Out and About: Exhibits - Madame Grès: La Couture à l’Oeuvre

I first became interested in haute couture thanks to Audrey Hepburn. In her movies, she always wore these wonderful dresses and I learned that they were usually designed by Hubert de Givenchy. Sabrina, Funny Face, Breakfast at Tiffany’s... all were by Givenchy. He was the first haute couture designer to break into costume design in film and Audrey Hepburn was his favorite model. Together they defined elegance to me.
     From there, I branched out to explore other fashion designers... Elsa Schiaparelli and the modernistic Cristobal Balenciaga came first. Because their names sounded exotic. Romantic.
     Then I discovered the simplicity of Christian Dior - the Little Black Dress - and Pierre Balmain, Mr. Sophistication. Plus a bit of the androgynous Coco Chanel, who came onto the scene well before feminism.
     Ultimately I began delving into the history of haute couture. And I found it fascinating. It was, at one and the same time, a breeding ground for outsider opposites: feminists yearning to breathe free in a man’s world and homosexual/metrosexuals wanting to liberate their feminine side. It seemed that if you had something different to say, you could only say it through fabric.
     I learned about the reign of Charles Frederick Worth at the end of the 19^th century, the first to dictate fashion instead of just knocking off knock-offs of what the nobility was wearing. And then in the period just before World War I, Paul Poiret took the Orientalism out of art and draped it onto the female body... before it was widely accepted that Woman had one to drape. At more or less the same time as Poiret appeared the first female, Jeanne Paquin, who was also the first Parisian couturier to open multiple branches of her fashion house abroad. In the Roaring Twenties came Jeanne Lanvin and Jean Patou - both of whom still exist in the world of perfumes. Lanvin was all trimmings, embroidery and beaded decorations in light, clear, floral colors. Patou, who was never mainstream but always original and simple, worked with the Cubist influence that later led to Paco Rabanne and Pierre Cardin. After the end of the war arose the timeless Madeleine Vionnet, who became one of the leading couturiers of the Thirties, basing her flowing gowns on the drapé of ancient Greek statues.
     And it all seemed to be happening in Paris.

The above is a prequel for why I went to see Madame Grès: La Couture à l’oeuvre, an exhibit at the Musée Bourdelle. It’s the first retrospective show ever of Madame Grès’s work: 80 of her dresses - ranging from 1934 to 1989 - plus 100 sketches and 50 original photos. All this is usually housed at the Musée de la Mode in the Palais Galliera. But as the Galliera is being renovated, these fashion masterpieces have been showcased in the studios where Antoine Bourdelle sculpted his massive statues and other works of art.

Similar to Vionnet in her use of the drapé and bias cut was Madame Grès (1903-1993), aka Alix Grès, formerly just Alix... and on her birth certificate Germaine Emilie Krebs, a much less suitable name for haute couture. It is said that Mme Grès didn’t know how to sew, but she knew how to cut. And by cutting the fabric diagonally - soft, gentle fabrics such as crepe and chiffon and especially jersey - the creations of Mme. Grès would cling attractively to the body while remaining totally comfortable. A woman’s body could have flaws and she’d still look like a goddess... plus taller. Natural, yet elegant and sophisticated - those words again! - they made women look glamorous and oh so womanly. Not quite naked, but as good as, if not better.

Huge volumes of fabric were needed for every single dress, especially the floor-length gowns. The pli Grès that she perfected (only one of three types of pleat that bears the name of its creator) is made during the construction of the dress, then sewn into place. With her technique, 3 meters of fabric become a mere 7 cm. You do the math.

While her sleek, fitted forms hug the body, they respect a woman’s feminine shape. Her sculpted yet flowing gowns - in which the body becomes an integral part of the dress - fit right in here at a sculptor’s studio. Her work is a far cry from the off-the-rack ready-to-wear which Grès abhorred. And it served as an inspiration for many of the couturiers who followed, including Yves Saint-Laurent.

     Among the famous women who chose the creations of Mme. Grès to make them even more beautiful were Marlene Dietrich, Greta Garbo, Grace Kelly, Edith Piaf, Jacqueline Kennedy and the Duchess of Windsor.
     But why hold this show at the studio of a sculptor, you may ask. Madame Grès said many times throughout her life: "I wanted to be a sculptor. For me, it’s the same thing to work the fabric or the stone".
     So although the Musée Bourdelle is a bit off the beaten museum track, it’s well worth the Métro ticket. Think of it as a two-fer: sculpture plus haute couture. Which was the curator’s point, after all.

