Coussins in Lyon

A chocolate-filled coussin

When in Lyon, I had seen a collection of colors in storefronts that bore no resemblance to macarons, and I was intrigued. I came to discover these tiny squares as “coussins”, which literally translates to “pillows.” The appellation is close to perfection for these candies, which are smaller yet plumper than your average Fig Newton.

Ranging from strawberry to chocolate, coussins are made with sugar and almond paste and are then filled with either ganache or jam, depending on the flavor. My first instinct caused me to reach for raspberry.

For such a simple pastry, I was thoroughly pleased by the subtly sweet pink exterior, which concealed the richness of the fruit inside. It could best be compared to eating a spoonful of Bonne Maman jam (maybe something I've been guilty of doing), but without the weird looks of passers-by - or for that matter, your neighbor on the train.

Bugnes pastries in Lyon

Bugnes

View of a Salon du The in Vieux Lyon

When I was in Lyon, I was fortunate enough to have with me a resident of the city to show me some of the ropes. And while museums and parks can be nice, I knew exactly what I wanted to do in Lyon – eat.

I spent the second day of my sojourn in Vieux Lyon, the oldest part of the city, which is recognized by tiny, cobblestone streets of only pedestrians browsing ubiquitous shops and “salon du thes.” We stopped into one to try some bugnes, just one of Lyon’s trademark edibles.

Bugnes are extremely thin, fried pastries covered in powdered sugar. They’re light, crispy and the perfect complement to a café au lait. After the first bite, I was immediately taken back to Sunday afternoon’s at my grandma’s kitchen in the south side of Chicago, where we spent afternoons talking and sampling various Polish pastries of the local bakeries. Though no less messy, they were a touch more delicate, and for lack of a better term - French.

La Menthe

Restaurants are abundant in Lyon. This fact, paired with the fact that the city is home to Paul Bocuse, Pierre Orsi, and Guy Lassausaie, is exactly why the town is considered the culinary capital of France (and possibly of Europe).

However, after being turned away from four nearly vacant restaurants due to our lack of reservations on a Saturday night, I had second thoughts. With a city so populated by culinary destinations, was it them being overly pretentious by not squeezing us in, or was it us who were the fools for not planning ahead?

Fifth time is a charm, though, at least for us. We spotted a darling restaurant on the corner of Rue de Merciere and Rue Dubois, which was jam-packed with diners. After little luck at empty restaurants that awaited their first seating, we were gladly shocked as they immediately cleared us a window-side table.

The room was cluttered with character, including broken pottery glued to walls, family photos and baskets of bread hanging above each table. All of these distractions, matched by arm’s length table passages, proved a near impossible trek to the bathroom up the 10-step staircase - and if you could do it without spilling someone’s Bordeaux, a toast would be in order. We were elated.

Menus were dropped before us with various “Formules”, or prix-fixe options, but with no food descriptions. Seconds later, a chalkboard was set against our window with answers. The three of us all sprung for the option of “farandole des entrees et 1 des plats,” translating to an individual tasting plate of all of the listed appetizers and one choice of entrée.

The farandole was excellent, including red pepper hummus, tomato crostini, spinach quiche, and a small cup of mushroom soup placed in the center. To follow, I chose the marinara chicken leg served with mashed potatoes.

La Menthe was exactly what we needed that evening. While it didn’t quite live up to the contemporary food or atmosphere I was expecting to be greeted by in Lyon, it provided the comfort that we required. For after all of our rejection earlier in the night, I still somehow managed to walk home in mint condition.

Le Petit Roi de la Lune

Sauteed scallops in basil sauce, bacon chip

Foie gras brioche with smoked magret

At first I thought this Dijon restaurant was linked to “Le Petit Prince” with its title and logo, but  it is, indeed, an independent, yet no-less-charming enterprise. The woodsy interior with neon-green apron-clad servers perfectly exemplified contemporary meets cozy.  The modern, laid-back ambiance immediately caused me to feel that I had landed somewhere between Chicago restaurants Boka and Mado, somewhere in the middle of France. 

