21 Musings on the Morning of my 21st Birthday (or 21 Reasons Life is Looking Pretty Fabulous at 21)

1. It’s noon on a Saturday, and I’m sitting in yoga pants and a t-shirt, listening to happy music and eating peanut butter.
2.  Did I mention the peanut butter? Bring four jars to France for a year was clearly not enough. I’ve devolved to eating it with a spoon.
3.  For the first time in my life, my January birthday is sunny, warm, and beautiful.
4. Having a January birthday in France also means every store is offering massive discounts. Which means the Parisian children’s shoe departments had better watch out.
5. I met John Malkovich this week. Physical contact was made.
6.  I officially completed my first semester of classes at a French university. Which brings me to me next point…
7.  …I am more convinced than ever that my infinitely wise father is correct, and that each leap of faith you take makes the next one that much easier.
8. I finally got to have my geeky Amélie moment and had lunch at Les Deux Moulins (and met an adorable, flirtatious waiter in the process).
9.  I discovered that our non-descript apartment curtains are actually covered with Chinese characters saying “beauty” and “love”. The small things in life are truly special.
10. Turning 21 in France may not be as significant as turning 21 in the States, but how many tiny, packed cafés in the U.S. would bring out a complimentary glass of champagne, and then break out in a buoyant rendition of “Joyeux Anniversaire”? Which reminds me, I am officially in love with the staff at L’Éléphant du Nil (Le Marais, metro stop Saint-Paul). I think the owner may have learned English in Australia, which just made his exclamations of “Happy Birthday” that much more wonderful.
11. Riding the metro past the Eiffel Tower at midnight, just as the entire thing begins to sparkle, convinces me that magic does exist.
12.  I have the most wonderful, quirky, adorable friends ever. I don’t think I could find words that describe such a diverse group of people, but thank you for your generosity in letting me be part of your lives. I hope I can make half as important an impact on your lives as you have on mine.
13.  Important life realization No. 1: I want to spend the rest of my life learning.
14.  Important life realization No. 2: I want to spend the rest of my life laughing.
15.  Important life realization No. 2bis: language is truly one of the most extraordinary aspects of human existence. Then again, I suppose there is a reason why the Norse term for magic literally means “word.”
16. Silly birthday wish: I’m still waiting for that movie moment where you run through a meadow wearing an impossibly beautiful dress. Does anyone have an obliging field? Or ball gown?
17. Serious birthday wish: that every person born into this world can experience peace, purpose, and fulfillment.
18. Birthday epiphany: I have never been more myself than I am at this moment, and that knowledge is one of most important realizations I have ever had. It makes every day more real, and more precious.
19. All my love to my extraordinary family. You make me laugh, you make me cry, you make me a better person. You are part of me, now and forever. Also, we totally give the best hugs ever.
20. Do I really have to come up 21 reasons? The truth is, the most fantastic parts of life aren’t really quantifiable. But, as I’m almost done…
21.  (Em, this is for you, as 21 is your favorite number). Thank you, life, for the past 21 years. The good, the bad, and the ugly, I wouldn’t change a single thing. So, here’s to the future. Cheers! 

Of Christmas Joy, and Christmas Feasting

The time has come: a blog post dedicated exclusively to food. To anyone who has read this blog, it’s clear that I very much appreciate a good meal. In fact, I like to thing I approach food the way a French person does, delighting in its taste, in its aesthetics, and in the ceremony of its consumption. French cuisine is globally renowned, and for good reason. So what better time to discuss it than the eating extravaganza that is Christmas?

My parents very obligingly shipped my sister over for the holidays, and then spoiled me farther by treating us to the most magical dinner I have ever laid eyes or taste buds on. After an epic search through Paris for a not-yet-fully-booked restaurant serving Christmas Eve dinner (keep in mind this search began on Tuesday afternoon, five days before), we ended up at Le Galvacher, located on Avenue des Ternes in the 17th arrondissement. There is probably better food in Paris, if you look really, really hard; it is also probably that you would have to pay a minimum of €100 for that food, which makes this experience all the more astonishing.

