Summer in Paris - Rue de Passy

As I mentioned in my last post, we left Milan and spent the summer in Paris while Vincent worked on an appraisal in the area.  We rented a furnished apartment on the Rue de Passy.  This is in the very chi-chi 16th Arrondissement.  It was in an ancient building with a wooden door large enough to drive through with a horse-drawn carriage.  In modern times a normal-sized door was carved into the entrance.

   

Our apartment was in a building like this with a wide door which was once used for a horse and carriage.

Once inside you found yourself in a large stone-paved courtyard.  At one time a wealthy family owned the entire building or maybe an entire floor.  Our apartment was on the second floor.  There was a dark bedroom, bath and kitchen in the front that gave on the courtyard.  But the living/dining room was a wonderfully elegant, high-ceilinged room decorated with period furniture.  There were three french windows that opened onto a hidden garden at the back of the house.  It was magical, like a secret garden surrounded by apartment buildings and we had access.

At this time I was 5-6 months pregnant.  For some ridiculous reason, we had acquired a Brittany Spaniel puppy.  It was undoubtedly my idea since I’ve always had a dog to share my life.  Bonnie was easily potty-trained because I could whip her down to the secret garden.  I spent hours down there, knitting baby sweaters,while the puppy sniffed and scampered. I also enjoyed taking long walks in the neighborhood and beyond.  What could be more wonderful than summer in Paris?

A Brittany Spaniel puppy...pretty irresistible!

I had obtained a French Passport and as a French citizen and soon-to-be Mother, I was entitled to Mothers Money through the French Social Security Administration.  Initially Mothers’ Money was to provide assistance to women whose husbands drank away their paycheck. The social security money was doled out to a mother each month.  There was a double amount in September  to help with the purchase of school supplies and in December for holiday gifts and treats.  To become enrolled, I needed a myriad of papers and stamped forms.  The process was tedious and frustrating.  There was no actual list of the documents necessary.  Each time I took the Metro to the maternity offices, I was told I was missing document  B.  When I went back with document B, I was told I was missing D. And of course those government workers were rarely patient and understanding.  There was always a long line of very pregnant ladies with bulging bellies and sore feet, waiting patiently for an hour or more.

The system was ludicrous if you think about it.  The government taxed Vincent, let’s say, 4,000 francs.  They spent 2,000 paying the government workers for shuffling the papers and stamping the forms, then they gave me back the other 2,000.  These funds were provided for married mothers as well as certified concubines.

Maternity garb in 1970s.  I had a yellow dress like this one.

Sometime in July, I invited my in-laws for dinner. I was in a real tizzy.  My father-in-law, André, was somewhat of a gourmet.  Or perhaps he just knew what he liked and what he didn’t.  Once when a dish did not meet with his approval, he pushed back his plate, threw his napkin on the table and stomped out of the room.  So this dinner would be a challenge.  I knew he loved a potato soufflé as a first course. I made up my mind I would prepare a perfect soufflé.

The next day I accosted my landlord on the landing.  She lived right across the hall.  She was a thin woman often dressed in a Chanel suit with pearls.  Her grey hair was pulled into a tightly coiled chignon.  Her grey eyes were clear and piercing, her manner reserved.  She was a formidable woman but I plunged ahead.  “Bonjour, Madame.”  We shook hands.  In French I said, “I need to prepare a soufflé for my father-in-law, who is coming to dinner.  Can you help me?  I need a soufflé pan and a recipe…etc.”  Her face broke into a warm smile.  She drew me into her apartment. An hour later I walked out after a cup of tea, with a recipe, instructions and a soufflé pan.

Now that I felt reasonably comfortable about the first course, I wondered what I would cook for the rest of the meal? I didn’t want to stress myself out.  So I bought a fruit tart from the pâtisserie, some green beans, a chicken and a can of Campbell’s mushroom soup.   This foreign contraband along with peanut butter, was hidden off in a corner in a minuscule supermarket down the street. I cut up the chicken, browned it, poured in a little white wine and dumped on the can of soup.

That night was a big success.  My soufflé was nicely browned on top with a moist interior.  But that wasn’t my triumph.  My persnickety in-laws kept raving about the chicken.  “Debbie, cette sauce est exquise. - This sauce is exquisite!  How did you make it?”  

I responded, “You know, a handful of mushrooms, a little wine, a little cream…”  That is how I earned my bona fides as a cook!