Soft and low when the evening comes

To be honest, there's really nothing much to report. Evenings these days have been sweet and calm. Spring has sprung, and everything is all bloomed and pink and pretty. My nose has been running non stop, and I can't go ten minutes without being racked with sneezes, but you know what? I'll take pollen over cold driving rain any day. (French people, by the way, don't say "bless you"! What the heck?) Paris seems to get a bit more friendly when the weather gets nicer. More folks outside, more tourists crowding the metros. It's nice to see some more life in the city.

I met up with Mark Anthony and Patrick today after work to play some tennis. Well, I suck at tennis. Hand-eye coordination didn't seem to click today. I'm more of a runner, you see. (Been clocking miles for two weeks now and no more knee pain!) It was fun though. I finally got the hang of it after a few misdirected serves into the court next to ours. (And by a few I mean like a dozen...) I don't give up easily though (read: I'm stubborn, not necessarily determined), so maybe I'll dust off the racket in our basement at home and try to find a court and a partner when I get back to Amhurrica.

Afterwards, MA and I threw together an improv dinner of baked tortellini with bolognaise sauce and cheese, along with cidre, and some ice cream-chocolate-nutella sauce that MA concocted that tasted like a warm, melted piece of heaven. We chatted it up for a couple hours, then I headed home, full and satisfied. The evening was so cool and inviting that I returned chez moi à pied. The walk was about 40 or 45 minutes, and lovely the whole way.

In other news, Jordan is coming! And we're going to Italy! And it's going to be awesome! One final frontier before my bank account suffers its fatal wound. (It's pretty severely injured right now.) But whatever. I didn't spend all summer walking around looking like Smokey the Bear in my silly park ranger hat and ugly, hip-enlarging brown pants for nothing! It's time to put my hard-earned savings to good use! I'll be frugal when I get back to the States. But for now, here's to learning Italian in just two weeks. :-)

Yussef

I didn't know whether to be offended or amused when Yussef jumped off the couch, beckoned me to him with open arms, engulfed me in the first hug I've received from a French person since arriving in this country four months ago, kissed me on both cheeks, and proclaimed loudly with joy, "J'ai fait le bise avec un noir!!!!" (The French "faire le bise"--give a kiss on each cheek--instead of shaking hands.)

I, apparently, am the first black person that Yussef has ever met. He was ecstatic to have me in his home for two days during my trip to Grenoble to visit my friend Laura. She had warned me before I arrived that Yussef, her host-father, could not wait to host un noir, so I was ready. But still. I can't be the first one he's met in his 60-something years of life. Impossible.

"I have to tell all my friends un noir is staying with me! I'm cultured now, I'm cultured! Do you connais les Blues? J'adore les Blues! Tiens, put down your things!"

He proceeded to ask me about Mississippi.

"Je viens de MisSOURi," I corrected, careful to emphasize the last syllable so that he would not pronounce it "Misery" like most French people do.

"Ahhh, donc tu aimes les Blues!"

At this point, I just went with the flow.

Yussef was born in Lebanon, but he has been in France since practically the beginning of time. He's the kind of person whose wife (a white French woman named Monique) always reprimands him for saying exactly what's on his mind in front of the guests, the kind of guy whose wife has to watch his diet because he eats too much sugar and now has "heart tension." He never stops talking, and since he's hard of hearing, his voice roars through the house because he talks so loudly. Though he speaks perfect French (minus Monique's corrections to his occasionally misplaced adverbs), he purposely rolls his Rs, because, "Mon accent, c'est mon identité, tu voie."

Yussef loves films, reading, jazz, and, as I learned last weekend, black people. He asked me about everything from my cotton-picking ancestors, to the Civil Rights Movement and the integration of southern schools, to my family's origins (I told him that in Trinidad, they play Calypso, not blues), to how often I wash my hair. (He insisted that the 1957 Little Rock integration happened at a university, but I assured him that it took place at a high school. This and the slavery question were dinner conversation, by the way.)

There was really no point in being offended, because he meant no harm. I think he was genuinely curious about how us noirs live, and especially how we wash our hair. (Who'da thought we use shampoo just like everyone else?) And since I'm the official spokesperson for every single noir in the world ever, I [gladly] indulged him.

