Something about Mary

Who knew? The Bloody-Marys-to-go that we loved so at Christmas (and that cure even the worst hangover for the rest of the year) were invented right here in Paris, France!

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Portable Potable

A new neighborhood storefront brings temporary relief from the sprawl of trendy, overpriced clothing boutiques and puts some spice in our season. It's called Take Away Cocktails and serves up exactly what it's named, drinks you can drive away with.

It's not a bar; it's a store where you buy what you need to make your own bar. For instance, Santa Claus left me two brown bags under the tree, one with a delicate bottle of Polish vodka and a premium organic-styled glass container of bourgeois tomato juice. Also in the bag, bottles of Tabasco and Worcestershire, and small plastic take-out containers with first class celery salt and black pepper. A lime and celery. And horseradish, not just the kind in the jar - the real deal, the root. We had to grate it ourselves. It was a Bloody in a Bag. Brilliant.

Oh, and the other brown bag? Four Bloody Mary glasses. Just to be sure we drank them out of the correct receptacle. I love it when details matter.

Needless to say, the Christmas morning Bloodies were an outstanding accomplishment.

This little booze boutique opened its temporary doors early in December and sadly closes in just a few days, on New Year's eve. It's a damn shame, because the concept is clever and classy, though destined to fail, I'm afraid, since I don't know that many Frenchies who are huge consummateurs of cocktails, and France is not exactly known for its
to go culture. But it's a nice try.

I was hoping for an extension of carry-out cocktail service, but it's unlikely. We'd better dream up a good drink menu for New Year's Eve, and stock up our bar before they're out of stock - and out of town.

Does this count as an infidelity? I must admit, the novelty was nice. But nothing could keep me away from my corner bar stool for too long.

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Getting Oystered

November is a month with an r, which means it is safe to eat oysters, unless of course you are eating them anywhere near Dee Dee Sue and me, because they make us very feisty. Or perhaps it's the champagne that necessarily accompanies these mollusky meals that brings out the fresh and fickle characteristics that we harbor deeply. Or the consummate waiter, Frank, from the Le Grand Colbert whose enchanting service makes us feel more hedonistic than usual.

Dee Dee Sue usually takes her annual leave during the heart of the r-season, so our oyster fests are limited to early autumn and late spring. But this year, she's returned to Paris in a nearly-winter month, gracing us with her presence in order to take delivery of a new über-bed being installed in her refurbished apartment.

Oysters are an epicurean preference of mine, though I make it a practice not to eat them in places that are too far from the sea, and to consume these delicacies only from September to April. Do you know why oysters can make you sick? It's their libido. They get frisky as the summer approaches, and milkier and murkier, less tasty and a bit off.

So this genital-like jewel that is lauded as an aphrodisiac takes possession of its pheromones and sets out about a seduction of its own, leaving the rest of us whoozy and very much not in the mood if we don't heed the essential safe-sex oyster rule: Never without an R.

Nothing Dee Dee Sue has to worry about. November is the perfect month to reassemble her boudoir. Oysters may be useful.

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A Quick Gallopin

These days my office stops are much less frequent than I'd like. I've had way too many responsibilities, forcing a wave of respectability that really should be uncharacteristic for me but is becoming tiresomely prevalent. And let's face it, without Dee-Dee Sue around, I'm not as suggestible. Oh sure, I stop off for a café-crème or an espresso whenever I pass the office. But I haven't had the time - or the companionship - to put my behind on that bar stool for an entire afternoon or evening, like in the good ol' days.

Companionship isn't a requirement, as inevitably I know someone in the café. And if not, the U-shape of the bar lends itself to playful (or flirtatious) smiles and head-nods (or eye-rolls) and ultimately full-on conversations. New friends are easily made. Everyone standing around the bar is part of the community. Part of the clan. And there's always the barman.

