Les Trois Forts

I am already half-way through my second internship, and it is going quite well, in spite of the arctic temperatures felt in the area which combines the pastry station and Garde-manger, where, as with my first internship, I am spending my first and second weeks. The restaurant is twice the size of the previous one and belongs to a luxury hotel overlooking the port and ten minutes away from where I live. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to work for such a hotel, and now I know that it is not for me. It’s definitely not like staying as a guest, to say the least. Though the food is very refined, the quantities are huge and makes the work very repetitive. For example, instead of making two dozen tuiles (a thin wafer usually made with slivered almonds) as I would have at Une Table au Sud, I had to make eighty; same with the meringues and everything else.
As with my previous internship, I was relieved to exit the pastry station, and get away from all that sugar and head to the garde-manger this week.What goes on in there is more interesting than in my previous restaurant, probably for two reasons: a wider selection of foods I like , and also a young chef who entrusts me with a lot of different tasks and responsibilities. On the other hand, yesterday he had me call out dishes (aboyer in French, which literally means “to bark”) in the main kitchen to the fish station which made me uncomfortable, since it involved pretty much yelling a sentence over the noise of the main kitchen, which is vast, to a crew of (mostly) grown men who are pretty much strangers. Thank God he didn’t make me do that today.
As before, the kitchen staff or brigade are mostly young men, so the conversation is limited to video games, food (including techniques and cooking instruments such as knives) and sex, with the latter amounting to about ninety percent of the total. I have gotten used to it by now, especially since they are mostly respectful of me, probably due to the fact that I could technically be their mother!
The chef is a jovial looking fellow, sort of like a Santa without the beard and curls. He calls me madame, which is funny, but I think it’s because he doesn’t remember my name more than anything else. He favors Indian spices and less traditionally French items on his menu such as quinoah and matcha, ingredients which I both love. Certain items seem to appear on all the fancy restaurants menus, such as topinambours or Jerusalem artichokes, and Pastis, the anis-flavored liquor from Marseille which appears in the marshmallows here and was in a peanut flan as an amuse-bouche in my previous restaurant.
Next week, hopefully, working the hot line with the chef…

Holiday season

As suggested by a friend, I started drafting a list of top fifty things I miss most about NYC. I hesitated a bit, as when I left four months ago, I was determined to look ahead and not back, as a means of self-preservation, and so as not to turn into a pillar of fleur de sel. However, given that it is nearly the end of the year, a time for looking back, and that I have not over-indulged in this activity thus far, I started listing away in my tiny moleskin, but only came up with about 25, which has led me to believe that more and more I am learning to appreciate what I have… but more of that later.

In the meantime, I am sure everyone is dying to find out what the holiday season is like in Marseille. Well, the cold certainly is here, and the wind, can rival any NYC gust (funny how I my love of views on bodies of water always leads me to the windiest place in town; my daughter would say it’s because I am Windy). There are a couple decorations downtown and in shops, Christmas trees on sale, even a menorah on the Vieux Port. Overall it is very low-key, which I appreciate, though I must admit enjoying sneaking a peek on Fifth Avenue near 57th to check out the windows at Bergdorf, looking annoyed at the flocks of stalling tourists while taking in the display from the corner of my eye. What I cannot stand, I now realize clearly, are the “Marché de Noel” type of affairs. They are basically like street fairs in NYC, where you see the same vendors over and over. How many gelatin candles with dried flowers can one person buy? So here it’s pretty much the same thing, except that there are stalls and stalls of santons, which are little figurines depicting villagers and peasants in their usual occupations. I think it started out with the nativity scene, where there were just a couple of people (namely, Mary, Joseph, the three kings, the angel, a coupe animals and finally, on the twenty-fifth, baby Jesus). People got carried away and started making these elaborate nativity scenes with thousands of little guys. All this to say that the center of town is filled with merchants selling these things.

I put up a tiny Christmas tree in my apartment, mostly because my daughter asked for it, and after all it proved to be a fun week end project. I call it the flamenco tree because instead of a star or angel we topped it with a big black satin flower and decorated it with some of my dangling earrings. I like it.

