Le Ritz, L'Arc de Triomphe et La Tour d'Argent

When living in Saint-Nom-La-Bretèche, I participated in two women’s associations. One was a local group of French women who wanted to enjoy the Paris art scene. A lecture concerning a current exhibit was followed by a visit to a museum.  I particularly remember a visit to the Grand Palais to view a Manet exhibit.  Nobody from my neighborhood wanted to drive, so I volunteered. Subsequently I learned that these French ladies dreaded driving into the city and particularly around the Arc de Triomphe. They had to depend on an intrepid American.

L'Arc de Triomphe

As you can see in the picture, twelve streets and avenues form the spokes around the monument. At rush hour, entering and exiting the roundabout can be tricky.  You need a lot of chutzpa and daring-do!  The only rule that applies is “priorité à droite” which means that the car to your right has the “right-of-way”.  If the guy on the left hits you, it will be his fault!  You enter into the fray aiming your car in the desired direction and staring-down the guy on the right.

Le Grand Palais - an exhibit on Cuba.

I also joined the American Women’s Club.  The theme of the first meeting in the fall was “Bloom Where You’re Planted.”  The discussion was about how to enjoy your stay in Paris.  There were suggestions for French language classes, family activities, restaurants and shopping tips.   Some women were very lonely, especially if they spoke no French.  Their husbands were busy at work, their children at school and venturing out on Paris streets was frightening.  And of course they missed peanut butter, Oreos, Miracle Whip and their favorite soap opera.

The Ritz

I didn’t attend many meetings but I did become involved in a fundraiser.  I don’t remember the worthy cause.  But I do remember that I was responsible for soliciting donations from luxury hotels and restaurants:  for example a free night at the Ritz or a free diner at Maxime’s.  I traipsed into the George V and Le Meurice and asked to speak to the manager.  Oh boy!  If looks could kill…or at least wither… those directeurs d’hôtel were a scary lot.

The formal dining room at Le Meurice Hotel.

I also marched into Taillevent, La Tour d’Argent and Lasserre(luxury restaurants).  As I remember the gérants de restaurant were a little bit more friendly. 

La Tour d'Argent restaurant:  Part of the charm is the view along the Seine and Notre-Dame cathedral.

After one difficult morning, I stopped at a café and treated myself to a Croque-Monsieur and un petit blanc. (béchamel, ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of white wine).

Croque-Monsieur 

Turn oven to 450º

Ingredients for 2 sandwiches:

Béchamel Sauce

4 slices thick sliced bread

2 slices ham (Black Forest)

Grated Gruyère Cheese

Butter 

1. Make a béchamel sauce:  Melt 2 Tablespoons butter, add 2 Tablespoons flour, stir vigorously, add a shake of salt and a shake of pepper, slowly add 1 cup milk continuing to stir vigorously.  Boil 1 minute continuing to stir.  Add a shake of nutmeg.  Voilà!

2. Butter a baking sheet. Place two slices of bread on the sheet. Smear with béchamel sauce. Sprinkle with gruyère cheese.  Add a slice of ham.  Fold neatly to fit.  Smear with béchamel. Sprinkle with gruyère. Top with another slice of bread.  Smear with béchamel and sprinkle with cheese.

3.  Slide into the oven for 10-15 minutes until brown and bubbly.   

To make a Croque-Madame.  Top the sandwich with a fried egg!

Iranian and Ethiopian Friends

Iranian Countryside

In my previous post I mentioned that the children attended the American School of Paris.  As was the case of the International School of Brussels,  the variety of children from different countries and cultures provided a rich environment.

Marie-Juliette had a good friend named Sarah who was Iranian.  Sarah was a sweet, soft-spoken girl. Her parents were somewhat reticent to have Sarah come over to our house after school, but they frequently invited Marie-Juliette to their apartment in Paris. The mother and aunts were warm and friendly.   They served her Iranian delicacies.  The family lived in a compound of Iranian refugee families that had fled Khomeini’s regime.  I imagine they had some connection to the Shah?  The building was surrounded by burly security guards sporting machine guns.  I wonder where Sarah and her family are now?

The Ethiopian Blue Nile Falls 

Charles and Christopher became good friends with two brothers from Ethiopia.  Their father was a bigwig at IBM International.  They lived in an apartment complex in St. Cloud.  The apartment buildings were built around a large garden that contained grottos, little bridges and woods .  It was a magical place to play.  Both boys were often invited for play-dates.  The family maintained a cook who sat on a mat on the kitchen floor.  Apparently, the little boys would order up something to eat whenever they were hungry. Maybe some injera and wat (sourdough flat bread and spicy stew).

