Saint-Malo Through an iPhone

At the advice of Jane, co-owner of Au Bon Accueil, I took a short train ride out to Saint-Malo and booked my homebound journey to Paris from there, rather than spend my last day in the Pontorson/Mont Saint-Michel area which, according to her, "is not very interesting at all" once you've seen the island and the abbey. Good thing I listened, because the hours I spent wandering around the walled port city (still in use) were easily the highlight of my trip.

It was low tide when I arrived, so I ​wandered around the nearly deserted beach for a bit before mounting the stairs to the ramparts, and was instantly reminded of how much I miss living near the water. Maybe that's why Paris has begun to feel claustrophobic; it's too landlocked for me.

The entire loop around the city's walls is about a mile long, with spectacular ocean scenery on one side and a privileged view of the old, stately architecture on the other. If the weather hadn't kept fluctuating between drizzly rain and sun breaks I might have stopped to read my book up there for a while. 

Below, some of my favorite scenes from Saint-Malo.​

See the rest on Flickr.​

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If you go...

Eat: Le Corps de Garde Crêperie. Sure there are crêperies everywhere (this is proper Brittany, after all), but this probably the only place where waiters dress in quasi-pirate garb with black pants, ruffled white shirts and red sashes, and the dining room is strategically placed such that customers can look out over the ramparts and across the water as they eat.​

To the Wonder: Le Mont Saint-Michel

One of the more divisive films playing at Venice last September was Terrence Malick's To the Wonder​, which vaguely follows the relationship between an American man (Ben Affleck) and a French woman (Olga Kurylenko), from their blossoming romance in France to the decay of their attraction once he brings her home to the midwest. Rachel McAdams plays another love interest and Javier Bardem is the local priest. Confusion ensues.  

At the press screening I attended, the majority of the audience booed at the end. To put things in perspective, when Malick dropped The Tree of Life ​in 2011, it was not so much a revolution for the filmmaker but rather a telling sign of things to come. Seriously, not even the actors really knew what was going on. Malick was too busy shooting his next feature to attend the festival, so watching the press junket from the media lounge I remember poor Kurylenko fending off all these tricky questions on her own. (Affleck, I assume, was back in LA perfecting Argo​).

However there is one magical scene early on, when the couple is still in love, where they're frolicking in the tidelands of Normandy against the backdrop of Mont Saint-Michel (whose nickname lent itself to the film's title).​ These precious few seconds, out of the movie's 120+ minute run, made the deepest impression on me, and I've been dreaming about that place ever since.

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Mont Saint-Michel is certainly photogenic, but only from certain angles; which is to say discounting the myriad school groups, tourists and renovation projects. Connected to the mainland by a narrow bridge, what used to be a sacred and dangerous pilgrimage has been all but overtaken by commercialism. Whereas in previous centuries visitors had to brave the rising tides and pockets of quicksand to get to the abbey, nowadays shuttle buses conveniently drop them off right in front of the walled city's main entrance. Inside, the lone, winding street that slopes upwards toward the abbey is lined with souvenir shops, hotels, crêperies (the thin pancakes are the regional specialty of nearby Brittany) and restaurants with identical menus proudly displayed in French, English and Japanese.

On a good day in the off-season, it might not be so choked with tourists. Having gained entrance to the abbey by mid-morning, during certain parts of the tour I was so alone that the click of my camera's shutter in the cavernous stone halls echoed louder than my footsteps.​

But as the afternoon wore on and bus loads of tourists continued to arrive (by the sounds of it many of the school groups were daytrippers from England), not even taking the back alleys or the ramparts were sufficient to avoid the crowds. I left through the same door I came in that breached the outer wall, pausing and turning back along the causeway to snap more pictures. Each time, though, it became harder and harder to dodge the buses, tractors and cranes threatening to sneak into the frame.

If I reached my hand out in front of me, blocking the ground teeming with people, I could see only the abbey rising from the vast tideland. Yes, it was still magnificent. ​Maybe, like the film, it's best understood in bits and pieces.​ To see it as a whole simply ruins the effect.

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If you go...​

Stay: Au Bon Accueil. ​Run by a husband and wife team of British expats, this is probably the only hotel in the area that offers pick up/drop off at Mont Saint-Michel and the nearest train stations. Rides and breakfast are included in the price.

Eat: Crêpes are the local specialty, whether they're the buckwheat, savory galette variety or the sweet kind. On the island, La Sirene offers a quiet dining room above street level that's probably more comfortable than eating takeaway, as the other crêperies have you do. Near Au Bon Accueil, the Telegraph bistro has a 10f€ set menu with savory galette, sweet dessert crêpe, coffee and your choice of wine or cider. (Take the cider - it's another Brittany tradition). ​

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See more of Mont Saint-Michel on Flickr.​

On Getting Lost And Being Lost

​I needed to get away from Paris. Work was tiresome; my recent move to a new apartment was tinged with regret; I was having mixed feelings about the imminent end of school and beginning of my 40+ hour/week unpaid internship; not to mention planning my 3-month summer trip had given me insatiable wanderlust.