After prompt water and bread service, we received our (single) menu: A chalkboard that was propped against our neighboring wall, which was then carried to the next undecided table.  I really dig the chalkboard menu concept, and even more so when I am able to read it without squinting my eyes and asking the couple at the next table to move their heads "just a little more to the left.. a little more..."  To be able to cut paper costs while building character is just one of the dual-purpose ideas that this place has done right. 

I ordered the foie gras brioche to start. Thinking it would be a warm brioche, I was slightly disappointed to taste a cold sandwich. That feeling lasted a mere second, though, and it melted away as quickly as the foie. The smoked magret that was placed on the side salad was also a fantastic complement. 

Next, I had the sauteed scallops with a basil cream sauce, which was simply out of this world. It’s sauces like this one that inspire complete kitchen amateurs to possess the need to sign up for the next series of sauce and stock classes. It was rich, but balanced by the perfect pinch of acidity. 

The restaurant’s storybook charm proved to continue throughout the evening with the personal blackboard menu for dessert, the Camembert cheese carton check presenter and the lottery-ticket-esque business card (scratch-off required).

A must for anyone in this area who is looking for a present-day spin on Burgundy décor and food (seemingly difficult to find in an area so rooted in tradition) for middleclass fare and regal quality. 

Flandrin Chocolates in Nantes

The Diamond at Flandrin Chocolates

Assortment at Flandrin Chocolates

Macaron window display at Flandrin Chocolates

I spent this past weekend in Nantes, and along with some sight-seeing, I was much in favor of finding  ‘des Muscadines’, a regional specialty of chocolates filled with grapes and wine. I stopped into Flandrin, a tiny patisserie on Rue Gén Buat, with a not-so-tiny macaron display.

They had no muscadines, but that hasn't stopped me before.  In addition to a free chocolate of our choice (I always jump for buttered caramel and fleur de sel combinations), I decided on a few praline milk chocolates and one of Natalie Flandrin's favorites, the Diamond (cognac-filled dark chocolate).  After all, who needs Muscadet?

Angelina in Paris

The Bourbon Vanilla Millefeuille at Angelina

The Mont Blanc at Angelina

After romping through the eight departments of the Louvre, my fellow travelers and I were in for a much needed break and a sugar re-charge. By guidebooks and locals alike, we knew exactly the place: Angelina.
After a fifteen-minute wait out the door to the Belle Epoque-themed tea room, we were taken to our table. With Angelina being a Parisian staple since 1903 that held diners such as Coco Chanel and Marcel Proust, word has circulated about exactly what the restaurant does best: The Mont Blanc (meringue center, chestnut purée, whipped cream) and the Chocolat L'Africain (hot drinking chocolate) happen to be two of them.
We sat down and ordered these classics, in addition to a "wild card" - the best looking one to us on the dessert tray – the Bourbon Vanilla Millefeuille.
The Mont Blanc was incredible on several accounts: incredibly thought up, incredibly rich, and incredibly quick to disappear.
While the hot chocolate ‘pitcher’ was, in fact, meant for one person, I don’t know if one person alone could conquer it. Or at least that’s what we convinced our friend who had ordered it. Far from your Nestle or Carnation, this was closer to a chocolate pudding meets mousse, and it was sensational. With the Mont Blanc and Millefeuille at hand, though, I had to experience the hot chocolate in my coffee as my taste buds came down from their sugar high.
After our jaunt to Angelina, it took me a while to consume another sweet anything. But, I reminded myself - "I'm in Paris!" And if Coco did it, then I can, too.

Le Coeur Fou in Paris

After a friend and I saw a concert in Paris at Casino Nouveau (fabulous venue, by the way), we headed to the Latin Quarter, one of my favorite areas of the city, to finish the evening. We were about to sit outside at a traditional bistro under some heat lamps and do some people-watching when I mentioned I felt more inclined to be inside (for once).  And for that matter, I wanted a well-made cocktail rather than a decision of Martini Blanc or Rouge.