Extended until August 28

Musée Bourdelle
18 rue Antoine-Bourdelle;
Paris 15è
Métro: Montparnasse-Bienvenüe or Falguière
10 am to 6 pm. Closed Mondays
Entrance fee: € 3.50 and 7

More information at:

www.Bourdelle.paris.fr

www.parismusees.com (in French)

video at www.youtube.com/watch?v=InJqk3_tS38

Paris Plage: The Sequel

Paris is a moveable feast, according to Hemingway. Yes, but not in August.
     In August, Paris has moved. Out of town. And for a month.
     When planning your Paris trip, do not, I repeat NOT, come in August. Not if you want to see the markets. Not if you want to buy a baguette at the neighborhood bakery. Not if you want to experience the bustle of Parisian life.
     But do come if you want to find a parking place, or make it across town by car in half an hour flat. Or to enjoy Paris Plage.
    
I posted an introduction to this event on July 21, Day One of Paris Plage - Paris Beach, in French.  Today is August 21st, the final day. After a cold and rainy first three weeks, the skies over Paris are now resolutely blue - in spite of a thunder-and-lightning-filled night storm that was short but far from sweet.

Saturday, the sun was unrelenting, in the high 80s, and any wisp of shade was a blessing. My daughter and I took a walk along the Seine... along with thousands of other people. Most of whom were dribbling melting ice cream down their chins, bought at a stand right on the river. On the street above the "beach", enterprising men were hawking chilled bottles of water - 1 € each.

     Some people elected to sunbathe outside of the sanded perimeter... which is what people do along the Seine throughout the summer anyway. But hard cobblestones are no match for sand when you want to be comfortable, so they were in the minority. Most sunbathers were stretched out between the ultimate romantic bridge, the delicate Pont des Arts, and the Pont de Sully at the far end of the Ile St. Louis, a distance of 2½ km (1½ mile).

While adults were basically just basting and roasting themselves, children could build sand castles, watch a clown twist balloons into shapes, play paddleboard, romp on a huge adventure playground or explore Disney’s replica of its famed Enchanted Castle. Of course there were buskers: a shapely blonde who belly-danced while playing with flaming swords and two young men giving a capoiera demonstration, among many others who came and went.

And in front of City Hall, the square had been turned into a football field where children were learning how to dribble footballs and shoot goals into huge inflated nets.

Sunday, the very last day, we decided to walk around the second site, the Bassin de la Villette, where I lived for six years. Back then it was already a favorite with young bikers, couples strolling, and groups of friends picnicking. But that didn’t hold a candle to this. All along the west side and halfway back down the east sand had been carted in and chaise longues and folding beach chairs plunked down - free, first come first served. But the accent here was on activities... much more so than along the Seine. There were games for young and old alike: pétanque (French bocce ball), pingpong, babyfoot tables (fussball, in English - even though that’s German!), a train ride, and the cherry on the cake: a wave machine for kids to surf!

Because of the heat, and because it probably isn’t wise to swim in this water - although some teenagers were jumping in at the far end - there was a huge mist machine to cool people down... mostly kids, but I saw a very chic-looking sixty-something woman all in white walking through it. And there was a multi-tap drinking water dispenser on either side of the canal, just to make sure no one keeled over from dehydration.

     Water was the highlight here. As there is very little barge traffic remaining on the canals that feed into either end of the Bassin, water activities were everywhere. With many Chinese in this neighborhood, someone had organized dragon boat races. And there was a sailboat to teach apprentice sailors how to navigate, being careful to miss all the rented pedal-boats, kayaks and canoes. But my daughter’s personal favorite was the large inflated hamster cages in florescent colors that twirled across the water as you walked inside them or floated with the waves and wind.

Tomorrow the sand and the palm trees will be carted away and the beach will all be a memory. September, jobs and classes are just around the corner. People are returning to Paris today and the streets are filled with cars unloading suitcases. There are traffic alerts across the country, televised maps showing the traffic jams to be avoided. Life will be back to normal soon.
     But it was fun while it lasted.

