Madness, self-reference, cupcakes.

1) Despite feeble efforts to keep this blog quiet, OLGIP was pulled up by some blog networking site as a "Top 35" blog under the category....madness.

Pardon? While I will probably never understand how this happened, I just wanted to say thank you to whomever categorized my blog as "Paris, Politics, Madness".  I mean, I would have preferred "angriness" but "madness" is a close second.  Shucks, guys! 

[wipes away tears of joy]

2) So,  I came across the following article. Three things: 

• Either I can assume that the obsession with T Magazine blog is mutual. Hey, NY Times copy editor stealing my blog titles, give me a call, anytime. sexy wink ! ...

• ... Or, perhaps, I was right and  the "Ceci n'est pas" is the most overused cutesy French-cum-English phrase in the entire world. I hate you, Magritte. I hate you and your stupid little pipe.

• CUPCAKES. I know they're overpriced and trendy, and urban twenty-something girls are almost comically obsessed with them. But, but, but... Oh my god, cupcaaaakes.

Read on :

Paris Sweets | Ceci N’est Pas un Macaron

|By ALEXANDRA MARSHALL April 20, 2010, 

As macarons make their way across the pond from France to New York, there has been a twee treats exchange: in various branché districts of Paris, le cupcake est arrivé. It’s not unlike New York City’s cakelet rush of the early aughts, though here, “Sex and the City” is only partly to blame. (Since the show came to French TV in 1999 and has run almost ever since, les filles have loved their Carrie, but many of the new bakers have come through the United Kingdom.) Last year, Synie’s Cupcakes opened in tony Saint-Germain, and in Abbesses, the Paris neighborhood that most resembles Magnolia Bakery’s West Village, there are not one but two new spots peddling the goods: Miss Cupcake, run by the 30-something ex-London-dweller Laurence Kreitmann, situated in the crook of the tiny rue Vieuville; and on the rue Lepic, the second outpost of Berko, a bakery destined to miff any New Yorker for its epitaph (“Original Cupcake”) and its prices — two euros for a cake about one-fourth the size of your average Buttercup Bakery wares.

Miss Cupcake’s Kreitmann returned to Paris after doing TV public relations in London. Struck by the frowny-face tenor of her hometown, she “wanted to bring [Parisians] some joy.” Though baking and peddling seven days a week is not necessarily a recipe for a sugary demeanor, Kreitmann, clad in a floppy lavender toque, takes pride in flavors both traditional (chocolate and vanilla) and Frenchified (orange-flower water and pistachio). The cakes’ texture is light and crumbly, the flavors mild, and the buttercream frosting sweet and fluffy enough to resemble what’s on offer at Carrie’s favorite spot. On a menu that also includes fruit tartelettes and American-style cheesecake, Berko has many more tastes at hand, with over 30 flavor combinations, from red velvet to green tea to apple tatin and nougat. Sadly, the cakes lack the moisture or strong flavor to stand up to the best.

 

Then there are the private bakers, such as Little Miss Cupcake and Sweet Pea Baking, both helmed by Americans. Already in demand as a caterer, Sweet Pea’s Alisa Morov has just published “Cupcakes” for Hachette’s food imprint, Marabout, adapting traditional recipes for French ingredients, like fattier butter and flour with higher gluten levels. She warns that some of the bigger providers (cupcakes are also available at Le Bon Marché’s Grand Epicerie and Monoprix) are simply taking a traditional French quatre-quarts cake (like an American pound cake) and slapping frosting on top.

To school the newbies, Molov has begun to offer private classes (for more information, go to sweetpeaparis.com). Last Friday, so did another pastry entrepeneur, Chloé Saada, who offered a baking and decorating course at Colette’s monthly Cooklette party downstairs at the store’s Water Bar. With savory, sweet and gluten-free recipes, Chloé S., as she is more often known, has already started selling at the Hotel Amour and Costes restaurants. Next week, she’s due to open a shop on the rue Pigalle. A former graphic designer who is attracted to the form for its decorative potential, Saada makes wonderfully moist, olive-oil-based cakes topped with stacks of speculoos cookies, sprinkles and even plastic flowers. The look is excessive, even for a country known for elaborate desserts. But then tearing oneself out of a sweet-treat straitjacket is bound to inspire some overreaction. And for once, the Parisians are not complaining.

Berko, 31 rue Lepic, 75018 Paris; 011-33-1-42-629-412
Hotel Amour, 8 Rue de Navarin, 75009 Paris; 011-33-1-48-783-180
Miss Cupcake, 22 rue la Vieuville, 75018 Paris
Synie’s Cupcakes, 23 rue de l’Abbé Grégoire, 75006 Paris; (+33 1) 45 44 54 23.

#367: Mac-DOH !

A smattering of tiny plays about France:
#367: Mac-DOH ! or, The Precautionary Principle, illustrated

An American girl homes her way to a McDonald's after a long night, seeking only the rarest of boissons in France - a watery fountain soda with many, many icecubes.

"One...large...very large drink, please," she says, clutching the counter like a (drunk) newborn child to its mother's breast.

...oh and could it actually be half Sprite, half Fanta?"

Caissière: [blank stare]

One is never too tipsy for an American can-do attitude.
"So essentially, it would be one large drink, containing half one soda, and half of the other."

The caissière pulls aside her manager. They consult in a scrum by the McFlurry machine.

The blonde looks on, wafting confusion and vodka.
The manager approaches, giving her a grim look.

"I'm sorry, we can't do that."

Pardon?

"You see if something were to happen to you...we would be responsible"

Just to clarify, "Something might happen to me... if you mixed two very similar sodas?"

"I'm sorry mademoiselle, we can't be held responsible."

Mais, bien sûr. Fountain soda machines are the new meth labs. To think that they put these public health menaces in the hands of the public in America.

Thank you France, for keeping us safe.

Mawwage.

The linguistic difference in Paris is both a pro and a con.
The "con" part is obvious. Even 3 years later, getting a verb tense wrong can make you feel like...
un con.

But, on the other hand, being an anglophone here is simply glorious.
English is the worst kept secret in Paris. But you're still in an exclusive club. Every time you pick up a menu, you can proofread the spelling mistakes. You can humble the cockiest banker by pronouncing the "H" in "'edge Fund."

And, there's a whole repertoire of French terms derived from English words, that are endlessly amusing.

For example, the classes at my gym :

"Body Combat"
Is actually : Cardioboxing class
Sounds like : A therapy group for self-harmers

"Body Pump"
Is actually : Weight and aerobics training
Sounds like : A colostomy bag.


There was a particularly awesome moment the other day.

At a recent conference in the presence of multiple American ambassadors, I sat behind two Secret Service agents, and listened to a vice president from a major French energy company give a speech in English on "Green Growss". Not just any English, but an accent that flew past 'th's, ignored every 'h' like a friend from an unpleasant past, and tacked on this weird intonation like Charlie Brown's teacher.  (wah woh wonn wohh...)

Actually, imagine the accent from the priest in the Princess Bride, combined with French, and in the body of a petite 35 year old woman.



It was just so extraordinary in its badness. Where could she have concocted such a weird accent ? Was she perhaps part Portuguese, part Lao, part French ?

As I was contemplating this, trying to disguise my laughter with coughs, I looked at the 250 lb, 6'4" security detail in front of me.  The two of them were caught in such a vicious giggle loop they were actually turning red.
These men, paid by the American government to be calm and look for security threats, were repressed-giggling like 12 year-old girls.
That, my dear highly-overpaid important French executive, is when you know you just have to give it up.

You'll never be in the club.