She took me just a block further to a Le Coeur Fou ("the crazy heart"), a two-room bar, populated by Parisian hipsters and chic 20-somethings. The all-white interior was sparsely decorated by abstract artwork and dimly-lit by one lone chandelier and near-naked lightbulbs lining one wall.

After my requests for a Manhattan and Old Fashioned were rejected, I waited to see what the bartender would come up with (whisky as my only guideline).  After having a glow stick stuck into my vodka soda at the concert, I was relieved to see a dark, short whiskey sour placed in front of me. 

Would I go back? In a heartbeat. 

Restaurant Bon in Paris

The Choco BON at Restaurant Bon

The Vinothèque at Restaurant Bon

I went to Paris a few weeks ago at the start of a break, and after traveling for nearly six hours, I knew I needed a good dinner. Luckily, my friends living in London who met me had done their homework and suggested we check out Restaurant Bon, freshly revamped in September 2008 by legendary designer Philippe Starck. 

Upon entering the restaurant, I was blown away by floor-to-ceiling white curtains, glass tableside lamps, and long white couches dueled by edgy chairs.  The interior was clever enough to "wow" guests without awakening nerves about touching everything in plain view. And trust me, you'll want to touch.  

We were immediately offered a house cocktail, which consisted of rum, coconut milk and pineapple juice. Tasty, but a touch too sweet to be consumed before lifting my salad fork.  

We started with the New Style Tuna (tuna carpaccio, fresh ginger, sesame) and the vegetable and basil spring rolls. Both plates were excellent, refreshing and devoured within seconds. We moved on to our entrees: The black cod "C'est Bon" (cod with soy sauce, sweetened in sake vinegar, caramelized) and Chilean sea bass with "Tom Yam" sauce (a pour version of the Thai hot and sour soup). I'm pretty sure at that point in the night, one could only hear the clangs of our forks hitting the plates. 

To finish, we shared the "Choco BON," a molten chocolate cake matched with a serving of chocolate ice cream.  I am a quality-ingredient girl through and through, but with molten chocolate cakes, I feel that whether it’s from Applebee's or Avenues, it can’t be bad.  But to say that the dessert will cause a repeat visit is more challenging to achieve, and Bon did just that.  At first, I was nervous the chocolate ice cream on chocolate cake on chocolate molten would be overkill - au contraire – it was perfection. 

I'm usually a bit hesitant about any restaurant that goes to the extreme of self-proclaiming quality in its name, not to mention half of its menu items. However, somewhere between the satisfaction from the best meal consumed in weeks and the mental blueprints of my future first floor, I found myself wanting to to add the word "très" to the sleek outdoor sign. 

Taste the Rainbow

During my days here in France, I sometimes find myself  reflecting on my initial abroad experience in Florence, Italy.  As my time in Florence was a short-lived four months and a saddening four-and-a-half years ago, I often forget the incredible times I had in such a romantic and historic city. That is - until I am reminded of them. 

I had one of these reminders just the other day as I strolled down one of the many cobblestone paths in Quimper and a sea of brightness caught the corner of my eye. I turned my head to be mesmerized by a swirl of colors resting in a squeaky-clean glass case outside of a storefront. The first thing that crossed my mind? 

"Could it be? An Italian cafe in Quimper?" I was happily stunned to see a gelato case this far away from the land of Vespas and carbohydrates. 

I did a double take, though, and I realized - far from canisters of Stracciatella and Nocciola, this case held something much more French: Macarons.  Oddly, it was the first storefront case of macarons I have ever seen.  I looked into the case and tried to decipher the flavors - chocolate, vanilla, cafe, pistachio, raspberry - or was it currant? 

The more I've been walking the streets of Quimper, the more macaron displays I see. It was then that I recalled moments of discovering Florence one beckoning gelato stand at a time. The difference between these two delicacies is obvious, perhaps - While both can be dairy-based with milk (gelato) and egg whites (macarons), one is served cold while the other is just slightly chilled. One is a meltable dessert requiring a spoon, the other consists of a layer of jam, cream or ganache sandwiched between two wafers. 