Half day off... and a little sunshine after plenty of rain

Recently I’ve had to step back and reassess what it is I am doing here. The fact that literally two weeks after touching down I ended up in a 9 month course just hit me a few days ago. Though I like the spontaneity of it all, I had no idea what I was getting into… first of all gastronomy in France is not taken lightly. It has a history and rules, both written and tacit. It is governed by hierarchy and bureaucracy and tradition (and lavish amounts of cream, as already mentioned). There is such a thing as a national exam that prospective cooks take, much like doctors or lawyers elsewhere… like I said, it’s serious stuff.
Back in the States, I never heard of all these different diplomas and degrees relative to working in the kitchen. Here is France, it’s a hot topic in the kitchen, with different statuses for interns, apprentices, chefs, sous-chefs, and the rest. What’s more, there seems to be a tight-knit old boy network linking the top tables like an invisible web…
So today I decided to take a break from the kitchen, from the classroom and from government offices and enjoy the city. After class this morning (How to Attempt to Navigate the French Bureaucracy 101) I suggested to one of my classmates that we grab a big salad for lunch (I haven’t had a salad in days, as it won’t be in the “board” exam). So we walked to Cours Julien, which is a neighborhood with lots of cool restaurants and bars, and had a nice lunch. Afterwards we headed to Noailles market where I wanted to get fresh produce. On the way we stumbled upon the Asian grocery store, and lo and behold, they had Filipino products! I got dried shitake and bean thread noodles and picked up sweet potatoes at the market. Then we headed to Empereur (http://www.empereur.fr/), one of my favorite stores in the city, which sells cooking ware of the highest quality and presents a dazzling choice. I was a model of self-restraint and left with only a spatula (you get your ass kicked in class and in the kitchen if you don’t use one to empty the contents of one container to another). Finally we settled at one of my favorite places, Green Bear Coffee (http://www.greenbearcoffee.com), where I had my soy latte and completed my assignment, a cross-word puzzle with vocabulary from the French labor system.
Tomorrow’s program: a hike in the Calanques, which are the charming little beaches which dot the Riviera coastline… hopefully there will be no mistral!

Week three: the hot line

Yes, I spent a week with the chef at the hot line, and I am still alive! As a matter of fact I had an amazing week, what with my mom visiting and my daughter on school break... the weather was fine in spite of a few showers, the food was amazing, and I still have all my fingers attached. The icing on the cake was when Sara and my mom came over for lunch last Friday, I didn't want to make a big deal of it but felt I had to tell the chef, so the excitement was felt throughout the kitchen, and the chef graciously offered them the meal complete with champagne! I also got a voicemail from my counselor telling me she spoke to the chef and the pastry chef who were both pleased with my performance... I couldn't believe it, I've been feeling like such a klutz, getting aioli all over the chopping boards, confusing the hare juice with the venison juice (they look exactly alike if you ask me), using the wrong pans, the wrong instruments... what an incredible surprise and relief.
The sous-chef was also extremely supportive, patient and giving me a chance to try new things... although I got told twice that it was no place for a woman!

Garde manger

After a week in the pastry station (all in all six ten-hour days), I was sent to the garde-manger, where amuse-bouches, first courses, vegetables and cold dishes are prepared. I had no idea what a treat the pastry station had been, with its relative autonomy, it's micro-experimentation and innovative approach. So if that was heaven, then garde-manger is purgatory, a taste of what is to come next week (ie day after next) at the heat ("chaud" as they call it in French), where the chef reigns as sole master, flanked by the sous-chef (or "second" as he is referred to here).
As opposed to the pastry station, where there is time to anticipate orders as clients pour in, garde-manger is first in line since it produces the first plates to be served. One could say it sets the rythm for the rest of the meal, and at these prices, guests expect extremely prompt, if not immediate, service. So the week was busy, with little room for error and even less for creativity. Meanwhile the pastry chef kept surpassing himself with day after day of amazing creations, which have reconciled me with sugar, for what seems like an undetermined length of time. I also ended up burned and cut, nails tapenade-blackened, quite the kitchen mess...I wonder what next week has in store!