The other night I was thirsty. Thirsty for a cold beer. Thirsty for the companionship of that very same café clan. Thirsty for a break from all this undesired respectability. Yet it clamored: Small creatures to be fed, bathed and indoctrinated with French grammar. There wasn't much time for a stop, not a real stop.

But there was time for a gallopin.

The standard size of a beer in France is the demi, or 50 centiliters (cl). It's more or less a pint of beer. I say more or less, because a US pint is 47.3 cl, and a UK pint is 56.8 cl. Has anyone a clue why the British pints are more voluminous than American ones?

But the gallopin is about 20 cl, the size of a juice-glass, or the content of a medium-sized wine-glass. It was invented its namesake, Gustav Gallopin, who opened up a brasserie near the Bourse and catered to financiers and journalists. Nobody seems to be able to explain why, but he had the idea to offer up this smaller sip of beer. And now you can go to any café or bar in Paris (or most of France) and order a gallopin and get just enough beer to wet your whistle. Which sometimes, is all you need.

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After the Boys of Summer Have Gone

Sadly, the summer season comes around to a close. It flew by too fast, but all the good summery things that are part of our Paris summer came to pass. Rituals were re-enacted, like champagne on the Big Roue at sunset, followed by the wild ride on the swings and a late dinner at Pipos. Kirs were ordered. Leffes were replenished. Once there were even Coca-Colas commanded from those corner bar stools, in homage to the previous day's activity. A weekend brunch stretched from just after noon until nearly midnight, on more than one occasion.

There were pheromones and trains. Navel to Spine. A perplexing bench, finally removed. Pedro Páramo. An American was coming to dinner. Dunk and Squat. A room full of kittens. Whites were washed and worn and washed again. Renovation scheduled and unscheduled and rescheduled. Memories were made and lost. An American came to dinner. Did I mention that?

Okay we had to endure a knucklehead or two. A few aches and pains dampened the party - backs and ankles didn't always cooperate - but we kept our good humor and twittered something pithy.

Summer sped by like the TGV. And while I readily welcome the return to more peaceful days of children-at-school, a quick glance back over the shoulder at the last three months of fun, foolishness and fiesta confirms that life could be a whole lot worse. And honestly, it couldn't get much better.

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Balcony View

Here's what we saw (more or less) every morning from our balcony on Estafeta during the fiesta.




Those white-and-red clad days passed too fast. We drank too much. Slept too little. Though it should be said moderation was practiced (relatively) compared to other years. Age? Wisdom? Infirmity? Exhaustion?

All of the above.

And until next year.

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Ya Falta Menos

Departure stress aside, there are only good things ahead. A long train ride to the Spanish border. Good friends en route at the same time. A peaceful breakfast on a Basque terrace. The remembering of long hikes, sacrificial breasts and William Faulkner. Home-made paxtaran. Those people in the mirror. Soon enough we'll be driving down a familiar route, finding a familiar face with familiar keys and a familiar balcony. Bullrun watching will occur. Kaiku y Cognacs and mullets. Breakfasts at long, friendly tables. Late nights out and early morning visitors using keys on strings. The Ham bar. Fitero. Sixto. Drive-by the Windsor. Shampoo. Al Capone. Cafe Luis. On the ledge at the Kayak. The corrida. A box of bakery cookies and the lyrics to El Rey. The Geriatric Club. Bets are taken on when the mid-week crisis will occur. It will. And then things will resume. Music in the street, all day and all night. The boom-boom-boom is about to begin and will not let up until the end. ¡Gora San Fermin!

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Out of the Bag

All things San Fermin come to mind, we are focusing on and distracted by our preparation: the washing and ironing of white clothing, buying beads for bull earrings, organizing the arrival at our piso, calculating purchases of actimel on a Sunday, worrying about which pañuelo to wear.

I realized I couldn't put it off any longer, so those dirty shoes came out of the bag and the mysterious gray grime that had caked the side and bottom has been cleared off and cleaned up and this footwear is good to go for another filthy fiesta.