Leaving Saint Lazare station at noon on one of the clearest, brightest days we've had recently, I took the opportunity of having the compartment to myself to do something that doesn't often happen: I read a book. (A physical one, mind you, with real pages). Immersed in Émile Zola's mid-19th century vision of Paris, the first two hours passed quickly. Only when I disembarked in Lison to make a connecting train did I learn that there was a problem; a union strike had disrupted service, meaning that the closest I could get to my ultimate destination was about halfway there. 

Suddenly I was reminded of spring break during my first year at university, when I traversed the east coast to visit high school friends in Boston, New Haven and New York. Everything went smoothly until leaving Newark airport, when a delay caused me to miss my connection to San Francisco. And because I had purchased the tickets on a third-party website, the airline initially refused to re-route me. ​Frustrated, tired, alone and ready to go home, I was forced to spend the night in Pittsburgh. (The airline at least paid for the food and hotel, I'll give them that).  

As a meticulous planner, I felt a little like a cartoon character who's just had the rug pulled unceremoniously out from under her. Luckily, this time I had the saving grace ​of the English-speaking owner of the bed and breakfast I had made reservations at. When I called to explain the situation she pulled up the bus schedule (incidentally also interrupted that day), and calmly dictated a new route. While I had missed the last bus to Pontorson, she told me, I could get to the next town and continue the following morning to Mont Saint-Michel. Afterwards her husband would pick me up and take me to the inn.

The irony was not lost on me that my mid-week getaway to what used to be a pilgrimage site in medieval times had turned into an unexpected journey in itself. Was it worth it? More on that next time.

​MSM from the causeway; I did get there eventually.

Extreme Baking at the World Pastry Cup

On our second day at Sirha we entered the stadium of the Espace des Chefs to the sound of chainsaws carving massive blocks of ice into delicate sculptures. It was Sunday morning and the first group of teams - Denmark, Japan, USA, Italy, Colombia, Malaysia, Tunisia, Egypt, South Korea, Mexico and Argentina - were presenting their first dishes to the judges.

Over the course of the two-day competition each three-person team (with one alternate) was required to produce a chocolate dessert, fruit dessert, ice showpiece, chocolate showpiece, and plated dessert, all within the allotted ten hours. The international jury consisted of the president of each country's delegation as well as a couple members of the competition's governing body and a smaller press jury.

I knew from watching the Food Network and the documentary Kings of Pastry that, yeah, once you reach a certain level of culinary prowess it's about finding ways to validate and inflate your prestige - earning that next Michelin star, for instance, or perhaps an MOF title if you're French. To say it's competitive is an understatement; when a sugar sculpture goes crashing to the floor it's been known to cause grown men sob profusely. So perhaps it shouldn't seem so surreal, then, exactly how much watching a pastry competition resembles watching a sporting event.

The Coupe du Monde, as the event is called, had a similar energy and atmosphere to a collegiate gymnastics competition (I would compare it to basketball or something more mainstream but really the pace is more akin to the former). There were also commentators (not very insightful; just like in sports), hilariously dramatic music when teams were introduced, and cheering sections (and extremely vocal ones at that; well at least for Japan, Singapore, Taiwan, France and the UK).

But, unlike in athletics, watching the process was more satisfying than the results. I'm skeptical of institutions that claim to judge art (but I have to admit I love the Oscars because I find Hollywood politics fascinating), which is why we ended up leaving before the jury announced the final results. And in the end I got out of watching the competition exactly what I was hoping for: inspiration.

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I left my zoom lens at home, like a dunce, so here are some "screen caps" of pieces I really liked from the competition.

Team France putting the finishing touches on their sugar and chocolate showpieces. They ended up taking first.

Team UK's plated dessert.

Forgot which team produced this plated dessert, but I loved the concept of the mirror image.

Belgium's gorgeous chocolate dessert. 

Italy's whimsical circus-themed fruit dessert.

Denmark's (?) fruit dessert, inspired by Davy Jones' Locker.

South Korea's chocolate dessert. The fiery bit is painted onto the glaze.

Que Sirha, Sirha

Every two years thousands of restaurant and hospitality professionals from all over the world descend upon Lyon for five crazy days of networking and, for some elite chefs, to compete for their countries in a series of high-profile contests that range from the conventional (the Bocuse d'Or for cuisine and the Coupe du Monde for pastry) to the obscure (cheesemaking, latte art, catering - no really how do you make a contest out of that?). It's a food-lover's paradise that usually comes with a high price for admission, but because LCB had chefs participating in the competitions we, as students, got free passes.

Exhibitors ran the gamut from kitchen and table wares to chic chef uniforms, not to mention the vast array of food and beverages. My boss was even there to debut the newest iteration of the food truck, which will soon hit the streets of Paris.

The best part? Free samples of...everything. Imagine Costco but on an haute cuisine level, where instead of sautéing frozen sausages the chefs prepare elegant mini-plates of pan-fried duck with creamy spiced potatoes, or turn an entire cured ham hock into delicate slices of charcuterie right before your hungry eyes.