Flamenco and Food

I spent a lovely long week end in Berlin, which contrasted sharply with France and Marseille, with its unending strikes and garbage accumulating on the sidewalks. It was my first time in that city, and since a friend from university had an exhibit scheduled, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to go. I sent out a message online to whoever wanted to meet me there as well, and was met by two friends, one living in another German town (with his companion) and the other in Sweden. Though it was only my second time in Germany (the first was in Munich, years ago, to meet a crazy scientist who had devised a water desalination contraption), it felt vaguely familiar, reminiscent of Switzerland, where after all, I have lived five years.
Back in Marseille, the trash was still on the streets but at least the buses were running. I have to say that in spite of all the garbage, I have seen far more rats and cockroaches in New York City.
So my first full week at the restaurant ends tonight, Saturday, and I never imagined I could enjoy myself so much at work. It’s been a week of creating, tasting, team work, giggles, skill-honing, vodka shots… though the atmosphere is still hierarchical and military, with lots of low-brow humor and testosterone, there is a binding love of food and excellence that makes it all okay, almost entertaining for an outsider such as myself. Maybe I’ve read too much Anthony Bourdain and Bill Buford that I would have been disappointed had the kitchen been less intense. Or maybe I like the combination of pressure and discovery, everyday bringing a different bounty of top quality produce. The chef is very spontaneous, and also gives his more senior staff a lot of creative license, which is very appreciable.
On the other hand, I have had to reconsider my initial idea of giving a detailed account of my experience, since number one, I am too tired to write daily, and number two, if I were the chef, I would expect a certain amount of discretion from my staff.
Speaking only briefly of the chef, in certain ways he reminds me of my flamenco teacher. They are both extremely demanding and perfectionist and can tear a person down faster than a New York minute. They are very sparse with compliments and extremely passionate of their art… I think this passion is what draws me towards these types of characters. It’s as if their creation was a matter of life and death…

i blame it on starbucks

So, what I really set out to write about was not the lyceens striking, but of course, my first day at the restaurant.
I set out bright and early, but, as is often the case, I was too early, and so as to be right on time, I decided to take a little walk around the block. It so happens that the one and only Starbucks in Marseille was around the corner, and they have free wifi, and, well, I ended up in line there behind two Starbucks virgins who had a thousand and one questions about the intricacies of the American giant they had ventured into. Instead of staring down on them impatiently as any self-respecting New Yorker would do in her hometown waiting for her caffeine fix, I could not help but enjoy the puzzled looks of the customers (Q: "What size do you want?" A:" Oh they come in different sizes?" Note to self: do not laugh out loud as I did when I heard this because the guy looked at me disapprovingly, as one would if one heard a stranger laughing at presumbably something one said).
So when I returned to the restaurant, skipped happily up the staircase of the employee entrance with my take-out espresso, I greeted the Chef and he said: "The first quality of a Chef is punctuality." Damn you Starbucks!

blood thirsty high school students...and i don't mean Twilight

This morning as I was serenely sipping a hot beverage and looking at the sea - and not the ocean, as someone accurately pointed out to me this week - I heard the sound of a hundred young voices screaming. At first I thought it was a race, since I have seen a few going past the beach and by the ocean drive. But there was no crowd on the beach, on the contrary, I saw people at their windows and balconies in the building across from mine and I knew it was the Lycee, or high school, located near my building. The voices grew louder, I still thought it was a sporting event, until I heard "Mort a ..." or "Death to ..." Yikes. The transport system coming to a halt for the fourth time (or was it fifth) in the two months I've been back in France is one thing, but kids screaming for the death of god knows who (probably Sarkozy) made me a little more than annoyed. I suddenly had images of Bastille Day revolutionaries brandishing long forks (what are thise things called, like in "American Gothic") - right, pitch forks... I got a little paranoid and for a split second considered not going to class. Fortunately when I left the building the kids were still gathered half a block away, wich gave me the opportunity to get on the first bus going downtown... I was still five minutes late for class, and when I explained to my teacher that I almost got lynched, she didn't believe me!

