The Geography of Taste

A topic that inevitably comes up in relation to homesickness when I talk to my expat friends is the food. Paris, of course, has a lot going for it (that's why we're all here to learn the culinary arts!) but I miss the familiarity of the foodscape at home. In Seattle (my hometown), the Bay Area (my adopted home for the four years before I came for France), and even New York City (where I spent the summer of 2011), I had an eclectic rotation of trustworthy restaurants, bars and cafés that I knew I liked. And by "eclectic," what I really mean are various kinds of ethnic cuisines.

The expats I know who hail from so-called countries of immigrants - Canada, Australia, and the good ol' USA - ​all say the same thing. Paris is culturally and ethnically diverse, but even when you dine in immigrant-run restaurants it feels...Frenchified. In some instances it's a matter of being used to the Americanized version (especially for Chinese food), but it's definitely disconcerting to see menus written only in French and a foreign language. But I suppose no matter the quality of the food, not knowing what you're eating is always an adventure.

However, there's no denying that certain products and dishes are just engineered differently in France.​ Recently I had pho in the 13th arrondissement, a neighborhood known for its many Asian restaurants, and while the noodle soup itself was fine, I was sorely disappointed that the Sriracha sauce did nothing. Given the amount I added to the broth, if this were at a restaurant at home in the states I would have been in tears by the end. For my friends and me, that's kind of the point - to go in on a cold winter's day, and put just the right amount of kick in the soup to clear your sinuses and make you sweat a little. But in Paris, no matter how much you put in your bowl it remains a stubborn combination of sweet and salty.

​I had a similar experience when a friend from Mexico took me to try out a new Mexican restaurant. The food was authentic enough, by his standards, but the salsa was so bland it seemed to be just for looks. No wonder people bring back bottles of Tapatío sauce after visiting home.

The more I've talked to other chefs and people who have lived here longer than I have, the more I realize that traditional French cuisine is very mild, and so those who enter the restaurant industry here have to work around the local preferential tastes if they want to succeed. The most obvious examples are branches of chains like McDonald's and Starbucks, whose menus are quite different from the ones I'm used to seeing at home.​

When I heard that Chipotle was to open its first location in Paris, I scoffed, thinking, "Typical expansion of American corporatism." But I've been so homesick lately maybe I will try it. (After my next paycheck clears; I've heard it's expensive). I don't really expect the salsa to be spicy, but I hope it is.

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​If you're in the northwest any time soon, here is a compilation of my favorite places to eat in Seattle.

Lost in Translation

When I moved to Paris in late June with just a single academic year of beginning French under my belt people assured me that, "Oh, you'll pick it right up when you get there!" But nearly six months later, my language skills have all but stagnated.

At school the students, who are all international, either speak English or their native languages to each other. And the food truck, which is predominantly staffed by expats, isn't much better. I never wanted to be one of those people that moves to a new place and makes little to no effort to imbibe the local culture but, oops, I guess I kind of am. It's not that I don't try at all, but rather that in a foreign setting language acts as a security blanket. (Also I've found in many cases that when I speak French to native speakers they respond to me in English, as if to say, "Nice try, buddy, but your accent sucks! Now let me show you up with my English.")

I really admire my friend who, after moving here from Australia knowing virtually no French, took our six-week break from school to enroll in an intensive language course. Last night she invited me over for an informal dinner with a couple of her classmates; the caveat being that on avait besoin de parler français.

It was strange at first, because Steph and I are so used to speaking English to each other. Suddenly it was difficult to make jokes and use sarcasm, and stories that would have taken all of ten seconds to recount became arduous and slow-developing as we struggled to find the right vocabulary. But over time we developed a rhythm. When Ina, a German, wasn't sure of a word she would ask Sabrina, a Swiss girl in a more advanced class, in Deutsch; when I didn't know a word I would look it up on my phone. Sometimes no one knew what the other was trying to say, which inevitably devolved into wild gesticulation and laughter.

"Tant pis," we said, French for, "Oh well." 

I enjoyed it, though, because since we were all beginners it was a rare moment when I didn't feel self-conscious speaking a language I barely know. During the summer when I had a French roommate, I often struggled to keep up with her and her friends in conversations. By the time I understood what was being said and had thought of something to add, the topic had already changed.

But with the four of us there that night it was, as paradoxical as it sounds, a comfortable level of awkward; each pause bringing us together as much as the words that followed because we all knew what it was like to feel able to communicate at only half-capacity. Some things are just universal.

Giving Thanks

A certain snarky friend of mine once called Thanksgiving a "bullshit holiday" because it glorifies that time in American history when, according to her, "The colonists were all like - 'Hey Native Americans, why don't you just bend over and take it while we overrun your territory!'" I'm no historian, but I'd say this is a pretty fair assessment of what happened, oh, everywhere that European colonists landed? But I digress.

This is the first Thanksgiving that I've spent away from home, and while I may question the validity of the origins of the holiday, I do appreciate the other values that it stands for - namely family, traditions and food. I miss my family, but they're coming to visit me in a month so instead I'd like to take a moment and reflect on things that I am thankful for.

