Il Faut Manger

So.  I'm sitting at my desk, gazing out over the neighboring rooftops and sluggish blue-gray clouds, and having a little snack of granola (known to the French as "Muesli Croustillant").  Just because I'm in the city of croissants, foie gras, and stinky cheese does not mean I've abandoned my granola-munching, ski-sock-wearing, tree-hugging hippie ways (though it's true that I do NOT venture out of my apartment in Birkenstocks with my SmartWool showing through and those nifty pants that zip-off at the knee to reveal lightweight but somewhat unflattering shorts).  But I digress.  Food: the French are obsessed with it, everyone needs it, and it's one of the most obvious markers of cultural difference.  The following petites histoires are the product of my collision with French food.

1. Le viennois au chocolat

Whoever thought up this breakfast pastry was either a genius or an ancient ancestor of mine (it's also possible that he/she was both).  Basically, a viennois au chocolat is a mini-loaf of soft, chewy, sweet bread with chocolate chips sprinkled throughout.  Have a gander at the picture I so thoughtfully included (intended to make you all fabulously jealous and/or come visit me so I can teach you the ways of the viennois).  

If you know me well, or have spent time with me in a dining hall, you know that two of my absolute favorite foods are bread and chocolate.  As I said before, le viennois au chocolat...GENIUS.  A new friend of mine from the foyer, Marine, and I were discussing sweets the other night.  She said, "Americans really like doughnuts, right?"  I responded, "Oh sure, Dunkin' Doughnuts and all that!  Yeah there're like 87 kinds..."  She looked at me half amazed, half disbelieving.  "Yes, it's true," I continued, "but me?  Moi?  Je n'adore QUE le viennois au chocolat" (rough translation: I adore ONLY the beauteous bread-chocolate-concoction pictured above). She nodded knowingly.  I think we're going to be friends.

2. The Sweet Potato Saga

I wandered over to one of the farmers' markets in my quartier last Sunday morning to find some fresh produce straight from la compagne (the countryside).  I was not disappointed.  The Parisians come out in droves to the good farmers' markets; much jostling and elbowing ensued as we battled for the best fruits and vegetables.  And apparently, some stands are regarded much more highly than others.  There was a gargantuan queue for one stand whose produce, to my untrained eye, looked very similar to all the rest.

But, I suppose I am very particular about my clothing, and will only shop at certain stores even if it means enduring enormous crowds and higher prices.  Daddy is in a continual state of disbelief ("You need another scarf why??!!") over my penchant for buying the clothes of the season; the right clothing, however, contributes to my sense of happiness and well-being.

Similarly, the patrons of Parisian farmers' markets adhere to the trends of the season as religiously as any fashionista to the newest Look (leeks are SO hot right now).  I decided, however, to buy a sweet potato because I adore them almost as much as les viennois.  I wandered over to a pile of pommes de terre douces and picked out a fat one (not dissimilar, in shape, to a man with a big potbelly).  A man (with a slightly smaller potbelly) looked at me cradling my potato and said, "Isn't that potato mine?"  I assumed he was just some crazy Parisian trying to steal my potato.  So I said indignantly, "No, it's mine!"  He just smiled and walked away.  I poked around a bit more and, deciding that my lovely potato was enough, went to the scale to pay.  And there was that crazy potato-stealer!  Only, he was actually the potato-vendor.  Merde-alors!  I blushed and paid.  But he just grinned enormously and said, "NOW that is your potato!"

Now, in fact, I am off to the big kitchen in the bottom of my dorm to cook dinner.  I am feeling lazy tonight so I think a demi-baguette and some cheese will suffice (needless to say, my sweet potato is long gone).  I'm still enjoying the French fare, but I will not hesitate to let you know when I begin to crave something distinctly American.  Hopefully it's not Dunkin' Doughnuts...

Bisous!

Alice