I am in danger...

... of putting on ten pounds from eating cream puffs, cream sauce, buttered everything, Napoleons - all homemade biensur. What's a French cooking student to do?

So last week we gutted and guillotined chickens, this week we explored the insides of trouts. Strangely, the gills are used for the fumet or fish stock, and let me tell you, fish do not like to part with their gills, even when they are dead. I had to wrestle my two slimey specimens with a kitchen knife to end up with what looked like very little.
Also this week we are tackling very delicate pastries: iles flottantes (one of my favorites), choux pastry and puff pastry (we are making Napoleons or millefeuilles as they are called here, on Thursday). My choux pastry was a success (okay, it was not my first time), but my islands of soft meringue poached in barely sweetend milk were a bit of a distaster.
As for the puff pastry... it was a momentous event for me as I am a "feuilletage virgin," one might say. For now it is sitting in the fridge, but I have a feeling it will come out nicely.

Butter, cream, more butter

Given that I am studying traditional french cuisine, I should not be surprised by the amount of butter and cream employed in each dish. I am, however, slightly nauseated. I realize that this training is an excellent base to have, but it has made me realize how multi-cultural and, for lack of a better word, modern, my own cooking style has turned out to be. It is actually nice to realize that I actually have a style at all.
So today we were given dead chickens with the heads, feet and innards still attached. I am usually not squirmish in the kitchen (except when it comes to beef tongue, which I associate with a childhood trauma), but that's probably because I am not often in a situation which calls for me to be in close contact with animal heads and innards. Still, I called on the inner igorot in me to face the bird and my own aversion.
A little note on igorots for those who are not familiar with the term, which denotes a tribe from the Mountain Province of the Philippines, where I was born. I was thus nicknamed igorot early in my life, in a slightly pejorative (from a Manila or plain-as in flatland- people's perspective) yet tender manner, which I always took pride in, at first simply because of the otherness of its resonance, but later in life because of the anti-colonial implications. The Mountain Province were able to conserve their rituals and traditions more than the plains folk. One of these was a ritual chicken stew called pinikpikan and which involved tapping the head of a live chicken against a rock until it hemorraged internally. The whole process is absolutely inhumane, yet traditional and apparently makes for better tasting broth. I will not enter here into animal ethics, it's just something that came to my mind in class this morning looking at that dead chicken head...

First day of class

So yesterday was my first day in class (I had to miss the first few days as I was in Paris). Eager to make a good impression, I woke up with an eye infection that made me look like I just got punched in the face. On top of that, I got a haircut in Paris, my first since I left NY, and it was way too short... I look like I just got out of prison.
Nevertheless, the day went smoothly, the teacher and my fellow classmates were relativedly pleasant, and the menu was good. On the other hand, I almost slipped on the wet kitchen floor, so first thing this morning, I bought a pair of hideous "chaussures de sécurité" as they call them.
For lunch we sat together and ate the Veau Marengo and Tarte Alsacienne we made in the morning, and we took home the Blanquette de Veau and Tarte aux Pommes we made in the afternoon. So far I am holding my ground, though I can definitely use some improvement on my knife skills.
I wonder what is on the menu for Monday...