The first is that, by happy coincidence, I did not go to Israel last weekend as originally planned, and that the friend who I was supposed to visit was safely in the US. As I understand it he has since returned now that the cease-fire is in effect and is staying with family in another part of the country. My thoughts go out to all those whose lives have been affected by the violence. 

I'm thankful for having a family that supports me doing that which makes me happy and who has never pressured me to figure my life out when I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. You are rare amongst parents, much less Asian ones, and I love you for it.

And, of course, my friends. From the new ones here who organized one of the best Thanksgiving dinners ever (that's what you get when everyone you know is a culinary school student) to the ones at home who promptly respond to emails regarding everything from new music to boy problems. I promise I will try harder to stay in touch.

Alternative Modes of Transportation

About a month ago I signed up for a Vélib membership, granting me easy access to Paris' vast public bike-sharing system. Biking, along with having a private chef to prepare all my meals, is probably one of the things that I miss most about Stanford. I like that it's quicker than walking, less hassle for going short distances than descending into the subway, and physically stimulating enough to make me feel like I'm working out even though I rarely break a sweat. (Paris is relatively flat, but the weather is consistently chilly now that it's November).

Despite how frighteningly aggressive Parisian drivers are, the city is quite bike-friendly. On the main roads cyclists share the center lane with buses and taxis, and most other streets - even the small ones - have designated bike lanes. The biggest challenge is not getting lost, something I struggle with enough even just pounding the pavement on my own two feet.

Recently, however, I discovered the real use for Vélib bikes; the one that its founders probably did not intend but that which I shall probably use my membership for the most in my remaining time here.

You see, the Metro closes relatively early (about 1am on weekdays and 2am on weekends)*​ and taxis are much more trouble than they're worth. (Not only are they expensive but you can only catch them at designated stretches of the sidewalk. So on a Friday night in say, Bastille, you could be waiting a very long time for a ride).

But now, after a night out, I can simply bike home. I will admit from personal experience that biking in heels after a few drinks is not the easiest feat, but it can be done. There's also something quite refreshing about cruising down Boulevard du Montparnasse at 3am when it's practically devoid of cars with the cold early morning air whipping through my hair - a welcome respite from the sweaty, suffocating atmosphere of the dancefloor.

Many Parisians are game to simply stay out long enough for the Metro to reopen at 5am. In fact, I'm told that's the reason why they tend to go out later. But even after living here for almost 5 months I still haven't fully adjusted to their downshifted schedule. Whereas at home I'm used to eating dinner at 6, pre-gaming by 10 and going out by 11, everything in France happens a good 2 or 3 hours later.

Maybe it's a sign that I've already exceeded my partying prime, but I'm lucky if I can make it to 4am without falling asleep.

*I once read somewhere that this is for cleaning purposes, but quite honestly I don't know who they're kidding. NYC's subway system managed to operate 24-hours a day and still feel safer and cleaner than the Metro.

And We Danced

Weeks ago I justified splurging on a one-day ticket for Pitchfork Paris all because of the time last fall when I missed M83 in San Francisco after my friends were too indecisive to commit to going before the show sold out. I normally wouldn't condone going to a festival just to see one act, but my love for Midnight City prevailed. And a good thing it did, because last night evolved into eight of the best hours of my Paris sojourn thus far. The other artists were a bit of a mystery to me (How To Dress Well? Japandroids? James Blake?) but thanks to the bass, the buzz and the charged atmosphere emphasized by seizure-inducing light displays, I still felt at ease basking in the rhythm even though I didn't know the lyrics.

A college friend once asked me what was so great about going to live music shows. To his mind it was an expensive habit that didn't warrant the cost when you could just as easily listen to the same songs at full blast in the comfort of your own room. But, for me at least, the answer lies in all the things that you can only experience and feel at a concert: the bass so loud it reverberates throughout your entire body; the unparalleled energy running through the crowd as everyone moves to the beat in a way that is both harmonious and yet dissonant; fighting the good fight to get close to the stage. It's a full-on sensory experience in a way that recorded music can never come close to.  

As my first Paris concert experience, I couldn't help but think back to the Stuff White People Like entry called "Standing Still at Concerts" (see #67). Because, yeah...enough said. After the first few sets, though, the crowd finally started to loosen up. Although whether this was because the flow of festival sponsor Heineken had loosened their joints, or rather by that point the expat contingent was out in full force, I cannot say. (I haven't been surrounded by that many native English-speakers since I left California).

Food Wars: USA vs France

"French women don’t get fat. It’s a phrase forever immortalized thanks to Mireille Guiliano’s popular 2004 'non-diet' book, but as a stereotype I have to admit it’s surprisingly accurate. This is not to say that all Parisians look like size zero fashion models, but rather that in the months since moving here, the only severely overweight people I’ve seen are all tourists. Given that the reputation of the national cuisine is built upon buttery pastries and creamy sauces, the idea of perpetually svelte citizens presents a curious dichotomy. But a closer look at French culture reveals a combination of principles and common sense that optimize both physical health and overall well-being, critical elements that the diet-related disease-ridden and fat-shaming society of America could learn from."

