C'est toujours l'heure du cafe by Jane Tolbert

What is it that gets many of us up in the morning. . . makes others double park and risk getting their car towed. . . . cigarettes, never, but coffee definitely! The Monday morning flea market at the Cours Salaya (Nice). Before I can begin checking the stalls of books, jewelry and furniture, I stop for coffee. When shopping with my daughter or before any major decisions are made, we stop for coffee. Historically, coffee underlies international relations. Coffee was introduced to Paris in 1669 by a Turkish ambassador to the court of Louis XIV. . . .

Antibes


My initial café experience ended after one shot of bitter espresso. It took several years and much convincing before I returned to the counter. I started with the cappuccino (with lots of sugar), macchiato then coffee with sirop d’orgeat, an almond syrup. My coffee epiphany came with my first cup of sweet Turkish coffee at Ninon’s kitchen table in Opio served in Picardie glass. She made the coffee in a much-used ibrik, which looks like a metal pitcher with a long handle. Two tablespoons of finely ground coffee with two lumps of sugar headed in the ibrik on a gas burner. Here is where the operation became tricky. About the time the coffee was beginning to foam and just before it boiled, the shop bell would ring. Clients downstairs in the antique store. I never saw it boil over, but apparently it often did. Remove it from the heat. Add a few drops of cold water so the marc, or grounds, settle. Sip it slowly to avoid swallowing the grounds. I may not have the recipe. . . . It always tastes better in Opio.

Plates that have the price of your drinks (early 20th century)


So my love affair with coffee began along with my search for the ideal coffee maker—one that was easy to clean and produced good coffee. I think we’ve all tried the two-sectioned Italian coffee maker, the French press or perhaps friends have given us a cast-off espresso or cappuccino machine, all of which are difficult to clean. Enter the series of machines that have no mess and produce the same taste of coffee each time like the Tassimo or the Nespresso.. . . an answer to my caffeine-induced prayers.

So in the past years, I have gone from avoiding coffee to tracing out an itinerary and emploi du temps based on the location of cafés. I also carry a coffee machine in the truck of my car. You never know when you’ll end up in a hotel, at a friend’s or in a meeting with no coffee.

Cafe chairs at the Crystal, Juan-les-Pins

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving Day -

National headlines on CBS tonight--15 million out of work. The Black-Friday warm up. More than half-a-million holiday jobs created against the backdrop of 10 percent unemployment nationwide. Fifty tons of turkey shipped to US troops in Afghanistan. Turkey trot races throughout the country. The 84th Macy’s Parade. Local headlines--the list of retailers open on Thanksgiving Day and the more than 300 meals served at the St. Francis House. But no stories focused on the panic of some cooks about to attempt a Thanksgiving main course for the first time. . . .

Childhood memories—the turkeys we made out of pine cones, pipe cleaners and colored paper. Elementary school plays about Indians and pilgrims. Singing “Over the River and Through the Woods” when the outside temperature was in the 70s. Grandmothers, aunts and mothers bent double over a steaming turkey roaster. Little did I realize at the time that one day this would be me!

All families have traditions. Sometimes it’s the guest list or who hosts the event (usually a rotation system). Other times, it’s the menu. Almost always, a secret recipe that cannot be divulged.

Thanksgiving represents hours spent in the kitchen. Lynette (Desperate Housewives) commented, “I spend eight hours cleaning, eight hours cooking and my family sits down for eight minutes.” Cleaning was one thing, but finding a recipe that met my criteria (affordable but tasting like something from Fauchon’s or the White Apron, easy to make and little cleanup). . .

As long as I can remember, we said we would break with the tradition of kitchen servitude. This year, we attempted to make restaurant reservations two days in advance of Thanksgiving. That failed, so we moved to Plan B, a simple menu with everyone contributing a favorite dish.

But simple became complex. My contribution to the meal—a main dish (whatever was I thinking)—sent me into a panic. But a close friend had served crab cakes at a tango reception, and she reassured me. But crab cakes required many more ingredients than I imagined possible. Plus, a minuscule container of lump crab seemed prohibitive. And what if I failed?