La bise

I have been spending many hours in French goverment offices, reminiscent of none other than the UN itself. Surprisingly, I have not been irritated by the shuffling from one obscure acronymed edifice to another, waiting in stuffy hallways with despondent receptionists and irate citizens - on the contrary, like most everything I have been experiencing upon my return to France, I have been enjoying the daily scenes with refreshed amusement (I've only been here one month). One of the most entertaining scenes in my opinion is the daily ritual of "la bise," wherein friends, colleagues, and sometimes acquaintances, kiss each other on the cheek as a form of greeting. I would like to know how much time is actually spent on this and wonder if any stats were ever made.
It reminded me of high school at the Lycee Francais on 95th St, going through it every morning and every evening - somehow in the morning it was more striking; perhaps because of the overnight separation, or the newness of the day, or simply the fact that arrivals were more synchronized than departures? In any case, many minutes were spent indulging in this display of French culture and civilization. It almost gave you a little forecast for the day, perhaps confirmed alliances formed the previous day, or grievances unresolved. You would hear so and so wondering why such and such did not kiss him or her. Or on the contrary, it could be your first time to greet this or that person, maybe from another class, as such.
Ours was a small school, and it made me wonder about French school kids in large schools, do they spend an hour greeting everyone? Or perhaps the mode of greeting is changing?
This morning I took my daughter to school, (a rare treat for me of late, since her father has been taking her for the past year) and sure enough all the parents were kissing each other on the cheek. If you were not kissed, then there was a bit of a problem. The same codes were there (this form of greeting is not practiced in grade school, perhaps because of cooties?). After dropping the kids off, a bunch of parents all went to the cafe and a round of espressos was served. More cheek-kissing ensued...

Bouillabaisse

What are the first two things that come to mind when Marseille is mentioned? L'Olympique de Marseille, or OM for short, the soccer team (which didn't do very well against Spartak last night) and of course Bouillabaisse.
As any self-respecting geek would do, I have done a bit of research on both. I am in no hurry to uncover the mysteries of either, au contraire, I am relishing the extended fore... er, discovery process.
In an effort to mingle with the locals I joined a group of travelers online and have been attending their weekly beach parties; last night was my second, and both times have been quite enjoyable, the fine sand, the sunset, the rosé (forget about Pastis), the apps (edible, not iphone), and the company. I started talking to these two ladies, one of which was older and seemed like she was on the verge of revealing her secret Bouillabaisse recipe. You can just imagine my excitement and anticipation at this point. She proceeded to explain how she bought a bottle of fish soup and added frozen fish filets in it, and her guests always enjoyed it tremendously. I almost spat out my leek tart in astonishment. I didn't know what to say, and out of politeness, ventured "Oh, is there a particular brand of bottled fish soup you recommend?"

tourist stuff

I couldn't lure Sara into a boat trip around the bay but we did reach a compromise and took the little tourist train around town instead, which is not as horrible and embarrassing as it sounds (okay it is). I found out a lot of things about the city (I don't think Sara was listening), such as the fact that it was founded as a result of a marriage of love... the Greek princess chose her mate and founded Massalia (or Massilia) with him. Apparently the city is also twice the size of Paris, and is home to the country's oldest Abbey, which dates back to 5 c. BC and is conveniently located fifteen minutes from my house.
Last week I also discovered two new neighborhoods, la Plaine/cours St Julien which has the best home-made cantaloupe sorbet I have ever tasted (had to have some before and after my meal), and le Pharo/plage du Pharo, with this huge boardwalk which reminded me of this beach in L.A. (I forget the name).

Greve generale, topless beach

So today tuesday the country is on strike. My first national strike since I moved back here and so far no big deal, except for the fact that Sara's school was closed (her father planned a playdate for her). Of course the Catholic school downstairs from my building was in session (privately owned) and I observed the kids play during recess, the girls learning a choreography reminiscent of Shakira's in She-Wolf (I'm a bit embarrassed to even know this and I blame it entirely on Frank), while the guys ran and threw punches at each other.
Having planned on going for a swim last night, I ended up just reading more Walter Benjamin instead and was once again surprised by what I should now consider a natural beach occurance now: the topless bathers and the parents screaming at their kids. No wonder French kids grow up to be the highest consumers of anti-depressants in the world. The parents pretty much expect their toddlers to behave like... adults? Was I like that? I remmber the Terrible Twos as being terrible indeed... was it because I made unreasonable demands? Anyway, difficult to relax with a book when the parents are swearing at the kids nearby.
As for topless sun/bathing, even if it is common practice, the men (and women!) do not tire from staring... I witness this old guy just gawking at this older lady as she was getting dressed; next thing you know his wife asked this other person to take a picture of them (husband and wife), which I thought was comical. I also witness the first Asian topless bather - most of the Asians I see are more likely to be overdressed at the beach.