- via Highbrow Magazine

After my editor over at Highbrow Magazine caught wind of the fact that I'm an American in Paris, she asked me to compose an article comparing the two cultures when it comes to food. Now, I previously wrote a semi-serious post about what I miss about America, but food culture is not one of them. What do I mean by this? There are many foods readily available at home that I would kill for right about now (see: peanut butter, bubble tea, yogurt-covered pretzels, extra sharp cheddar cheese, the list goes on), but it's the rituals, stereotypes and double standards surrounding the practice of eating that I can't stand.

Simply put, eating is not viewed as a pleasurable activity by American society. This has a lot to do with the media, I suspect, but there is also the fact that as individuals we tend to place arbitrary restrictions on the foods we eat in oft-misguided attempts to be "healthy." (See: girls who don't eat "carbs").

As a girl I've always found it unfair that, in general, guys can eat as much as they want and no one will comment on or judge them for it. Second and third helpings are totally acceptable for them. Whereas if I, God forbid, finish off a bag of chips, an onlooker would probably say something to the effect of, "Damn, you really went to town on those." (That actually happened once. It wasn't chips but it still bothers me because the obvious implicit meaning was "OMG why are you eating so much, stop it"). 

In that memorable instance it was a guy who said that to me, but girls are equally hard on themselves for what they perceive to be bad tendencies. The conflation of weight and diet is really key here and, yes, the two are related but not as directly as most would like to believe. (Never underestimate the power of genetics, people). I grew up being very sensitive to these issues, having spent almost half my life as a competitive gymnast and then a few odd years as a college cheerleader, and I'm sorry to say that I wasted a good portion of that time being preoccupied with them. But no more.

In the words of Emma Stone, "Life's too short. So eat the damn red velvet cupcake."

Or, in my case, I guess it would be pain chocolat.

5 Things I Miss About America

These words have never felt more applicable than now, because of the way they perfectly encapsulate how I feel about my homeland. Having been born and raised in the US, there are countless things I've taken for granted and only now am beginning to appreciate since, well, France is a very different place. So while I still don't consider myself much of a patriot, per se, I'm starting to see that for all its social, political, economic and other problems, America is pretty fucking great.

​This is a grilled cheese sandwich from one of my favorite diners in Seattle. I miss them (i.e. the sandwiches) too.

5. J. Crew

I'm not disputing that Paris is hip, trendy, etc., but merely admitting that a lot of the stuff I see in stores errs on the side of the extreme. Maybe I'm just not fashion-forward enough (seriously though, every time I leave my apartment I start to feel like Anne Hathaway's pre-makeover character in The Devil Wears Prada) but I miss J. Crew's basic wardrobe staples, that also come in petite sizes for the vertically challenged like me.

4. One-stop shopping.

Shopping in Paris always feels like an arduous ordeal for an American accustomed to behemoth Walmarts and Safeways. Instead of having access to everything under one roof, Parisians favor specialized shops that typically end in -erie (e.g. the fromagerie for cheese, boulangerie for bread, charcuterie for meats, etc.).* While the quality of the products, at least for food, is probably better this way, it can be in a pain when you're really hungry and/or don't have much time to shop.

*The one exception is Monoprix, which is like a toned-down version of Target. I go there a lot.

3. Getting things done online.

As the nation that produced Facebook, Google and Twitter, it's unsurprising that we rely so heavily on the internet to get things done. But for the rest of the world, this is not necessarily the case. I won't go into specifics here, but there have been multiple occasions where instead of taking care of something online, like I would at home, I've had to make a phone call or an appointment to see someone in person. And sometimes I just want to sit around at home in my pajamas and not deal with real people, OKAY??

...But actually, I'm embarrassed of my French so I prefer to email when possible. Otherwise many awkward silences and me repeatedly saying, "Encore une fois," ensue.

2. Coffee culture

Previous posts may suggest that I have an affinity for Starbucks bordering on obsession. This is somewhat true. It's not so much the actual coffee that I like, but rather that Starbucks is one of the few places in Paris where you can:

a) get a wide range of coffee and espresso-based drinks and

b) get them to go or

c) sit and enjoy it there for a couple hours.

Beyond Starbucks and other "American-style" coffee houses, your only options to satisfy a caffeine fix are potently bitter espresso shots or a weak café crème (basically steamed milk with a dribble of coffee). Clearly living in Paris has brought out the Seattlite coffee snob in me.

1. The English language.

"Je comprends mieux que je parle," (I understand better than I speak) is what I always tell people, my little disclaimer before they try to strike up a conversation. But if I'm not being an active listener, then whatever the other person is saying starts to resemble one long string of unfamiliar sounds, at the end of which all I have to offer is an eyes-glazed-over quizzical look.

I feel like a big part of living abroad is learning to accept that in a majority of social situations you won't have any clue what the hell is going on. And for someone as inherently neurotic as I am, that's probably one of the biggest adjustments.

Don't get me wrong - I think French is a beautiful language - but I miss being able to passively listen and still be fully aware of what's going on around me.