But, there do seem to exist a few common themes: 

1. Resplendent colors that can instantly bring even the "just coffee" dinner party attendee back to his or her childhood days of discovering sugar. 

2. Evidence of a sweet-tooth "brand image" for the country's natives, tourists and a population like me -  those who hope to sway somewhere in the middle.

And I was trying to picture what the United States would be like if it had this kind of constant: Something that could cause u-turns and lines of unsatiated palates. 

As I glanced down at my cafe au lait, I realized - maybe we do. While we may have vetoed the rainbow, we did settle on an appealing forest green and on an iconic, long-haired Mermaid who, seemingly on every street corner, boasts flavors of hazelnut, vanilla and chocolate. 

 . . . Well, at least the attempt is there. In the meantime, I'll stay right where I am.

"Lost in Translation" (part I)

Introduction to "Lost in Translation" Series

I feel that during my time here in France, there will be many occasions when words, sentences, and ideas get confused, slurred and flat out misunderstood. I intend to document these moments to reflect on daily encounters with friends and strangers, demonstrate the difficulties of language barriers and ideally, create a sense of embarrassment felt for myself and others. Please enjoy.

 The other night, my newly found friends Bea (of Spain), Maggie (of Pennsylvania), and I went out for an after-school (how I love being able to say that once again!) drink.  We decided to head to the Vingt et Unieme (the 21st), a chic, slightly upscale cafe meets lounge resting on the foot of the Cathedral Square. 

An hour and a half, one Irish coffee and two blonde beers later, our afternoon sojourn was coming to an end. Bea and I, umbrellas in tow (umbrellas are the Amex of Brittany), started our paces uphill as we sent Maggie on her way into Centre Ville. Just as our backs turned, Bea called out to Maggie, "restes-toi!"

"Hm?" Maggie responded, as she whisked around. "You want me to stay?"

A flutter of confused looks followed these statements. "Quoi?" Bea said. 

"You're asking me to stay?"

Bea, in her charming, Spanish accent, replied in her near-perfect English, "No, I mean - you seem tired. So..."

My and Maggie's laughter interrupts Bea, as we both realize her, completely logical, mistake.

"Reposes-toi," Maggie corrects her, smiling. "Unless you really do want me to stay?" We all smile, exchange "I've been there" looks, and part ways. 

And for every night to follow, Bea and I ditch the tried and true "bon nuit" and head to our bedrooms opting for her incorrectly-used and much more laughable phrase.  

And I Felt Like Carrie Bradshaw...

Alors. I had my first week of classes this week, and....

They went well...I think.

My first class consisted of students in their second year of lycee, or high school (15- to 16-years-old). 

Marie, the English teacher, got the attention of the students, and I promptly took her seat at the head of the class. I introduced myself, slowly and clearly, in English. (Ah. English. As I get further acquainted in a small, old town in Brittany, the word is nice -  even to type).

I gave them the basics: age, native city, degree, reason for being here, hobbies, interests.

A hand is raised.

"Yes?"

"Do you like New York?"

I thought for a second, and I responded, "Yes - I love it, in fact. I'm not from there, but -"

"What do you like in New York?" The student relayed back.

"Oh. Well, I don't know - I've been there only twice, but it's full of excitement, nightlife, fashion..."

"It is the city that never sleeps?"

"Yes, yes it is called that. And Chicago is really quite similar-"

"How late is the pubs open in New York?" Another student demanded.

I took a breath. "Some bars in New York don't even close," I said. "And in Chicago, there are some really fun bars that stay open until 4:00 a.m."

For the first time since I took my seat, I could have heard Breton crickets. Until,

"Have you been to Guggenheim Museum?" A girl in the front row asked.

At this point, I think my face was resembling nothing short of Jim Halpert's immediately after pulling a prank on Dwight Schrute. You know the look.