Yesterday, the Publix fish monger understood my plight and offered a secret recipe of his own. Today, I entered the kitchen about an hour before guests would arrive at my sister's. I had my new knives, cutting boards and skillet. The crab cakes emerged from my frying pan crusty and flavorful.

And my recipe. . . I hadn’t planned to share it, but the family and friends have been sworn to secrecy.

The Raccourci to becoming (à peu près) quintessentially French. . . . by Jane Tolbert

Antibes

Years and years of working on the French “Rrrrr” has been to no avail. I am always pegged as an American. Whenever I am in France—Paris, in particular--my American accent surfaces, obtrusive and grating. Language tapes then DVDs and patient friends have all tried. During my early travels, I hesitated to ask directions of passersby. Gendarmes made me repeat my address -- Rue St. Honoré. “Roo?” they questioned with a smile. It could have been worse for an “R-challenged” Francophile. I could have lived near the métro Barbès-Rochechouart.

When I moved to the South of France (and fortunately to the Chemin des Ames du Purgatoire in Antibes) , two things occurred. First, I found myself in an area with an infiltration of Italians and international residents that created a nice mixture of accents. The Rrrrrs no longer took on importance. Next, the languid lifestyle and relaxed conversation got me interested in popular culture. But it took years of café sitting for me to discover an effective way of becoming French (or at least, French à la provençale).


Juan-les-Pins

Developing a proficiency at pétanque would certainly be more productive that additional years working on the Rrrrr.

Pétanque, which takes place in most town squares or on dirt parking lots, seems to be a passion in Provence that affects all ages, both males and females. Just in Juan-les-Pins alone, several pétanque groups met around the Pinède and in the Square Frank Jay Gould, overlooking the Mediterranean. But other sites also existed (such as along the Place Villmorin). In Antibes, groups of pétanque players have gathered for years near the Plage de la Salis at the end of the Boulevard Albert Ier.

Juan-les-Pins

Teams of players take turns tossing a metal ball (that weighs approximately 1 pound 10 ounces) as close as possible to a small wooden ball, the cochonnet (piglet). With feet planted and knees slightly bent, the players focus, concentrate then, with their palms turned down, lob the ball.

Now that I have had this epiphany, the next issue becomes where to purchase a pétanque set in the States? And where with our paved drives and green lawns will I find a nice dirt terrain de jeu where I can practice without injuring passersby or pets? Ideally, it would be with proximity to a café . . . .


Chez moi

I made a quick call to Sports Authority to learn whether the store had pétanque sets in stock. “No, I haven’t heard of that really,” said the clerk. Amazon carries nearly everything and offers a beginner set that includes six or eight chrome balls for around $30 (plus a hefty shipping charge for the 13-pound package). Competition sets sell for much more.

Given that the pétanque set would not be forthcoming, I called ABC about the pastis. “Can you spell that for me?” The store keeper seemed skeptical but checked. He carries both Ricard and Pernod. Mais quel dommage! I do not like pastis, but at least it’s a start to introducing the “sport” of pétanque to Gainesville.

Insolite by Jane Tolbert

A little column known as the “insolite” carried by the Nice Matin provided me with hours of instruction in the French language and culture. The term “human interest” is a close English equivalent.

Articles I remember include:

- A small poodle escaped injury when a car and its occupants were crushed by falling rocks in the Gorges de Cians in the arrière-pays Niçois.

- An elderly British cyclist plunged to her death after missing a turn in the Gorges du Loup.

- The wax statue of former Community Party leader Georges Marchais was tossed into the bear pit at the Paris zoo. . . .

I don’t remember when the transformation occurred, but these days the “insolite” has been replaced with “faits divers.” Is this a more objective term? Or is journalism becoming more “banale,” or insignificant ?

I glanced at the Nice Matin and La Provence yesterday, hoping the “insolite” had returned. Mais non, only the human interest stories appeared.

- La Provence – “faits divers” – a VW Golf reached speeds of 200 kilometers per hour on the autoroute before hitting a Peugeot (fortunately no injuries) and stopping.

- Nice Matin – the rose-colored waters have been drained from the fountain at the Quatre Chemins in Grasse.

- Nice Matin - Saturday, Jan. 9, 2010 – During the holiday season, a time when basement wine caves are well stocked for Christmas and New Year’s celebrations, thieves took food, wine, champagne and even the dog croquettes!