Not April, But August in Paris

Having been on this planet for many years, I can remember when flying was exciting. Now you hope it  won't be exciting. Exciting could only be bad.
     But in spite of that, I persist in flying back and forth across the Atlantic several times a year. Usually not in the summer though. But because of a wedding in Paris, I had to change my routine, so here I am in Montmartre in August.
     And that’s a mixed bag.
     First of all, and on the good side, it takes far less time to get into the city from the airport. Because much of the Paris region is en vacances - on vacation. And that means no horde of commuters honking and tailgating their way to work. So my taxi glides along the highway, in spite of continuing work on the tunnel just north of the city limits. Amazing!

My apartment is waiting for me, with my daughter already in it. She’s here for the same wedding. But when I go to cross the building’s courtyard, I get a major surprise: the fig tree has keeled over! Its top branches are leaning against the building, but luckily half of its roots are trapped under the wall separating us from the building next door with the other half still in the ground. I’m frankly amazed at the number of figs that poor tree is trying valiantly to ripen, figs that are now at eye-level. To get to my door, I have to push aside the branches. My daughter tells me it was like that when she arrived four days ago. There are so few people "in residence" right now that no attempt has been made to stand the poor thing back up. Brave little fig tree, still hanging onto its leaves - or maybe that should be the other way around.

My daughter and I decide to go to lunch, it being lunchtime. So we head off, through the fig branches, to the couscous restaurant, which has become my traditional First Meal in France. Only to find someone else behind the bar, someone decidedly un-couscous-looking (read: "French"). The restaurant is still the restaurant, he reassures us, but the owner/cook is "en vacances" and won’t be back until the end of the month. So the kitchen is closed and we have to move on to our fall-back restaurant, the little Cambodian place around the corner, which is open... and delicious.

     Then it’s off to buy a Pariscope, a little magazine that comes out every Wednesday and tells you absolutely everything going on in Paris: theater, films, museum exhibits, concerts, conferences, sports... Sometime this past spring the big press/book shop on the Place des Abbesses closed, so now you have to go to a tiny shop in a side street to get your newspapers and magazines. Which we do. When we get there, we find it closed - en vacances - until the end of the month. So we head down to the Boulevard, where there’s always a kiosque journaux (a newstand) by the Métro, only to find that... of course, it’s closed! These guys never close! But this kiosque is resolutely and unmistakably en vacances. So is the one at the next Métro stop. In all my years in Paris, this I’ve never seen. And then, out of the corner of my jetlagged brain, I remember another kiosque, just a little further down, under the trees... which is open! Run by someone from southeast Asia, of course, who probably didn’t get the memo: It’s August! Close up, already!

     Yet another job that needs to be done is to replenish my garden. Many of the flowers died off from a surplus of rain plus a lack of warmth this summer. They must have thought autumn had come. The garden is sad and colorless without them. But no problem; there are five places to buy plants in my immediate area. Unfortunately, four of them turn out to be closed, en vacances, and the one that’s open doesn’t have what I want.

     Then on the way home, we do some food shopping. All the small specialized shops are closed, because they’re... (all together now) en vacances. Cheese shop, chocolate shop, the deli where I buy those delicious roasted chickens, the shop with the pâté specialties from the Massif Central... Luckily for us, the G-20 mini-supermarket is open, albeit with only one check-out counter running, and we rejoice at getting some essentials. My favorite fruit-and-veg shop is open, but I don’t recognize the man behind the counter; the regulars must be en vacances. And then, the oh-my-God moment. Of the four bread shops in the area, two are en vacances and one is closed because of electrical problems, leaving only one... the least tasty of the four.

     I’d go drown my sorrows, but I think my little wine shop with the bar in the back just might be en vacances too, because they’re closed on a day when they’re normally open and booming with mid-afternoon apéritif business.
      My head is starting to ache - along with my feet from all the walking - and I’d go get something for them at the pharmacie at the end of my street, but... (fill in the blank).
     Such are the tribulations of a Parisian in August. I think I’ll just go sit in the garden and read a book. After all, it’s a nice summer evening. And that doesn’t close in August.

Even in Paris.

