order a second cappuccino.   Maybe I’ll just sit here and enjoy this particular view a little while longer.

Click here for more pictures of Eze.

To me, this can only mean one of two things:   Either I’m finally starting to think in French or I have alzheimer’s.

When I was in Arles being eaten alive while my beautiful friend Christina remained untouched, I was a little thrilled.   At least the mosquitoes find me more attractive than Christina (nyah, nyah, nyah).

Inevitably,  I began to tire of their excessive attention and stimulated the French economy by buying every anti-moustique product I could find, from herbal to ones jam packed with horrifying chemicals.   I’m still not sure which ones work, since out of desperation, I use them all at once.   Hell, I’d wear a Shell No-Pest Strip too if they still had ‘em.  I know at least one of them does the trick, I’m just not sure which one(s).   Like a depressed person who goes off their meds when the drugs work and they’re no longer depressed, I stop spraying, igniting, turning on and plugging in when the little suckers stop biting.  The next thing you know, I’m up at 3AM swatting the air with one hand, feverishly scratching like a dog with the other while searching my mind for someone to blame.

I don’t know, maybe after all the gorgeous Provencal food they get, they’re craving something a little less…fresh and healthy?   Perhaps they prefer American food?  I’m like a burger, fries and a coke to them.

Apparently, mosquitoes are a problem down here in the South of France.  There’s even some African dengue fever carrying mosquito which has moved up here seeking a better life.   Some people blame it on a law that prohibits using really dangerous pesticides to eradicate them.   They’re afraid of endangering the people and wildlife, apparently.   Silly, silly French people.   I’ll worry about being slowly poisoned by pesticides later, but now do something about this infernal itching!   I can imagine being slowly driven crazy by the constant sound of a mosquito buzzing around my ear.

Fortunately, about.com has provided hundreds of pages of advice from readers around the globe on how to stop the itching.   I’ve tried the most popular and have added my comments.

1)   Any kind of alcohol.   Yes, it works.   At least when applied in copious amounts internally.

2)  Etching an “x” into the bite with your fingernail.   I find this works if you do it repeatedly for hours on end.

3)   Salt and citrus.   They work very well when used in conjunction with #1.

4) Clear nail polish.  In theory this works.   I tried doing it with Opi Bogota Blackberry since I don’t have clear nail polish and the itching seems less.   Unfortunately, I look like I have some horrible contagious skin disease now.

5) Banana peel.   I’ll try this as soon as I can buy a banana.   But first I have to find my nail polish remover so I can get the Bogota Blackberry off my mosquito bites and go out in public again.

So here’s the scoop.   No fields of flowers.  The village is sort of charming, in an ancient tiny cobbled street sort of way.  But it’s not charming in a quaint, festooned with flowers way.   The views are lovely, despite the lack of flowers.   There are several famous perfume factories here –  Fragonard, Molinard and Galimard — the oldest dating back to 1752.   There are also museums of perfume and places where you can create your own proprietary blend.  Most of the shops sell things that are scented in some way shape or form.   You can even get candied flower petals, although I’m not sure where they get the flowers.

As I stroll through the old town, I intermittently smell bread baking, garbage, garlic sauteeing and the faint smell of pee in spots.  Not exactly what I expected.

Suddenly something mists forth from holes in what I had assumed were electrical cords strung overhead.  My first thought is that Grasse is an odd choice for a terrorist attack (I assume they’re spraying the town with ricin, smallpox or other frightening fatal agents I can’t spell).   But when I realize I’m not dead, I wonder if it’s just a way to mist the flowers that were once here.   Or just a friendly effort to keep tourists cool and moisturized.   Or maybe the whole infrastructure of Grasse is collapsing and these are mini leaks (kind of like hundreds of tiny steam pipe explosions).

As I mull the possibilities over, a pleasant waft of orange blossom surrounds me.    Ahh, that’s either what ricin smells like or…. oh my god, they’re squirting fragrance into the air!   Suddenly, I feel like I walked into the ground floor of Bloomingdales.

Turns out, Grasse smells exactly like Fragonard’s newest fragrance “la fleur d’oranger”.

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.