Of coffee and homeless pervs

I have fallen under the city's spell. I never imagined it would be so beautiful. The ocean surrounding my neighborhood reminds me vaguely of El Nido, Palawan. I can walk to the city center in twenty minutes by the port or through the city. I am discovering new parts of it every day, cafes, restaurants, shops filled with colorful treasures. And everywhere, sunlight, bright and authoritative. A Marseille native told me that the city is blessed with 360 days of sunlight per year, and though the Marseillais is typically known to exaggerate, I believe him.
Yesterday was a day of discovery for me. I found a little coffee shop called Green Bear Coffee with free wifi and when I asked the barista - who happened to also be the owner - where the name of the place came from, he finally admitted that it was inspired by the Grey Dog coffee shop with Greenwhich Village, which I have visited once and passed by numerous times.
A little later that day I made a shocking discovery - a Starbucks, tucked into the Panier neighborhood! I had to check it out but was out of there as soon as I went in, not the type of place I would want to spend my time or money on here.
Then, an incident that could have easily turned me off from Marseille but didn't... At sunset I went down to to beach by my house and was sitting on a bench trying to capture the view on my phone, when a homeless guy sat next to me and asked me for my name. As I was taken by surprised, I gave him my name, which I immediately regretted. As he was behaving a little sketchy and intoxicated, I got up to leave and walked along the boardwalk. On my way back I bumped into him again, and he turned around to follow me. I had to stop at a stop light, at which he caught up with me and asked me if I wanted to see "the place he used as a toilet." I said "non merci" and dashed home! Fortunately the evening did not end on a bad note...

Le dimanche

Okay, we've been jealously eyeing the beach from the window of our new pad, but the wind started howling so strong that Sara and I preferred to wait till it died down a bit before venturing too near the sand. So, after endless running errands (internet, bank, landlord, etc) and dodging poo on the sidewalk, we decided to take it easy and chill out at home, fully admiring the cerulean sky and ocean while keeping out eyeballs safe.
I have to say that I am somewhat traumatized by Sundays in Europe; more than once have I been caught with a diaper or other emergency necessitating a purchase (or maybe a craving for sushi) only to be faced with frustration at streets of shuttered shop facades. Today was no exception - Sara and I ventured downtown to try to change American currency to no avail. Tonight (since we are not equipped in the kitchen) I wanted to try one of the restaurants recommended by Alexander Lobrano (NY Times magazine, 7 July 2010) and they are all closed!

First impressions

It's almost been a week since I landed in Marseille. The sun has shone bright trough and through, except for a refreshing thunderstorm overnight last week. Marseille seems bigger than I expected it to feel. Even though it is the second largest city in France (arguably Lyon is the third), I just assumed that it would feel rather provincial, especially after Manhattan. On the contrary, I was surprised by a vibrancy and urbanity that immediately appealed to my city girl predilections.
There seems to be a lot of things going on in this town, a lot of people coming through, a mobile and worldly population which is what makes me the most comfortable. What's more, the people I have met, with few exceptions, namely at the hip Colette store in Aix-en-Provence, have been exceptionally warm and helpful.
Sara and I have been occupying a two-bedroom apartment left vacant by the friend of my ex-husband's friend. The apartment is in apparently a nicer part of town, meaning to say more residential, with less night-time riff-raff and better public schools. That is why I proceeded to look for an apartment in the same neighborhood. We are walking distance from the beach and a lovely edge of water park. Downtown, where most of the action takes place, is about a 5 minute bus ride away or fifteen minute walk, not unlike the distance from Tudor City Place to Union Square for example (if there is no traffic and you are a brisk walker).
The one thing that's gotten to me is the dog shit on the sidewalks. Sadly, the French do not scoop after their canine friends. So far I have had no unpleasant incidents but it is a bit of an added stress to have to look out for every step as well as that of your child's.
I had also forgotten how much the French love to sunbathe topless. I had to confirm to Sara that there was nothing wrong with it and was relieved when she didn't ask me why I didn't remove my bikini top.