Christmas Eve, where unlike Christmas night Parisians often eaten out, is known as “le Reveillon de Noel,” and is a strange, wonderful time in Paris. During the day, the city is packed to the brim with lights, music, and, of course, people. Last-minute holiday shopping ensues, and the entire city is bursting at the seams with garlands and red velvet ribbons.

But then, as the night approaches, a hush begins to fall over the city. The streets are quieter, emptier; apartments are deserted for grandparents’ homes in the country. And everything looks terribly clean, almost the way the world looks after an overnight snowfall, although snow is looking like less and less of a possibility this winter.

It was against this strange hush that, decked out in our finest, we set off for one of the most transcendent dining experiences of my life. Our meal encompassed six courses, a glass of champagne, a bottle and a half of wine, and bread on the side. How we managed to consume this food remains an unsolvable mystery. 

To better impart the exquisiteness of this experience, I feel like a chronological, full-length description is in order.

The evening began auspiciously, as we strolled in our heels and black dresses down a tree-lined avenue sparkling with Christmas lights. We entered the restaurant at 7 o’clock sharp, making us the first diners to arrive, and were seated at a table offering a wonderful view of both the street outside and the full-size  Christmas tree encrusted with polystyrene snow right beside the entrance. Everything was immaculately clad in white porcelain and silver. Champagne was fizzing up in thin flutes, and as we sat down the servers came out with little white dishes, about the size of my palm, filled with a creamy mixture of sliced scallops and topped with a dozen tiny orbs of caviar. 

These were our amuse-bouches, meant to “please the palate,” a task which they accomplished with ease. These were quickly followed by the lightest, sweetest white wine imaginable (Domaine B. Blondelet, 2010, for the record—not that I really know what that means), and then by the appetizer course. There were two choices for the appetizers, or entrées: fine de clair oysters, a traditional French Christmas dish, and foie gras on gingerbread. If that latter dish sounds strange, trust me—it was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever eaten.

There was another set of options for the plat principal, but we all chose the same dish: scallops, still nestled in fan-like shells and encrusted in a smooth, golden cream sauce. At the center of the plate, an earthen dish was filled with a sweet purée of potimarron, a small type of pumpkin that I have recently fallen in love with. Separately, these flavors were close to divine. Together, they melded into something transcendent. We may have exposed ourselves as unsophisticated Americans in the process, but we scraped every groove of every scalloped seashell clean.

At this point, our stomachs were already roundly content. But this was not the end. One of the most blissful experiences of my life was about to grow even more blissful. 

Yes, we had reached the cheese course.

Vacherin cheese can be described two ways: as pure, unadulterated ecstasy, and as the single surest way to court a heart attack.

Vacherin cheese comes in a tall, cylindrical wooden carton, and at first glance there is nothing particularly special about it. Then the waiter breaks through the soft crust with a silver spoon and deftly scoops heaping spoonfuls onto your plates, so that the soft rind breaks and pure cream is suddenly oozing out in all directions. I think our moans were audible on the other side of the restaurant. Sadly, we couldn’t finish the entire box, and it was soon whisked away, no doubt headed for an inglorious end in a trash heap somewhere. I even dared break the cardinal rule of French eateries, trying to ask if we could take the rest home; my quavering voice failed to attract the server’s attention, however, and our little box of heaven did, alas, go gentle into that good night.

I think we were clutching our stomachs by this time, unable to imagine how we were going to get through the dessert course. But sure enough, three dishes of immaculate white porcelain suddenly arrived in front of us, bearing three delectable slices of bûches de Noel and a crescent of crème anglaise with a star of raspberry sauce in the center. To be quite frank, I’m still uncertain of how our bodies managed to absorb that much food. But we certainly enjoyed doing so.

The middle bûche was a raspberry mousse surrounded by a thin layer of chocolate and a vanilla base; not being a raspberry person, I passed on to the real treasures: a thin layer of pound cake topped with rich coffee buttercream and rolled into a spiral, and a creamy confection of butterscotch and vanilla crowned with a tiny sprig of holly spun out of sugar. I normally like to leave the best for last, but I honestly couldn’t decide. I spent the next half an hour taking tiny, alternating bites until each one was utterly gone.