All this NYC talk had inspired me to feel just slightly like Carrie Bradshaw as she stood and spoke to single women about dating tactics, when she, really, had no idea what to tell them. Unfortunately, unlike Carrie, I couldn't sweep all of them from school grounds and take them back to my glorious city of Chicago on a Ferris Bueller-type-expedition, so I did the next best thing.

"No, I haven't," I responded. "Though I would love to. Which reminds me - The Chicago Art Institute has just created a Modern Art Wing, and it's fantastic. Also - who here has ever tried, what we call in English, deep-dish pizza?'"

You Say Ugal-ee, I Say Ugal-ay...

Being in France, I'm surrounded by some of the finest foods in Europe - and quite possibly, in the world. Every corner I turn, I'm surrounded by creperies, fruit stands, rows of bottled cider (avec d'alcool, one assumes, in the region of Bretagne). So why is it that my mind sometimes wanders, if only for a second, back to the seemingly less-inspiring foods of Kenya?

In my two-week sojourn in Africa, I was fortunate enough to sample some of the most authentic of plates: Matoke (plantains that are peeled and then steamed on top of their stalks, resulting in a yellow, potato-type consistency), chapati (while its true origin is in India, this wheat flatbread with a gyro-style thickness is plentiful in Kenya), githeri (an original of the Kikuyu Tribe and a melange of beans and maize) and here's the clincher: Ugali. 

Consisting only of maize flour and water, ugali had me at, "Hello...

...Can you pass the sauce?"

Ugali is possibly the simplest of Kenyan's dishes in terms of both preparation and "wow" factor, and may often be confused with a colorless Play-Dough (especially after seeing the kids at Jamii school roll it up and form various geometric shapes). But, while we may not admit it, I think we all sampled a little Play-Dough as children and, just maybe, enjoyed it. 

Paired with fried cabbage or githeri, ugali can turn quickly from "pass" to "pass it over." But the main purpose of this plate in Kenya? To fill. And does it ever. 

As I sit at this beautiful French cafe, sipping my Perrier, I realize - I'm hungry. And no more than two hours prior, I enjoyed a delicious "salade poulet" (tomate, oeuf, concombre, poivron, coleslaw, melange poulet, taboule, gruyere). 

So, here is where I'll turn my taste buds off for two seconds and just admit it: I miss flour and water. 

"All Wzungu Ladies, All Wzungu Ladies..."

"How are you? How are you? How are you?"

This is all I hear.

"How are you?"

The phrase follows myself and my American colleagues down streets, on buses, in corners of Kibera.

"How are you?"

Sometimes, we'll hear something different.

"How is you?" or "How are yous?"

"Huh," I thought to myself. The children here are so friendly and extraverted. Instinctively, I reply with a big smile and sometimes a handshake, "I'm fine, how are you?"

Their response to this? Laughter. Followed by running.

It wasn't until my fourth day or so that Jenn (our guiding light throughout this journey!) informed us that this phrase was delivered to ALL mzungu (white people). "Oh," I said, slightly discouraged. Now, everything made sense - because if these children (and occasional adults - even parents!) weren't saying "how are you", it was "hey mzungu!" I just never really knew what it meant. And if my reply wasn't followed by broken giggles and high fives, it was followed with "give for me sweet" or "take for me picture."

So, maybe their intentions weren't quite the innocent salutations I had initially given them credit for, but hey - at least they're not holding back. For that, I give them props - and often times, a photo shoot.

Last Thursday, Jenn, Heather, Clare, Lyndsay, Lauren and I made our first trip to the IDP(internally displaced persons) camps. These camps came about when the political violence broke in 2007, leaving hundreds of thousands of people without homes. The government provided each family with a very small amount to 're-start' their lives, an unfathomable request. Therefore, most of them joined together and purchased land in several areas hours away from Nairobi. The families were given tents to live in that were supposed to suffice for only six months; However, two years later these are the same roofs over their heads.