The Ethiopian mother was an elegant, statuesque lady.  She usually wore a colorful, full-length gown and a matching turban. In my mind she resembled a stately Egyptian goddess. She seemed to enjoy the rough and tumble of four rambunctious boys.  We had tea together and she spoke to me of her family and of the grandeur and beauty of Ethiopia.  I think she was quite lonely.  When she learned of our departure back to the States, she presented Charles and Christopher with hand-embroidered shirts decorated with the Ethiopian coptic cross.  They were a work of art. 

A tee-shirt decorated with the Coptic cross - not a work of art! 

Saint-Nom-La-Bretèche, Cauliflower and The Ayatollah Khomeini

In 1980, we moved from Waterloo, Belgium to Saint-Nom-La-Bretèche, France (St.Nom). St.Nom is well-known for its golf course which was one of the first built in France and little known for its role in the Paris Peace Accords which ended the Vietnamese war.  Apparently between 1968 and 1973 Le Duc Tho (Vietnamese negotiator) and Henry Kissinger(US Secretary of State) met secretly in several locations - one being St. Nom.

The small town is located north-west of Paris on the way to Rouen.  It's a little north and west of Versailles.  Nearby is the forest of Marly Le Roi.  The village is nestled among cultivated, rolling fields. I found the countryside picturesque - like a painting by Pissarro or one of his impressionist friends.

Pissarro - Lanscape at Chaponvill

With a friend I went on daily walks.  We would do a loop through woods and dale, skirting lush fields.  One morning we walked by a field where a woman was swinging a scythe. With smooth, rhythmic motions she was cutting heads of cauliflower off their stems.  I waved and she came over and offered me a a true flower surrounded by deep green leaves.  The woman's round face was rosy with exertion.  She wore a blue-patterned babushka and a sunny smile. The cauliflower was a gift from Mother Nature. 

We had a nice house in a small housing complex called Le Buisson Ste. Anne which translates as St. Anne’s Bush!  The ground floor was tiled with octagonal terra-cotta tiles which gave a rustic feel to the place.  Upstairs there were three bedrooms and a wide open loft that provided a wonderful place to play.  The children put on theatre performances and constructed Lego masterpieces.

Here is our house from the back.

The house was on a cul-de-sac.  At the end of the street there was an open field and a tennis court.  Our neighbors were all French except for the house directly across from ours which was another rental.  The first year the house was occupied by an American family. Marie-Juliette enjoyed playing with their two girls. We are still in communication with the family today.  The second year a British couple moved in with a baby.  That lady was a decorating queen and she completely papered and painted the house two times over.

The American School of Paris today.

The children attended the American School of Paris.  Since we planned to remain in Europe, it seemed wise to have the children in an English-speaking school.  Every morning I walked the children up to the main road-D307- to catch the bus. If my friend Nancy was there we would see the children off and then stop in the café-tabac for a café au lait and a croissant. 

I was told that the Ayatollah Khomeini used to walk the D307 road each day when he was in exile.  He left the area and returned to Iran in 1979, shortly before we arrived.  Did you know that initially we Americans backed him and his regime?  He was even named Man of The Year by TIME magazine.  How can we blame a candidate for political office for flip-flopping? It would seem that our nation as a whole performs erratic U-turns when it suits.

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The Belgians VS The French

A stereotypical Frenchman complete with wine, baguette, fisherman's striped sweater and an escargot.

A stereotypical Belgian carrying French fries in the national colors of red, yellow and black.

This is my last entry about my experiences in Belgium.  From here we move next door to France.

The French tell jokes about the Belgians similar to those the Italians tell about the Carabinieri.  (Remember my prior post of April 17th.) Americans tell the same jokes about “Polacks” (excuse the derogatory term) or blonds.  The French view the stereotypical Belgian as having a large family, drinking beer, eating French fries and being mentally slow.   Here are 2 examples:

Do you know what is the best form of contraception for the Belgians?

  - A slingshot…to shoot down the storks.  

How do you recognize a Belgian baby in the maternity ward?

 - It’s the only one holding a stuffed french fry.

The Belgians see the French as arrogant and egotistical.  One of the symbols of France is the rooster.  Here is some retaliatory  Belgian jokes:

“After creating France.  God found it to be the most beautiful country in the world.

But he realized it would make others jealous.  So to reestablish equilibrium, he created the French.

Another comeback is a joke attributed to the comedian Coluche.

Do you know why the French chose the rooster as its country’s symbol?

 - It’s because its the only bird that manages to sing with both feet in shit.

Yet France and Belgium are closely tied due to a their shared language.  The French admire and revere many Belgian citizens: René Magritte (artist), Jacques Brel (singer), Georges Simenon (mystery writer), Hergé (Tintin) and many, many more.

Magritte's painting: The Son Of Man.

Some of the best “French” food is to be found in Belgium.  And by the way, French fries really should be attributed to the Belgians. Belgian fries are served in paper cones with a large dollop of mayonnaise on top.  That might seem bizarre, but we like (fried) potato chips with dips made from mayonnaise and sour cream.