It wasn't until midnight, after pots of tea and little florentine cookies to top off these five hours of ecstasy, that we finally meandered toward the metro.

“You know, I might still be swooning from all that food,” I mused, lost in a hazy stupor, “but I think that was the most delicious meal I’ve ever had in my life.”

The response from my fellow diners was both eloquent and concise.

“Mmmmmmm.”

And really, what more can you say?

Foie gras with slices of gingerbread and a drizzle of chestnut sauce

 Scallops, with a dish of potimarron in the center

First shot of the Vacherin...

 More Vacherin (and salad, if we're pretending to be healthy)

 Bûches de Noel: butterscotch, raspberry, and coffee

Sceaux and a Little Chantilly on the Side (or why not to go to Versailles)

Chantilly

I am of the opinion that you can’t spend any significant amount of time in France—or anywhere in Europe, for that matter—without visiting a castle or two. And while the first French château that comes to mind is Versailles, there are some even lovelier ones about the same distance from Paris. You will also avoid the Versailles crowds, which makes it much easier to pretend you are strolling through the gilt-lined halls of your personal residence (my occupation of choice).

Being both a history and architecture lover, I’ve found my way into quite a few châteaux in the area. Fontainebleau and Vaux-le-Vicomte, both southeast of Paris, are stunning inside and out, and the town of Fontainebleau is worth a stay as well. Malmaison, located in the town of the same name and once owned by the Empress Josephine, is a tiny gem.

In the Loire Valley, former royal residences Blois and Chambord are also well worth your while. Blois is a history lesson in and of itself, with different sections of the palace built over the span of 500 years. Chambord, while quite bare on the inside, epitomizes every fairytale castle you ever dreamed of, and boasts a double-helix staircase designed by Leonardo da Vinci himself. Other renowned châteaux in the area include Chenonceau, famous for being built partly over a river, and Amboise.

Suddenly possessing an enormous amount of free time, now that everyone is on winter break, I’ve been able to visit two châteaux recently, each one exquisite and each one a potentially perfect summer house (if anyone would like to lend me the money and then convince the French government to hand over a symbol of their cultural history).

Shot of one of the towers at Chantilly, with gardens in the background

Chantilly (pronounced “shahn-tee-EE”—now say that three times fast) is actually a relatively recent construction. The French Revolution, while it may have had some valuable side effects in the long run—with an emphasis on “long,” considering the French would not establish a stable, non-bloodthirsty republic until 1871, eighty-two years later—went about destroying aristocratic property with a vengeance. It’s actually a miracle so many châteaux are left standing. Chantilly was not so lucky; only a tiny section of the old château still remains.

That being said, the 19^th-century architects who rebuilt the château for the noble Aumale family did a breathtakingly beautiful job. The white, turreted structure sits in the middle of a lake, like something out of a storybook. The gardens, designed by France’s royal gardener of choice, André le Nôtre, stretch out in all directions, linked by dozens of waterways and canals.

The château doesn’t feature many decorated rooms; the new section has actually been turned into a museum, its collection of French Renaissance art apparently second only to the Louvre. There are also some drool-worthy silver and porcelain dishware and a library featuring thousands of leather-bound classics and illuminated manuscripts.

The château itself takes relatively little time to visit, compared to something like Versailles or Fontainebleau. However, the château is not the only draw to Chantilly, and I can’t recommend the town highly enough. For horse lovers, les Grandes Écuries feature daily equine spectaculars and during the spring and summer, the town is a famous horse-racing site. The main road, lined with adorable shops and restaurants, stretches to the central square and is enough to keep shoppers occupied for an afternoon.

If you had to list the three things Chantilly is known for, however, it would come down to this: its porcelain, its lace, and its culinary history.

There are several handmade porcelain vendors around the main square, and an absolutely adorable lace museum is tucked into a little courtyard right across the street. For anyone who loves either textiles or enthusiastic old ladies, this is the place for you (although check the museum hours before visiting).

Inside the lace museum (or why my emotional age is that of a 60-year-old woman)

One of the museum volunteers (aren't they adorable?) with a lace cape display; the cape took ten workers two years to complete

Starting to wish I had hidden talents like this...

