Mr. Men in French: Collection Bonhomme, Monsieur Curieux

One of the only—if not the only—bright sides to the disgusting sewer back-up flood in my parent’s basement was the discovery of yet more Mr. Men and Little Miss books by Roger Hargreaves of recent Google Doodle joy.

And guess what?! One of them is in French: Monsieur Curieux!

And from whence did this gem come to me? I will tell you.

When I was a kid, my family lived in Paris for a brief time whilst my mother did research at the National Archives for her dissertation. This left my Dad to entertain me all day. One of these entertainments was going to Burger King and figuring out how to ask for a paper crown in French. The success of this endeavor (near and dear to my five-year-old heart) coincided with a Kids Meal. As you can see from the image (Ce livre t’est offert par Burger King), this Hargreaves book was apparently the toy/gift included with the meal.

Love it.

As might be expected, Monsieur Curieux does rude and nosy things like read other people’s newspapers in the train.

Don’t you hate when people do that?

Don’t you hate yourself when you catch yourself doing that?

I was already familiar with the series (known in French as the Collection “Bonhomme”), and although I do not remember the moment this came into my life, I do remember forcing my mother to translate it for me over and over again before bedtime.

Good times.

As a bonus and related to a recent “Word of the Week” post, there is a Monsieur Grincheux located at the lower right-hand corner of the back cover! M. Grincheux is way more evocative than Mr. Grumpy.

Fantastic.

If You Like Gardening, Cooking and/or France…

I recently decided to start gardening. The last time I planted anything I was probably 11 or 12.

Why the change of heart? Well, I have a big yard to manipulate and I like to cook odd things.

Several years ago when I was living in Paris, my love of odd and French cuisine lead me to purchase a cookbook regarding the art of cooking with flowers. I happened upon the tome in one of those bookstore-warehouse places in the Marais where you feel as though you have entered into a completely different world where gravity and rational space are of little importance amongst the piles of books, rickety staircases and the nagging feeling that while you are not outdoors, the place doesn’t quite qualify as indoors.

As I recall I picked up this specimen at a store located somewhere around the end of the Rue des Rosiers where the Rue Pavée and Rue Mahler create a pair of impossible small ‘blocks’—even by Parisian standards. I would further suppose that the emporium might have been located a touch south near these streets, off of the Rue du Roi de Sicile. I think the entrance was on an oblique corner, but then again… I did a lot of wandering in the Marais and it was years ago.

I give good directions and good advice.

The cookbook is entitled La Cuisine aux fleurs, written by Véronique de Meyer, photography by Michel de Meyer and published in 2000 by Flammarion. Some of the necessary specimens are common garden blossoms, easily found while walking the dog in any part of the United States: marigolds, geraniums, pansies, sunflowers, roses, dianthus, etc.

Others are require a little more work: phlox, borage (sometimes also called starflowers), heather, fuchsias, Oriental poppies, and the flowers from various herbs and vegetables.

Either way—since stealing flowers from parks and neighbors is frowned up—you kind of need something of a garden—or at least a window box—to gain any benefit from the enchanting recipes of de Meyer. It literally took me five years to pull it together to try one of her recipes. I waited a long time to get my 6 Euros worth of joy.

So here I am, trying to stock myself with floral varieties conducive to faisant la cuisine français aux fleurs, in addition to a tomato, zucchini and colorful peppers.

Since I am a researcher and, therefore, prone to over-research even the seemingly simplest things, my journey involved looking into the French wildflower situation.

What a happy event, because I came upon a quite enjoyable website: L’Atelier Vert: Everything French Gardening. Some areas do not appear to have been updated recently, but still, since I discovered it yesterday afternoon, I am enjoying the browsing experience. Plus they have a shop, and online shopping is just so fun.

So at the end of the day, that website is the hot tip that this post is all about.

That, and if you are interested, the de Meyer cookbook is fantastically fun and delicious—if you can find it.

If not, I encourage you to acquire a like-inclined author and see what they have to say on the matter. People go crazy when you serve them flowers. It’s novel, yet oh-so-fancy. I am pondering investing in the much more luxuriously priced  La Cuisine des fleurs by Alice Caron-Lambert.

Or I might just start a Christmas list a little bit early this year and put it at the top.

Napoleon vs. Napoleons (Mille-feuille)

ladydianascakes.com

As a Napoleonic scholar (not kidding), it is fitting that I have always loved Napoleons, otherwise known as mille-feuille pastries. I remember being pre-school-aged, and begging for Napoleon’s at our local grocery store—in retrospect, a Kroger’s with a fairly impressive bakery department. I have not seen a tray of Napoleon’s in a supermarket bakery case in years.

