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.

Ceci n'est pas du "pop"

Foreword: OLGIP isn't going devolve into a music blog. I'm pretentious, often about music, but I know my limits.

My music taste varies.
From painfully embarrassing screechy Euro technopop (I cannot believe I'm admitting this on my increasingly public blog) :



..to respectable, awesome, Baltimore-based Future Islands, described on their website as "Electro synthpop"



The common tie is "pop". Why does everyone needlessly apply that word to music that I like. Is it just to shame me? I think music journalists just enjoy tacking on as many adjectives as possible before "pop" because it provides a little zazz at the end.
"When I hear your voice I think : 'Nails-on-a-chalkboard-pop"

Even the sonority of the word is annoying. It reminds me of that stupid College game: "What region are you from - what do you call carbonated drinks?" devised to taunt the dweeby kid from the Midwest who inevitably chimes in  - "It's POP, man! Pahhhhhp!"
You know what? It's a stupid name for soda, and it's a stupid name to call every artist or song that I like. (This is not my fault, this is a fundamental problem with the music industry)

Still, I think I should try and wean myself off of all of this so-called "pop" music. Here are a few songs that I love that I have discovered or re-discovered  in the past 6 months that are NOT pop. But I can't be completely objective here.

Let's play a game, children : Pop or not Pop?

Minimalish beachside pop?
or Not Pop?:



Sobbing over your ex's Facebook page-pop?
or
Not Pop? 


EELS - That Look You Give That Guy - from HOMBRE LOBO from EELS on Vimeo.


Tattooed whiny French girl folkpop?
or
Not Pop?


Coeur de Pirate || Comme des enfants from Dare To Care Records on Vimeo.

Ten-to-Fifteen, don't do drugs, kids- pop?
or Not Pop?



Fine, this post had nothing to do with France other than the fact that France has egged on my pop habit. But the title is an over-used Magritte meme in France. That should count for something.

Anyways, help me with my pop habit, please.

Melamine & melancholy

Thinking about Paris and eventual repatriation, I've decided to put the decision process into a mega 'pro' and 'con' list. Like my friends' binary rating system for women: ("She's either a '1' or a '0', man") most large decisions are just the result of a series of 'Yea's and 'Nay's. Here goes:

Pro:



I found myself at 148 Rue de la Roquette (site of a former huge prison, La Grande Roquette) waiting for my government-appointed medical visit to get my residence permit.
Much like prison, this involves large women undressing you, shoving your bare breasts against the wall and screaming, "GONFLEZ!"... then they take an X-Ray. Unlike prison.

In the waiting room, I found myself next to a Chinese man. Long hair, steel-heeled ankle-high boots, reading a long book. On my right, two American girls were complaining about their upcoming French Lit exam, and how hard AUP is (oh, bite me, seriously). But I couldn't figure out what my Eastern neighbor to the left (heh) was doing in the country.

Then I saw that the title of his book was in English: "P.S. I Love You".

...Apparently, China will soon be beating France at everything, including the "Men crying about their emotions" market. (They will cry harder and longer, but their tears may contain carcinogens).

I finally get called in by the doctor who tells me I don't have tuberculosis !
She takes my blood pressure, and I mutter something about eating too much salt and is my blood pressure normal. She responds,

"Bof, they say, 'Don't eat salt, don't eat butter, don't eat sugar, and then wonder why everyone is anorexic.'

10 POINTS TO THE GOVERNMENT APPOINTED DOCTOR!
I almost gave her an "Amen sistah," but then figured she would yell at me about not being secular, and not give me my residence permit.

So, pro: France, French butter, that Doctor, and being allowed to work legally.

Con:

I was running an errand on a Sunday, and decided to take the long route along the river. Going down a set of narrow steps down to the quay, I cross a decently well-dressed woman. She passes me and says:

"Vous avez une odeur de cul!"
(You smell like ass)

I had to stop myself from bursting out into tears, and decided to run home and take a shower instead. Luckily I turned around to see that she was saying this to other hapless passers-by in the street. She either has a very keen sense of smell, is completely insane, or both.

Con: Parisians, People who smell like ass.

Let's see how long I can keep this pro/con list going.

UPDATE: Tanguons le bateau.

Just how loud could those ducks have been, you say?

How ridiculously, impossibly loud?

The little fat, feathered chieurs were at it again. Shot from my window:
(on my cell phone - but the audio speaks for itself)



I rest my case. But still love my boat.

"Oh. Mon. Dieu. Becky. Regarde son cul..."

The rumours are true. I had heard a lot of things about French gyms/the French gym-going population. So far belonging to a gym has not been a disappointment.

The anthropological study began in the changing room.
I'm not particularly shy, but the French have fewer cultural boundaries about staring, and apparently this rule still applies without clothes.

Like a boring remake of the opening scene of Carrie, I found myself in a sea of skinny white French women. They all have one distinguishing feature. Apologies in advance, but I don't know else to put this...They all have Really. Flat. Asses.
A North American friend had mentioned this, but I didn't believe it until I saw it with my own scornful eyes.
I spent 30 seconds enjoying a newly-found, round-bum superiority complex. But then, a Twilight Zone-esque realisation: In the land of flat-assed woman, she with the curves is the freak (or the pig under the operating mask, as it were).

Humbled, I limp over to the cardio machines, subtly trying to make my T shirt into a dress.

Now, the configuration of the cardio room must be inspired by an Eastern German psychological experiment. The ellipticals (dominated by women) are lined up so that you are head-to-head with a line of treadmills (dominated by soft-bellied men)

For 45 minutes or more, you can elliptical-run through the air, hurtling faster and faster toward a balding Frenchman. Not exactly as pleasant as watching TV, but it's definitely motivating. (Keep running, chubbykins, this could be you...)

I take my place in the trenches of the sweaty, never-ending war of the sexes.
Luckily, some of the treadmills face the dance room.
I slot on my headphones and watch the cardio boxing class. Those impossibly thin, un-bummed women are now screaming and punching the air, more or less in synch. It's just as hilarious as you could imagine.

Hitting a fast pace on the treadmill, beating the flubby cadre next to me, my gym ego gets a boost. Comparatively freakish ass, maybe. But look at me! I can Run and Run and Run.

But just then, my iPod takes a nosedive off the shelf, flying on the treadmill carpet into the wall.
In what may be the first sign of budding maternal instinct, I dive after my iPod, falling onto the treadmill, and crashing onto the floor.
Quietly squeaking with pain, I pick up my iPod, get back on the treadmill, and notice that noone has even flinched at the sight of the sweaty blonde flying into a wall.

Well, apparently that doesn't just happen in movies.
Please stop calling me Bridget Jones, though. Really.