Changing times

In an interview, French actor Jean Rochefort, who played Don Quixote in Terry Gilliam’s ill-fated "Lost in La Mancha", commented on how actors lose touch with the passion of their beginnings and end up accepting "comfort roles", the ones that pay the bills. "You give up your freedom with the first fridge. My friend Alain Cavalier, who sleeps on a mattress on the floor and leaves his camembert on the window ledge, is no less happy than the rest of us! Cavalier does only (the films) he likes. I often tell myself we should all have a camembert on the window ledge."
     Now I know that sounds either very profound or very absurd to most of you. But having moved to France in 1968, I know exactly what Rochefort means. He means that having less leaves you free to feel more.
     The camembert image catapulted me back more than 30 years to a tiny garret room under the roofs of Paris where the toilet was down the hall and I had no fridge but I did have a window ledge, and that’s where I kept my perishable food. In the winter it made a good fridge, but in the summer it was good only for keeping the odors out of the room! On your way home, you bought only what you ate that day, saving a bit of butter or a drop of milk for the next morning’s tea.

     There were flaws in this system, such as overflying pigeons or stray cats roaming the rooftops of Paris. But you had your secret weapon, the scrap of oilcloth (saran wrap hadn’t reached France yet), and you rolled your butter in it. And sometimes you borrowed a few ice cubes from a more affluent friend.
     Ice cubes, too, could be different. Often small plastic balls with water inside so they were reusable. (Disposable wasn’t a European concept then; World War II still loomed in the memory of those who manufactured things). As a post-war Baby Booming American, the closest I had come to the concept of the plastic ice cube was the condom, so I hated finding one floating in my drink.

     Flying to Paris in the late Sixties and early Seventies was like time travel. You boarded the plane in America in 1968 and landed twenty years back in time. Many Parisians still frequented the "bains douches", public bathhouses descended from the Roman baths... very clean, where whole families arrived with towels and soap and waited their turn for a private shower stall.
     And then there were telephones. Or the lack thereof. When I asked for one, I was told there was a two-year waiting list in my neighborhood. So for urgent but mundane issues such as meeting for dinner, people sent "pneumatiques", little blue notes, like telegrams. They were delivered through pneumatic tubes (like those at the bank drive-thru window) that ran from post office to post office through the tunnels of the sewer system. When they reached the nearest post office to their destination, they were delivered by some young man on a bicycle, an entry-level job on the way up the civil service ladder.
     For entrepreneurs, one good way to strike it rich was to rent a shop and buy washing machines and open a laundrette. Every machine was taken every waking moment because no one had a washer at home. Kitchens were too small, and bathrooms were just converted closets. So you brought a good book and sat down and waited.
     If you had a TV, or knew someone who did, or if you went down to the café in the evening, you could watch the one show playing on the one channel. It was often an Ed Sullivan-like entertainment show, or a stage play filmed at the theater before a live audience. Broadcasting started around 7 pm with a children’s show and the news, then the prime-time show. There was no morning television, just a bit of news at noon. Between the two, there was a clock with a second hand that ticked off the minutes until showtime. And there was a little toy train that ran across a toy countryside to let you know showtime was coming closer.

Now, every French home has a refrigerator and a phone plus a cell phone, and a washer (and sometimes even a dryer), and at least one car and one TV. There are still just six public channels, but if you have cable or a satellite dish, you can plug into the universe with its plethora of channels in numerous languages for every imaginable taste. The bains-douches is no more, disappeared along with the pneumatique, and there are precious few laundrettes.
     Times were simpler then, a bit less comfortable perhaps, but people talked more to each other. They went out more. They met over a coffee or a meal to discuss the day’s happenings and the road their lives were taking.
     France has caught up with America. I board the plane in 2011 and get off still in 2011. It’s familiar, globalized, but somehow much of the poetry is gone. And the window ledges are bare.

The Stuff that Dreams Are Made of: Concorde

Today will see the lift-off of an experimental hypersonic "aircraft" (don't know what else to call it) that will fly at 20 times the speed of sound and reach anywhere in the world within an hour.

     Those were the headlines this morning, August 10, 2011.

     And that piece of news sent me hurtling at many times the speed of light back in time. Back to my one and only flight on the Concorde supersonic jet.