On our first day at Sirha, Steph and I entered Hall 1 of the behemoth Eurexpo complex with empty stomachs, and by the time we wound our way through Halls 4 and 5 several hours later were about ready to curl up and take a nap. 

What did we eat? Um, what didn't we. I seem to recall nabbing a bunch of regional specialties like cheeses and meats, and then later ice creams, gelatos, chocolates, and bread. Lots of bread. One generous stall sent us away with an entire loaf of chocolate brioche! 

After nibbling so much one gets thirsty, but fortunately there were plenty of wine and champagne tastings to be found. At one point I even managed to score a free cocktail although I later realized, when the bartender turned a couple of non-corporate bystanders away as I stood there sipping my drink, that these were intended for clients. Oops. #sorrynotsorry

I can't say I learned anything particularly concrete, possibly because we only stayed at demos long enough to get samples, but I got a lot of ideas from the plated desserts and sugar work we saw. Hopefully some of them will transfer into my own creations as I get back into school mode this week.

La Chasse à Courre

The Hunt. And, no, I'm not referring to the Danish film starring Mads Mikkelsen that was one of my favorites of 2012. Rather, when my uncle wrote to ask me to join him, his son, and some family friends last weekend in the Loire Valley, he enticed me with the words "deer hunting on horseback." Never mind the fact that I have never held a gun; that the extent of my equestrian experience is being led around the petting zoo on a pony by a trainer over ten years ago; that my role in this French tradition remained ambiguous in the invitation. I read those words and replied, "Yes, please!" 

Because when it comes to having new experiences my attitude tends toward "Why not?" rather than "Why?"

But the reality of the chasse à courre is, perhaps disappointingly, less thrilling than the name suggests. For one thing, there are no firearms involved. And without a proper uniform and training, you are not expected to ride. So instead what followed that afternoon was more like a suburban safari in which my relatives, their friends, and other curious observers trailed along behind the team by car, bike, and foot, pulling over on muddy roads when we lost the riders to the woods, stopping to listen for the sound of the horns, and hoping to catch a glimpse of the prey. 

My expectations were undoubtedly shaped by movies, television, and hours of childhood spent playing The Oregon Trail. You see, I assumed that the humans would be doing the actual hunting, when really their primary function (as far as I could tell) is to follow the dogs. The hounds sniff out the deer, guiding the people toward its track and, in effect, running the whole show. 

It's the canines who kill the animal as well, and are rewarded at the end with the carcass while the riders, dismounted now, play traditional songs on their French horns. Darkness had already fallen by the time everyone returned to the initial rendez-vous, so the ritual was performed by the light of a car's headlamp; in this setting, watching the dogs devour the deer felt like observing some weird satanic sacrifice.

I wish I could have been closer to the action, because after a while it was difficult not to focus on the lack of sensation in my toes; alas, while my borrowed Wellingtons protected me from mud and rain they offered no insulation from the cold. But, then again, maybe this was just one of many aspects of French culture that I will never fully understand.

Also, because this didn't quite fit anywhere else, seeing a pack of forty dogs up close in person is oddly reminiscent of the Pixar film Up, except that they lacked GPS collars and voice boxes, which would have come in handy seeing as two dogs failed to return.

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See more of the hunt on Flickr.

Backcountry Nostalgia

The train out of Paris was inexplicably delayed by fifty minutes, but nonetheless I was promptly met at the Saint Pierre des Corps station just outside Tours by my cousin, Philip, and family friend, Thomas. I felt a little nauseous sitting in the back of Thomas' Peugeot, not necessarily because of his driving but more so because after months of biking and taking the Metro I am no longer used to being in cars. Minutes later we left the highway and began trundling along over unlit country roads although this didn't seem to faze the driver; Thomas only went faster, zooming past gaunt leafless trees and, at one point, a wild boar.  

I had thought Philip was joking when he said I was to stay at a château because there were too many guests for the "modest" three-bedroom country home of his father's friends. But no, Le Val d'Aulnay, or so the sixteenth century mansion is called, turned out to be the stuff of high-end lifestyle magazines: simultaneously rustic, luxurious, and yet entirely livable. (Actually, in the dark, it was more like something out of a ghost hunting show on the Travel Channel, but in the daytime - sublime).

The country surrounding Azay-le-Rideau, the nearest commune, is the type of place where people are so few and far between that it is perfectly normal not to lock the house at night or when you go out; where if you turn the shower on the water might just be warm enough not to get contact hypothermia if you let it run while you brush your teeth, check email, fold clothes, and perhaps read a novel.

But it's supremely quiet and peaceful. When I stepped out of the car the evening I arrived from the city and looked up, I realized that it was the first time I had seen the stars since moving to Europe. Previously, the only time I could recall seeing a sky nearly as perfect was my last night at Stanford.

On that particular occasion I had climbed up to the roof of the quad with a boy, and together we sat on the red tile roof, admiring the way that the light and air pollution of Silicon Valley made the mid-summer sky awash with color. We kissed, perched three stories up in our vantage point above the palm trees, and when I get homesick I think back to that moment.

More of Azay-le-Rideau and the surrounding area here.