I have never referred to a Napoleon as a mille-feuille (literally a thousand leaves), because let’s face it: Napoleon is a far more entertaining and evocative name for a cream-filled pastry.

But why?

A catered event I attended over the weekend finished off with trays of pastry deliciousness, including my long-lost favorite the Napoleon, the rekindling of my love prompted the question: Why Napoleon?

To the uninitiated, a Napoleon consists of sheets of pastry alternating with [generally] two layers of pastry cream custard. This neat architectonic block is then topped with a sheet of fondant that combed with chocolate or fruit swirl.  À la the image above.

Under the name Mille-feuille, the treat was first recorded (according to Wikipedia) in mid-seventeenth century France; in the eighteenth century, Marie-Antoine Carême considered it an ancient recipe.

Carême was an early chef of French haute cuisine who served members of the upper class and aristocracy between 1798 and his death in 1833 (by which point he was living in Germany). Famous employers include Talleyrand, the Viennese Court, the British Embassy, Czar Alexander I, the Prince Regent (George IV), Princess Bagration, Lord Steward, Baron de Rothschild and Napoleon himself.

But back to the Napoleon. Apparently there was an early French association between the mille-feuille and Naples, making it a napolitain pastry. The fortuitous connection to the emperor was made later, and tended to stick.

In the bible of French cooking, Larousse Gastronomique, the Napoléon as discussed is not mentioned, although a rather monumental and out of date Napolitain Cake is listed, with a passing note that while the cake itself is not often seen today, small biscuits known as fonds napolitains are still made, decorated with butter cream or jam (page 702). According to the description and subsequent recipe for a  full-blown Napolitain Cake, the Napoleon pastry under investigation resembles certain elements of the recipe, attributed to Carême (along with several other non-dessert à la napolitain dishes).

Larousse does have a separate listing for mille-feuille (page 667), where it states that the dessert is a late nineteenth-century creation. So that is confusing. Although a clear connection is not made, there is an implicit association with the entry on Napolitain Cake. The mille-feuille description is textbook (which is good, because Larousse pretty much is the textbook).

Similarly, in other countries the dessert is generally referred to as some form of “thousand leaves,” such as mille foglie in Italy. The French Napoléon version involves almond paste. The name is also used in Canada, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, Germany, Poland, Norway and Sweden. In a less Napoleon-friendly climate, such as the United Kingdom… well, the British stick to “vanilla” or “cream slice.”

Fair enough.

It appears well-established that the Napoleon is a misnomer for Napolitain, likely popularized by the coincidence of Napoleon Bonaparte’s rise to glory in the same period that Carême was popularizing dishes à la napolitain across Europe. At the same time, it is clear that Carême and his art were engineered to feed directly into the new luxury of the Napoleonic period after the Revolution. The architectonic design of his pastries connects to the solid architectonic Empire style established by the state during this period.

Bust of Napoleon Bonaparte located at Malmaison. Photo by author.

You see, it all comes together.

Napoleon generally did not concern himself much with the finer aspects of dining, much like sleep it just did not top the list of important daily ventures. Although if you want to hear long-winded remarks on his acknowledgment of pomp, presentation, art, architecture and social practices in the wielding of power and establishment of political legitimacy, and the role of Empress Josephine in the finessing of these design matters… you know where to find me.

April Fool’s A Fish

On April 1, 2005, a couple of months after attending my first friend wedding whilst still in college,  I received an email from the couple announcing a new arrival in their family.

!

Sigh of relief. It was only a dog.

A few years earlier, in high school, I participated in a school trip to France over spring break, including April 1st.

toonpool.com

That was the year I learned about the Poisson d’Avril (literally, the April Fish) and the fact that the French refer to a goldfish as a poisson rouge. Neither our instructor nor our tour guide had a clear answer as to what the French would call a fish that is actually red. Perhaps un poisson qui est rouge?

Ponder that.

manolobig.com

For reasons mired in speculation, the traditional French April Fools’ Day prank is to attach a paper fish (often—in my experience—either a poisson rouge or a poisson qui est rouge) to the back of your victim. When said victim discovers your knavery, you get to call him a poisson d’avril.

Silly fish.

Fish and fools go hand in hand in the French springtime.

parisbreakfasts.blogspot.com

Plus, after a day of pasting paper fish to people’s backs, the French indulge in fancy fish-themed pastries and chocolates.

Not too shabby.

P.S.
This is a prime example of what happens when you inform high school students about poisson d’avril right after they have been to a museum that gives out little red sticker badges upon entry.

Mind you, multiple stickers arranged however artistically on the subject’s back can only be done with his cooperative indulgence, as clearly this was quite the operation. I recommend a single fish if you are looking to actually fool someone.