It was Friday May 30^th, 2003 (even though my Flight Certificate says May 28^th for some reason). Air France flight AF002 from Paris Charles-de-Gaulle to JFK in New York. I had always dreamed of flying on this miracle aircraft, ever since it took off on its first test flight on March 2, 1969. But I never had the money.
     Not that I really could spare the cash in 2003 either, but it was the last chance to see my dream become reality. So I ate pasta night after night after night for half a year, recycled my old clothes, took mass transit instead of taxis, forsake the movies... I cut corners wherever I could and paid the rest on my credit card for months. All because I wanted to fly faster than the sun.
     On the momentous day, I was out at CDG Airport long before the appointed hour. Which wasn’t a problem because the Concorde had its own special waiting room. As it was morning, they were serving scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, still warm croissants, freshly-squeezed juice and of course champagne. As much champagne as you wanted.
     I sat down in the leather easy chair with a glass of bubbly in my hand. An elderly French lady with impeccable hair looked over at me. "Do you understand this paperwork?" she asked. She was talking about the customs form for entry into the U.S. "Je ne parle pas anglais" (I don’t speak English.) So I helped her fill it in. Over another glass of champagne, she told me her story. Her husband had been a test pilot. He had wanted to fly in the Concorde. But he’d crashed in one of those test planes (not a Concorde) and so now she was taking it for him. And then flying right back to Paris on AF001 the next day, the very last flight ever on the Paris-NYC route.
     Another of the 100 passengers was an unlikely young hippy-looking man with a full beard. He stood out from the businessmen and the seniors who made up the bulk of the passenger list. We ended up talking. He was a carpenter from the pine-covered hills of the Vosges region in the east of France. Like me, the Concorde had been his dream, and like me he’d never had the money to take it. This was the last chance for both of us.
     As we sat at the window and watched the slender silver aircraft being prepared, more and more people appeared around it on the tarmac. All of them were wearing Air France uniforms, whether flight or ground crew. And they just kept arriving. There was much nose-blowing and eye-dabbing among both men and women. This was no ordinary flight for them either.
     Finally we were allowed to board. An elegant, attractive flight crew welcomed us into an interior unlike that of any other plane I’d ever been in. A very narrow aisle - for which, I learned, a special drinks and food cart had had to be designed. No overhead bins, so you could stand up from your seat without crouching. And what seats they were. Two on either side of the aisle. Plush, with wide armrests. No need to be mashed into your neighbor’s lap - who ended up being the impeccably-coiffed French lady. And all the legroom a shortish-but-leggy person like me could ever wish for.

     When it was time to pull away from the terminal, past the honor guard of probably all the Air France staff in all seven of CDG’s terminals, two airport fire engines moved into position on either side of the Concorde. They turned on their hoses and we passed under a watery arch out to the runway. There was no waiting in line for take-off. This was the flight of the day for the control tower. The last time they sent this beautiful silver bird soaring, and they were not going to have it waddle off in fits and starts. The captain was probably in no mood either. It was about one o’clock, I think.
     When we arrived in New York, it was only 10 am. We arrived before we left. At least that’s the way I like to think of it. We flew faster than the sun. and the airport fire trucks were there to meet us with a water cannon salute in the colors of the French flag: bleu, blanc, rouge - blue, white and red..
     For the 3 hours and 45 minutes (more or less) in between those two moments, I sat with my nose pressed to the window, occasionally glancing up at the digital speedometer, which was proudly hovering at Mach 2.04 for most of the flight. (We had left a bit late and the captain was determined to arrive on schedule this one last time.) Twice the speed of sound... and a bit more to boast about. I ate a lunch of lobster and more champagne at 1,350 mph. And so high up - about 10 miles high - that I could see a bit of the curvature of the Earth far below.

     As I always ask questions, I learned that of the 9 crew members, most were retiring, even early. Captain Chatelain (age 57) said he couldn’t bear to fly anything else after the Concorde because it was the "Formula 1" of the air. The co-pilot and navigator were too young, so they would be forced to downgrade. The same was true of the flight attendants; half were retiring and half were having to get used to slumming. One of them had a tear in his eye when he said, "I just couldn’t bring myself to fly on the ordinary planes... not after this."

     In New York, I had a connecting flight to Detroit, and when I checked in at La Guardia a good hour of transit later, I was still smiling. The woman behind the counter told me I looked very happy, and when I told her why - that the big sappy smile was from flying on Concorde - all her colleagues came over and started peppering me with questions. They, too, were sad to see it leave the skies.