All that being said, I'd go visit Yussef (I mean Laura...hehe) again in a heartbeat. He's freaking hilarious, if sometimes candid and inappropriate, and after a while, you learn to ignore him. Besides, I hear he makes some mean falafel.

Je vais prendre le foie gras, s'il vous plaît...

...and a bottle of the house wine, too. At this particular restaurant, Le Nouilles, located in the center of town, the house wine was a Bordeaux Calvet Reserve, red, of course. It was a combination of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon. I'm a huge fan of Merlot, and I like Sauvignon, too. Together, they made for a smooth, sweet but not too sweet red.

Which went well with my duck liver. Eager to immerse myself in all things French, I took the plunge this past weekend during my trip to Bordeaux and tried foie gras for the first time. I am completely smitten with confit de canard, another French duck dish, and was tempted to stick with the tried and true. But instead I pointed to the unfamiliar option, and the waiter smiled and nodded his approval.

So I munched on some bread, tasted the wine, all the while wondering if I was going to go back to my hotel hungry because I couldn't stomach the plat I had ordered.

Good news, friends. There was absolutely no reason to worry! It was delicious. Didn't taste like a duck's liver at all! Instead, it had a smooth, buttery flavor that vaguely reminded me of the runny part of the yolk of a sunny side up egg (over-easy style--that's really the only way to go, à mon avis). I later read that foie gras is obtained by gavage, the French word for force feeding. By pumping gross amounts of food into the duck or goose, one overloads its liver with fat, which is what gives the foie gras the buttery taste gourmands desire.

The Bordeaux style differs from the rest of France, in that the dish is served fresh and hot, instead of cold or at room temperature. Traditionally, the liver is served with grilled fruits, in my case apples and grapes, and toast. The cooked fruits together with the liver make a delicious sauce. When eaten all together with the bread, it is splendid.

That being said, I've had my share of liver for the time being. I'm glad I had the chance to taste something so uniquely French, and so excellently prepared, but really, how much liver can one eat? The French typically have foie gras only once a year, around Christmas time. Interestingly, in many countries, the dish is banned entirely to protest animal cruelty (force-feeding geese and ducks is considered cruel?? Can't be true). I would like to try the Parisian version of it--the chilled, sliced kind, just for comparison's sake. But until then, I'll stick to my confit.

A word about wines: Bordeaux's were good, but I still prefer the Napa Valley/Sonoma region. I told this to Françoise, and she thinks it's because I'm American, and not acclimated to how fort French wines are. I responded, no, I just don't like some of them that much. But perhaps my tastes will change.

:: foie gras, Bordeaux style ::

:: dessert - a raspberry tart ::

We'll take a bottle of the house wine, please

Bordeaux se trouves itself in the southwest of France. (You Frenchies out there will know that that phrase is redundant, but in order to use franglais here, I have to say it like that.) Last weekend, Tanya, Pamela and I spent the weekend eating, drinking, and exploring in France's wine capital. Françoise was very encouraging of our trip. The night before we left, she asked, "Why are you going to Bordeaux? It's not that pretty compared to other cities in France." Thanks, F. Really positive of you.

Thankfully, her kind words were easily dismissed when we arrived in the center of town. Bordeaux is beautiful, with stunning architecture, narrow streets, and a beautiful boardwalk lining the river that runs through the city. We found our hotel--a simple but clean little place about a 15 minute's walk from the center of things--then headed out to explore.

One of our main goals was, of course, to drink lots of wine. We did pretty well over the course of the weekend, going through a bottle at each meal. We usually just ordered the house wine, on the assumption that in a place known for its vin, whatever's on the house must be good. Aside from walking and sight seeing, we mostly just relaxed and enjoyed the sunshine. We also visited a wine chateaux near the medieval village of St Emilion. The chateaux was a huge womp womp moment, as it was simply a little old house where they processed and bottled wine. Definitely not a castle by any means, but it was still enjoyable.

And so was Bordeaux. A weekend well spent. Take that, F.

So much things to say

But little time to say them. Whose idea was it to give us homework AFTER classes finished? I'll be writing my rapport du stage for the rest of the evening. You can find me glued to my computer instead of out enjoying the beautiful, summer-like night we have been blessed with this evening.