In a lapse of respectability, I actually had a job last week, running a workshop about cold water washing. At the event, I had the privilege of meeting a scientist who referred to himself as a bleach expert, and we had a lengthy discourse about getting tough stains out of white clothing. I told him a little tidbit we learned last year from a little old lady we talked to in the mercado. Dee Dee Sue asked her which of the laundry soaps she recommended to get the gray street filth out of the bottom of white pants and she told us her trick: wash with any laundry soap and a little Coca-Cola! A little secret there I was just ready to give away to the folks at P&G, but they didn't seem impressed.

I tried it after the fiesta last year, washing with the caramel-colored cleanser. Remarkably (I know, how could I doubt a Basque grandmother?), it worked.

And if the countdown to the Chupinazo isn't hard enough, a friend's photographs were featured in the New York Times blog, the Lens, further ramping up our anticipation.

It won't be long now. Ya falta menos.

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To Bus or Metro

It’s the same ticket that gets you on either one. A rectangular piece of card stock with a magnetic strip down the middle. These days they’re white. For a long time they were purple. I remember nearly fifteen years ago, when I’d first moved to Paris, they were green. I saved the used ones for months and then one night in early December, when all of Paris had been on strike for weeks so the tickets were of no use anyway, I cut all those little used green tickets into the shape of Christmas trees and glued them to a card where I’d printed Seasons Greetings in colors and lines resembling a Paris metro map. I sent out holiday cards to hundreds of friends. A bottle of red wine and at least twice through Ella Wishes you a Swinging Christmas CD to cut and paste all those masterpieces. How clever of me, I thought. People who know Paris’ metro will really get a kick out of my holiday card.

Nobody said a thing.

In those days I only took the metro. I was new to Paris, relatively, and despite the bombings and the petty crime and the filth of the underground, I opted in anyway because I could understand it. The Paris metro map was clear and the routes easy to figure out. So what if it was dark and dirty outside those windows. You could navigate without looking foolish. Without having to ask.

The Parisian bus routes are more cryptic, less obvious. Years went by and the buses passed me with a rush of wind on the street. I never boarded one.

Then one day a new and street-fluent friend threw out the suggestion with know-the-route confidence, “We’ll take the Bus 96.” I pretended it was no big deal. Sure, the bus, we’ll take it. I watched him like a hawk as we stepped up into the bus, inserting his ticket in the slot to stamp itself and spit back out. I followed suit. Once inside the bus, I knew what to do; it was like any bus in any city. But better. You could see all of Paris. Here are you are going about your day-to-day, to the dentist or something, and oh there’s the Louvre we’re passing by. This is something that’s hard to take for granted. I mean, if you’re going to live in the most beautiful city in the world and take the public transport, why on earth wouldn’t you take the one with a view?

So I bought a bus-route guide. And fell in love with the Paris bus.

It’s still a bit tricky; the buses aren’t as straightforward to figure out as the metro. But then you develop your routines, find your favorites. My preferred bus (after the 96, which takes you straight to Montparnasse and then to points south) is the 29. This is also Dee Dee Sue's favorite, btw. A few of the buses on this route used to have an open balcony on the back of the bus. I remember tripping down rue Francs Bourgeois one twilighted summer night, the dark-haired boy with great eyebrows kissed me as we sped between bus stops. He was my first lover in Paris. It wouldn’t have been as romantic in the metro.
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Preparing the Whites

It's my birthday today, and since there's no white knight here to celebrate it with me, I've made my own. I bought myself a birthday present his morning. It was as spontaneous as it gets. Saw 'em on the rack, tried 'em on. Sweepin' that Visa with aplomb.

Though, I must say, it wasn't much of a splurge. Dee Dee Sue (and Mother Theresa) will appreciate that in this particular case, the cheaper the better.

Because they won't be white for long, will they?

Ladies, prepare your bleach-pens. And happy birthday to me!
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Quatro and Cinco de Mayo

In honor of Dee Dee Sue's birthday (yesterday) and the calendar-count-down day of the 5th of May (today), I considered letting the shoes out of the bag.