Why were Concorde’s wings clipped? On a day-to-day basis, the SST broke even. But there were some big expenditures from time to time, and that put it into the red. And as the planes were about 30 years old, large investments were going to be needed in the on-board systems. Plus after 9/11, there was a big drop in passengers for a few years, and that hurt financially.
     And then there was the accident.
     To be fair, it was the only one in 30 years of flying. Not so bad a record, to say the least. And it really wasn’t the plane’s fault. The investigation showed that a piece of metal strip had fallen off the Continental aircraft that had taken off right in front of it. When the Concorde’s wheel ran over it, the tire blew and the strip was propelled up and through the wing, severing the fuel line. Concorde took off already on fire. But in spite of the fact that two of the engines were out, the pilot managed to steer it to a place where it would do the least damage... no mean feat in that crowded, highly-populated part of the Paris suburbs. The crash killed all 109 people on board - crew and passengers - as well as four people in a local hotel on the ground.

I’m sitting here crying silently as I write this. Concorde was a dream. A dream that lasted 30 years. A dream that should still be flying. And now it’s gone.
     The plan from the very beginning was that these jets were supposed to be only a prototype for a bigger, faster, quieter, less fuel-consuming model, the Concorde "B" model. It was never put into production, but those plans were first discussed only four months after the start of scheduled services in 1976. It could have been ready by the Spring of 1982. With it, the airlines would have seen improved performance: lower direct operating costs, a greater operating range, reduction of environmental effects, and yet crew training and maintenance procedures would have remained the same. The noise level at takeoff and landing - often maligned but actually the same as a B-707 or DC-8 - would have been improved by high-bypass jet engines that could satisfy the new international noise rules. The greater operating range would have meant U.S.-Japan links in two sectors and Europe-Australia in three. And a reduction in fuel consumption - one-third of the direct operating costs - would have made it even more marketable and allowed the airlines to reduce the ticket price. That was partially because the plane would be lighter, with control surfaces, service doors and the like made out of carbon fiber. The website dedicated to Concorde put it this way: "If the B model had been built, the range of Concorde today could have been pushing 5000 miles, as well as benefitting from the increased subsonic performance and reduced noise emissions."
     And if that had happened, yours truly would have another sappy smile on her face... all the way across the Atlantic.

Mach-20 vehicle to launch today

www.tgdaily.com

An experimental vehicle that can fly at 20 times the speed of sound and reach anywhere in the world within an hour is due to lift off today.

http://www.concordesst.com/

Recipe of the Month: Tourte tomates et fourme

　
Nothing says summer better than a red ripe tomato. Especially if it comes from your own garden.
     And as summer is a time for relaxing, here’s an easy recipe that will be a great starter for any meal, indoors or outdoors. Or a main course, depending on your appetite and how many slices you eat!
     You’ll need a zippy mustard. French’s mustard in anything but French. It may be great on a red-hot at the ballpark, but real French mustards have some serious zing to them. There’s a shop on the Place de la Madeleine in Paris owned and operated by Maille. Their mustards are made fresh - with no preservatives - and the shop has three of them on tap, literally, from three different porcelain spigots: plain, whole-grain and another (wine, I think).. That way, when your classic mustard pot is empty, you can come and have it refilled, which is fun in and of itself.
     As for the cheese, this recipe calls for fourme d’Ambert, which is a mild blue cheese. It’s one of France’s oldest cheeses - as far back as Roman times - and comes from the Auvergne region in the Massif Central mountains. It’s made of cow’s milk, like the similar but stronger-tasting bleu d’Auvergne, and unlike Roquefort, which is made of sheep’s milk and creamier. You can use any of these, but the drier fourme doesn’t make the pie crust wet. Choose one that suits your tastes. I once had to make it with the bleu cheeses I found in a supermarket in Michigan: a regular bleu and a gorgonzola. So having a lot of people to feed, I made one of each and found that the gorgonzola was too tame, taste-wise but the bleu was great. Both came in crumbled form - which is nice because even if you do find a real fourme, it’s not that easy to cut it thin. With crumbled cheese, I just sprinkled it as evenly as I could over the whole crust, and it turned out just fine.... and fast.
     Serve the tourte with a side salad, followed by fresh fruit or a fruit tart, for an even more summer-y experience.

