Joanna Biggar's Blog

     For les demoiselles, arriving in Paris meant a daily exercise in educating the senses, and nothing was more transforming than the sense of taste, in the form of French food. And even before sampling, there was the visual delight of seeing the street stalls piled with colorful vegetables and fruit, the kiosks with seafood on ice or meat hanging fresh on hooks, the windows boasting cheeses, pastries, charcuteries.  Or even, as Josephine discovered, the horn of plenty on display in the cavernous cental market, Les Halles.

    “Those mountains formed by cabbages and potatoes, turnips, celery root, tender carrots, baby onions; seas of tomatoes rippling with waves, pyramids of citrus or melons smelling of summer or North Africa; whirling pools of biting olives, streams of milk and cream, islands of sweet butter…” 

     In some cases, the sense of wonder was over the most irresistible — and least costly — food. Bread, for example, which caused J.J. to lament about her spreading thighs, and sent Melanie and Evelyn into sensory overload every morning when the smell of freshly baked bread from the boulangerie  across the street began to waft into their flat.

     Then there were the meals that were so memorable, they were life-altering.  When, for example, Jay Greene found Melanie in Avignon, and tried out the art of seduction by  French picnic. 

  “There was a Provencal tablecloth of gold and blue spread upon a shady spot of ground, and then, miraculously, a perfect yellow rose placed in the center. ‘I stole it from a garden fair and square. No proper picnic without a centerpiece,’ he said. There followed the wine, a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, roasted chicken still warm in its juices,

    dense local cheeses sweating in their skin, crusty bread still hot in the center, peaches and cherries, ripe and soft. Evelyn began loosening — literally and figuratively — first the scarf she’d wrapped on her head to keep dust from her unruly hair, then the dark glasses that so successfully kept out unwanted rays…”

  Then there was the magical meal J.J. and Jocelyn shared in Marseille, as they were about to part company, about to discern where their separate paths would take them.

   “On the first day we discovered what real bouillabaisse is, and Jocelyn also discovered, at least to my knowledge, the meaning of pleasure in food. We ordered a vin blanc du pays, and as the dish of seasoned broth with white fish, shrimp, scallops, langoustine, and oysters in the shell was set in front of her, her eyes turned a speckled golden color I hadn’t seen for a long time. We sat, sipping slowly, savoring the mingled flavors of garlic, olive oil, seafood, and wine, saying little…’It’s not far you know,’ she said, ‘now that we’re all the way here. Just across a bit of water.” 

bouillabaisse

                                                    

  It, of course, was Africa.”

         But for les demoiselles, no discovery was greater than that of the neccesity of wine for the satisfactory completion of a meal, for speaking French,  or perhaps for life itself. As Melanie observed, while sitting in the overpowering and inherently dangerous company of Prof. Alain St.-Georges, wine in hand, she began to relax.

           “I also practiced sipping very slowly a glass of deep red Bordeaux — I’m actually coming to love it — and it helped too. Then surprise, almost without noticing, it was like I began to float on the current of French, or swim in it. It was like a religious experience, or some kind of revelation anyhow, to realize I could understand what they were saying

wine -- Google Images