However, as lovely as the lace and porcelain are, it’s the crème Chantilly—an orgasmic version of whipped cream—that in and of itself merits a visit to Chantilly (to be fair, crème Chantilly can be found anywhere in France, but it’s easier to justify this indulgance in its place of origin). We stumbled over the quaintest teashop, Boudoir, along the main street and helped ourselves to a pair of crème-topped hot chocolates and mini muffins. The food was sinfully good, and why shouldn’t it be? After all, this is the town where the most French chef of all time, Vatel, killed himself rather than serve substandard fish to Louis XIV.

To give you a bit of an idea:

Hot chocolate + Chantilly + a dusting of cocoa powder = DELICIOUS

Hot chocolate, mini muffins still warm from the oven, and a chocolat liégois (hot chocolate with a scoop of chocolate ice cream mixed in)

Sceaux has a slightly less exciting history, other than the profound mystery as to why a one-syllable name requires six letters to spell (for the record, it’s pronounced like the word “so”).

The original château was also a casualty of the Revolution, and the current one is much smaller, more like a very pretty, very symmetrical brick manor house. It currently houses the regional history museum, which is charming, in a very modest way.

Châteaux tend to have charming little towns around them, and although slightly less picturesque than Chantilly, the town of Sceaux is perfectly welcoming in its own right. The town center partially surrounds a lovely green park, and the main street is pedestrian only. We managed to locate yet another adorable little tea salon along Rue Houdan for lunch (this is becoming a talent of ours): “Plaisirs des Thés,” where, after devouring a vegetarian tart stuffed with olives, eggplant, mushrooms, and sun-dried tomatoes, we split a slice of possibly the most delicious fondant au chocolat I have ever had in my life. 

But the real draw at Sceaux is the gardens. Also the work of that horticultural wunderkind, le Nôtre, they might be the most beautiful gardens I’ve yet seen in France. I may be an outdoor buff, but these gardens alone are worth the 25-minute metro ride to Sceaux.

Unlike the perfectly correct, perfectly French, and perfectly dull Versailles gardens, Sceaux’s tend to sneak up on you, unfolding in perfect vista after perfect vista. The topiary (all cones and gumdrops) and strongly symmetric tendencies are French enough, but there’s something wonderful wild and lush about the whole thing. The trees are old, gnarled, and covered with vines, and paths appear and disappear every hundred feet. The terrain is hilly, and stone steps, some more elaborate than others, wind up and down the slopes.  Running and bike paths cut through the forest sections. The Grand Canal, a breathtakingly vast waterway perhaps a mile long, is upstaged only by les Grandes Cascades, which tumbles, waterfall-like, down the side of a hill. On a warm spring, summer, or autumn day, this would be the perfect place for a picnic or a game of soccer. I even saw some old men fishing in the canal.

These pictures don't do the gardens justice, but here are a few of the dozens of shots I took:

Sky over the French gardens 

The Grand Canal through the trees 

 A (muddy) forest path—but that's part of the fun!

Statue of a deer family, with the Grandes Cascades in the background 

A side view of the Cascades

 In the topiary garden—am I the only one thinking of Candyland right now?

 View of the meadow

And back to the gumdrop garden

Another, less muddy forest path, with steps leading up the hill 

The Cascades from above

At this time of year, most gardens have been stripped of their fair-weather flowers and as a result can look a bit dour. But even in December, you can imagine how absolutely beautiful they are at the height of summer. Now that is a sight a will certainly be back to see.

In conclusion, I may be flying in the face of every French guidebook every published, but skip Versailles. Seriously. Skip it. The real treasures are half as crowded, half the price, and in my opinion far more beautiful. If you must see Versailles, however, then go on a warm, sunny day and take a bike ride around the gardens. Enjoy a picnic lunch while you're at it. The gardens are free to enter, and you can still get some excellent views of the château. If you want to see how the wealthy and powerful lived, however, the two little palaces, the Trianons, and the Queen's Hamlet are also charming, and don't get the same traffic as the main château.

Transportation advice: Sceaux is located on the RER B, one of the trains that connect Paris and the surrounding towns. Chantilly can be reached by taking the TER, which connects local towns and cities, to the town of Chantilly. From there, good shoes are recommended.