• a ready-made pie crust (preferably with the least sugar)
• 4 oz of fourme cheese (or another light-veined bleu cheese)
• spicy mustard
• tomatoes

- Preheat the oven to 300° F (150°C). Prick the pie crust and place some dry beans in it to keep it from buckling. Cook it until it’s golden brown. Take out the beans.
- Spread mustard thickly but evenly over the bottom of the pie crust.
- Cut the fourme cheese into thin slices and lay them out to cover the pie crust. Or sprinkle the crumbled cheese evenly.
- Slice the tomatoes thin and lay them out over the cheese.
- Grind some fresh pepper over the top. (No salt; these cheeses are salty enough!)
- Put the tourte back in the oven for 15-20 minutes.

Serve with a full-bodied red wine, like a Côtes-du-Rhône, Gigondas, Saint-Joseph or Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

Excuse me, please. My purse is ringing.

This is an article I wrote in 1998 for a column I had for a while in a Michigan newspaper.  The figures obviously would need updating, and maybe America has caught up with France in cell phone use, although I think the U.S. moved on to the iPhone now, and I feel that's a different animal from the cell phone.  But the stories will still ring true (pun intended).

When you live on two continents, half the time in France and the other half in the States, you start to notice similarities. And differences.
     One of the similarities is cell phones. One of the differences is how far-reaching the phenomenon has become. I’m not sure if it’s the roaming fees or the plethora of models and service providers to choose from, but America is definitely falling behind in the cell phone race. And I can prove it.
     During the rush up to Christmas, stores in France sold nearly 800,000 cell phones. 800,000 in a nation of some 55 million people. Not bad for a country where only thirty years ago you had to wait up to two years to get any phone at all! Yet now there are so many people talking and faxing that France has adopted ten-digit phone numbers, even for local calls.
     800,000 new cell phone callers added to the ranks of people who already owned one. Me included. Yes, I admit it. I have walked the streets of Paris, semi-oblivious to the beauty of the City of Light, my Motorola clutched to my ear, talking to friends sometimes, but usually doing business, making a last-minute appointment or booking a hotel or restaurant for my tour clientele. Sometimes as I walked my purse would ring and everyone would turn and stare. Those times are over. People no longer stare. They’re too busy reaching for their cell phones to see if the call isn’t for them!
     Ah, the cell phone. What a great invention
     But it creates very strange situations, such as...

     While a friend and I were searching desperately for a parking place on the Ile St. Louis, a tiny island floating in the Seine behind Notre Dame Cathedral, our hearts leapt for joy as a man got in his car. Great, we thought, he’s leaving. We can take his place and make it to the restaurant for dinner before it closes. But no. He wasn’t leaving, just getting into his car... to phone! Why didn’t he use the phone at home? He must have been calling his mistress.
     Then there was the lady in the phone booth. She blithely chatted on, the phone cradled against her shoulder as she leafed through a magazine. Suddenly there was a ringing, and she pulled out a cell phone and took a second call with her other ear.
     Cell phoning isn’t just a street phenomenon though. People are even calling each other from trains. One woman was so aggravated at having to listen to a fellow passenger tell his whole life story over his cell phone, loudly and at great length, as they raced across the French countryside that she started to read her book out loud. "What are you doing?" the man asked in an irritated tone. "The same thing as you," replied the woman stonily.
     But I think the prize has to go to this strange-but-true cellular story.
     Among his Christmas gifts, a man got a cell phone. After all the presents had been opened, he and his guests adjourned to the dining room to enjoy a typical Christmas feast, complete with many courses and washed down by the appropriate wines. A few hours later, when he returned to the living room to try out his new toy, he couldn’t find it. He searched through the remains of wrapping paper scattered around the tree. In vain. He looked behind the sofa cushions, under the tables and chairs, searched his pockets. His guests all helped. Suddenly a friend had an idea. "Why don’t you just call the number and we’ll locate it when it rings." Brilliant! They found the number and dialed it. After a pause, they heard a muffled ringing, which, when traced, was coming from... the stomach of the man’s large dog! The veterinarian, consulted over a real phone, advised him just to wait until Nature ran its course.