Their original sin: a week of slogging through July streets too disgusting to describe (and yet we do it every year) and in the haste of departure, bagged so as not to contaminate the rest of the contents in my suitcase. Once home, the thought of letting them out of the bag was too dirty a task to face (tomorrow was a word I whispered to no-one).

The bag slowly made its way to the back of my closet. But as another season of stomping in the gray filth with white pants approaches, I'm called, faintly, from behind the winter boots now tossed on top. Pulled from behind a long winter of heavy footwear, the bag sees the light of day. But can I open it?

Even the Cinco de Mayo doesn't give me the courage. Perhaps tomorrow. Or else the 6th of June.
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She's Back.

The Corner One

It won't be empty for long, that coveted corner stool.

Dee Dee Sue is coming back to town. She's swinging in on Saturday, and it seems that activity at the office might finally start picking up.

She arrives like the migrating birds. A sign that summer is coming. The days begin to last longer. It's time to drink rosé at lunch. The bar smells of the crushed mint of a Mohito. Your liver gets exercised after a long, lonely winter.

There are sunny, silly months ahead.
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Farewell Popcorn

Sad to report that this month we lost another legend. The old hillbilly and master moonshiner Marvin "Popcorn" Sutton, known for his white lightning, was busted (for moonshining) and decided the afterlife was preferable to 18-month sentence in prison. He'd evaded the law for so long, he couldn't let the law win.

Popcorn is the subject of a number of documentaries and articles and blogs, including one by his daughter. He was, apparently, the best kind of rogue personality: sly, crafty and soaked with Appalachian wit. And don't you love the title of his autobiography, Me and My Likker?

Popcorn, we'll tip one to ya'.
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Drinking their History

"I have always felt that if you are drinking an artisan distillation, you are drinking the history of a people, of a region," writes Steve McCarthy, in his recent post, The Pursuit of Pleasures in Pure Spirit from the New York Times blog, Proof.

This is exactly how I feel when I drink patxaran. When I bring the over-sized snifter of the red elixir to my lips, it's like I'm sitting out on a café-terrace in the hills of Navarra in the late afternoon sun, or happening upon a group of comrades in white, seated at a long table in narrow street who've fallen into spontaneous song after a hearty breakfast. Patxaran goes down your throat like a Jota ballad, its syrupy liquid is exaggerated, longing and soulful in your belly. It's a vigorous red dance with ice, waiting on a varnished bar at 3 am in the morning. Patxaran is the 6th of July, with a whole damn week ahead and nothing to do but live it. Patxaran is strong and sweet and stays on your lips long after it's gone, like the coveted first kiss from a perfectly sculpted stick-boy.
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Tres (z) de Marzo

The countdown continues.

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Can do

"The greatest pleasure in life is doing what other people say you cannot do." (Walter Bagehot, Editor-in-Chief of The Economist in the mid-1800s)

"You must do the thing you think you cannot do." (Eleanor Roosevelt)

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The Blonde Goddess

It's neither one of us, except perhaps in our Pamplona dreams.

We're bowing our heads and ordering another patxaran in honor of Conchita Cintron, the most famous female bullfighter who fought more than 750 bulls in her lifetime. She died earlier this month, at the age of 86.

Read about her here, and here. Or watch her in action.

(Photo courtesy of Vladimir Terán, http://www.flickr.com/photos/vladimirteran/)

Drink a Little

Gladys is really an inspiration for me and Dee Dee Sue.

Afternoons are Hard

So it's 4:00 in the afternoon. I stop by the office, and there's that dilemma again. Coffee or....? A beer? A glass of wine? A kir? Is it late enough in the day for a cocktail? (Is it ever too early?) Or will a little caffeine power me through the witching hour of the evening and leave me with all my wits and a clear head tomorrow morning? In the summer it's an easier choice, somehow. What would you do?