Jenn, who arrived in Kenya before any of us, tried to warn us of the current situation in the camps, stating their extreme levels of need. No matter what she said, there was no true way to prepare us for what we saw.


We first visited Baruku IDP camp, which is home to about 1300 people. When we pulled up to the site, I cannot even begin to describe the number of children who ran up to the van with beaming, but dirty, faces. Jenn and Irene (VICDA's founder) first coined the term "dust babies" to describe Baruku's young inhabitants, and I now know why. Each child was equally covered from head to toe in dirt, but every one of them seemed unfazed. So, each of us volunteers tried to join them in their carelessness and jump into their pool of exuberant playtime. We pulled out all the three big "B's": Bubbles, books and biscuits - and my gosh, what a hit! It seemd to have kept them satiated for hours (And who know? Maybe even days) to follow. We also gave each child we saw a new item of clothing, whether it was a shirt, pair of pants or a onesie. They loved their new digs, and it was awesome (not to mention humbling) to see some of them sporting the "Cookie Monster" and "Snoopy: Rockstar Dog" shirts my brothers and I wore when we were their age.

We're heading back for our third visit to Baruku tomorrow, and I am anxiously awaiting being pounced on and tickled by all of the "dust babies" once again. They may not know it, but they light up my day just as much as I hope to light up theirs.

Safari!

On Friday the girls and I went on safari at the Masai Mara, a large park reserve in Kenya. We saw it all - lions, zebras (or 'zeh-bras' as Kenyans pronouce it), cheetahs, buffalo, giraffes, elephants, warthogs (and mini-Pumbas!) and even a leopard and a pair of black rhinos (very rare to see!).

We went on two game drives, as they call them, the first on Friday evening and the second all day Saturday. We were exhausted after these photo outings and were able to unwind at the end of each evening at the campsite with a few Tusker beers (quite tasty, I must admit) and a deck of cards. All in all, it made for a great first weekend in Kenya and served as a little break away from the chaos of Nairobi. Well done, ladies!

Jambo!

Hi Everyone!

I have to say, I am beside myself right now. I came into this journey with no expectations, and according to Irene, founder of VICDA, I did everything correctly - so far.

I arrived on Monday night (with Heather on the same Zurich-Nairobi flight, though we only were able to meet up when getting baggage!) to be greeted by Jenn at the Nairobi airport. We got to our host family, and within seconds I met some of the most incredible people in my life: George, his daughter Bridget and her six-week old baby named after her own father. Immediately they took us in and have treated Jenn, Heather and myself as their own. It's a nice feeling to receive halfway across the world.

The past few days have been a bit of a whirlwind. The morning to follow our arrival, I was woken by roosters at 5:00 a.m. I was able to fall back asleep (after all, my family did have a farm in Wisconsin for nearly 20 years), only to be stirred a half hour later by polka-inspired music being played by the barber shop next door. I decided it was a sign to get myself out of bed!

That morning we started day 1 of our orientation. Jenn, Heather and I went to the orientation site and were thrilled to see the other Chicago ladies, Lyndsay, Lauren and Clare. We also met other volunteers from the U.S., Brazil and Canada.

When we got back to George's yesterday evening, we dropped some stuff and began our trek to find internet. We didn't get too far, though, before we were all charmed by about eight children who live next door. While we all had trouble communicating, some things are just universal, like soccer, clapping, dancing and old-school hand games like "down by the banks" or "miss mary mack". It was hard to keep on our e-mail mission, but after about 45 minutes of recess, we carried on our way. After the short walk to the cyber cafe, we found that the internet was down. "Welcome to Kenyan life!" Jenn stated with a smile, and we headed back to our starting point.

"Whatever expectations you have now, you can leave them behind." These words, more or less, were what Irene spoke of during the first day of orientation. Whatever you try to plan will not happen. The last thing you think will occur in your daily routine somehow will. But it's the people of this country - the wealthy, the poor, the old, the newborn and everyone in between - who will stir the emotions that are truly difficult to communicate. I promise, though, I intend to do my best to try.