In the States, we have human interest stories. The family cat left behind during a camping trip was forced to hike 3,000 cross country to return home. In the beach community of Indialantic, pranksters repeatedly have stolen (and returned) a life-size plastic calf that stands outside of a local ice cream store. Other stories include the post card received 40 years after it was mailed, or the astronomical telephone bill. . . . (we would like to think these are “insolite”).

But many stories, perhaps deemed too insignificant, have been missed by the media.

- For a Halloween party, two sisters dressed as Carmen Miranda, the Brazilian dancer and actress known for the colorful scarves and cornucopia of fruit on her head, were mistakenly identified as a Fruit of the Loom advertisement when they entered a local club.

- A university professor hoping to avoid attracting attention when he left a reception early got trapped in a stairwell and had to call for help.

- A neighbor in a Halloween gorilla costume, pulling a tinfoil space ship, said he went out of his way to avoid police officers who were questioning a crazy-looking man on the street.

- The recent city art fair at which passersby seemed more interested in the food and dogs rather than the displays.

The media do need to keep covering the “insolite” or even “faits divers,” if for no other reason than to provide foreigners with the opportunity to learn about our language and culture.

The Strike is Over. . . for now by Jane Tolbert

A Note taped on the entry to a primary school in Juan-les-Pins announcing a strike last May.

Strikes seem to be part of French life. The approach is you strike first then negotiate. Strikes have impacted everyone with blocked roads, closed schools, delayed flights or no mail.

Most US media covering this recent strike attributed the cause to the proposed shift in retirement age from 60 to 62. Mon dieu! We have already heard about the French law, now out of favor, that allows a 35-hour work week reimbursed as 39 hours. Here, if we have a job, we feel we are working more than 40 hours per week but are paid for 35. C’est l’amérique!


An informal inquiry to a few friends provided a range of perspectives. Overall, more people live longer, and the current generation of workers and companies have to pay for retirees. My friend in Toulouse accurately points out that France needs to “adapt the retirement age to life expectancy.” Other problems concern what is known as “les charges socials,” or social charges (or percentages that are withdrawn from your salary for health, unemployement. . . ),which consume a hefty portion of a salary and make employers reluctant to take on additional personnel. And then, of course, the perpetual problem of distribution of wealth. . . . But even with reform, the situation will decline again in the next 10 years, and everyone fears working to the age of 75, just like in the States.

Another friend, who divides his time between Paris and the South of France, pointed to the French sense of “entitlement” to work less and gain more welfare. It’s no longer a country of birthrights and aristocracy. The young people marching in the streets, clamoring for jobs and a fairly early retirement age, may not realize they will be footing the bill.

A retired educator attributes most of the problem to the pension plans, the loopholes in tax laws and the large fortunes.

Three perspectives, but all individuals agreed the strike and violence would subside with the start of vacation around the Toussaint (All Saints Day). And it has.

With the guarantee of minimum public service (e.g., transport) and the lack of pay for those on strike, today’s “manifestations” appear to be weakened strains of what they were years ago.

My personal experience with strikes goes something like this—for years I was oblivious to many strikes unless they affected me personally (air flights, mail services or public transportation). Awareness came later.

November 1996—I was teaching and the kids were in school in the research park of Sophia Antipolis. The French truck drivers blocked many roads and fuel depots to negotiate higher wages and retirement at 55. Given that we lived within walking distance, the strike didn’t affect us but it did affect some of my students who used public transportation. And we did get stuck in a blockage of slow-moving trucks (opération escargot) and watched the gas gauge decline. Freezing weather forced us to keep the car running to stay warm.

When I returned to France in early May 2008, I planned to pick up my shipment at the port of Marseille in late May. However, the strike of public sector and transport workers translated to mean my possessions were somewhere on an offshore vessel awaiting to be unloaded. I waited until July 2, somewhat inconvenienced by the projects and clothing that remained . . . just out of reach.

The strike may be for social reform, but it leaves many members of the public feeling somewhat grouchy with the inconvenience.



And many of my friends have great credentials but no jobs. . . .Maybe retirement is a bit premature, n'est-ce pas!