You’ve heard about Belgian chocolates.  Guess what?  They really do have great quantities of Brussel Sprouts and Belgian Endive as well.  In the fall, one finds wild boar, venison and game birds on the menus.

Two well-known Belgian dishes are Carbonnade à la Flamande and Waterzooi.  Carbonnade à la Flamande is a delicious beef stew made with the addition of beer.  After browning the meat and the onions;  herbs, bayleaf and beer are added.  Then the stew is covered with several slices of spiced bread that have been slathered with mustard.  As the stew braises, the bread breaks down and thickens the stew. 

Traditionally carbonnade is served with fries.

Waterzooi is a chicken or fish stew made with carrots, leeks, potatoes and broth.  When all the ingredients are cooked; cream and beaten eggs are added.  This makes for a delicious, unctuous sauce.

A Belgian Hospital Experience

Christopher age 6.

In our second year in Brussels, all three children were attending the International School of Brussels. Christopher was in 1st grade.  On November 7th, there was no school due to Parent-Teacher Conferences.  I scheduled all 3 conferences in the morning.   A kindly British neighbor, Elaine, agreed to watch the boys and Marie-Juliette went over to play with Angela.

I don’t remember much about the conferences but when I arrived home  there was an ambulance in front of Elaine’s house.  Christopher had broken his leg while playing football with a bunch of boys. A big sixth grader had landed on his leg during a big play. When I arrived he was already loaded in the ambulance.  I followed in the car to the hospital in Braine l’Alleud, a neighboring village.

It was determined that he had broken his femur.   He was installed in a hospital bed, his leg pulled straight by weights hanging off the end.  The first night I learned that he would be there for 2 months and that he had a heart murmur that needed to be watched.  It was nearly midnight when I was shooed out of the hospital.  “Madame, your son is going to be here for a long time so he needs to learn to be on his own.”  As I left the ward, Chris was screaming, “Mommy, don’t leave me.”  I’ve never forgotten the pain of that night. 

Village of Braine-l'Alleud.

For the next two months I spent most of the day at the hospital. It was a well-run establishment.  The nurses were very busy and someone needed to help feed Christopher his meals and entertain him. After Marie-Juliette and Charles left for school I went to the hospital.   Over the next weeks we played thousands of games of Shoots and Ladders, Checkers, Connect 4 etc.  I tried unsuccessfully to get Chris to learn to read but he was too antsy.  On several Saturday mornings, our neighbor Phil went over and played with him.  Phil was a Godsend.   Chris was a hyper-active child; so two months in bed was VERY long.  What I wouldn’t have done for a TV or a nice Mindcraft game!  

In the afternoon, I would go home and pick up the other kids and we would go back to the hospital so Chris could interact with his siblings.  One time I went down the hall with Marie-Juliette.  When we came back there was a Play Doh war going on.  Charles was shooting from behind the partially opened door. Chris was pelting Charles and shielding himself with a Checkers board.  There were little balls of Play Doh all over the room.  They were laughing hysterically.

Père Fouettard and Saint Nicolas

If a child is going to be hospitalized for an extended period of time, the month of December is probably ideal.  In Belgium they celebrate Saint Nicolas on December 6th.  Traditionally children put their shoes outside their bedroom door and in the morning they find chocolate, cookies, candy and dried fruit.   There’s also the Père Fouettard lurking around.  (“fouetter” means to whip in French)  Père Fouettard visits bad children and offers them chunks of coal. He might even whip them and take them off in his burlap bag. Luckily visits to children in hospitals are restricted to St. Nicolas.

Speculaas - Belgian Almond Cookies

It seemed like every day there were visitors in the halls:  a choral group who sang Christmas carols; some ladies who had knitted soft dolls for the children; puppeteers to entertain the kids; prayers from members of the clergy and lots of chocolate and candy.  This frivolity continued right through Christmas into New Year’s day.

Christopher was in the far bed next to the window.  Several children occupied the other bed, although it was often empty.  I particularly remember an 8 year old American boy with cystic fibrosis. He was hospitalized twice because he had difficulty breathing. Unfortunately he was too sick to interact much with Chris.  The second time he came in he had a bronchial infection and died the second night.  While Chris was asleep they removed the little fellow from the room.

Another roommate was a painfully thin Belgian girl of about 10 years.  She bore bruises and had a broken arm as I remember.  Her father was a big, brawny guy and her mother, a mouse.  The child was visited by several social workers.  Although they pulled a curtain between the beds, I could hear the conversation on the other side.  It was obvious that the social workers thought the little girl had been abused.  The story her parents told was that she had fallen against a radiator while playing.  The social workers tried to get the truth from the child.  They tried to trick her up and went at her from different angles.  But they couldn’t break her.  She stuck to the family line.  I remember the silvery, little voice, “Non, non ce n’était pas comme ça.”  “No, no, that’s not how it happened.” It broke my heart.