Some people think Parisians are Parisian. Wrong. Parisians are New-Yorkers. As such, they love a good burger.

Burgers were once looked down upon in Paris: “On n’est pas des Americains, bordel”. Imperialism had its limits and the doors of a French restaurant were definitely one. Hamburgers was to food what Jerry Springer was to television or Paris Hilton to the woman. Something Parisians were not ready to cope with. Something America could keep to itself. But things have changed.

As Parisians started becoming New-Yorkers, what was uncool about America started no longer being despised but simply made fun of; while what was cool about America started no longer being ignored but instead being adopted.

A good burger is undoubtedly one of these cool things about America. Over the past decade, burgers started flourishing on the menu of many Paris bistrots and restaurants. A key criterion to place a Paris restaurant on the hipness scale is the number of dishes you could find at a New-York restaurant. Have a hamburger, a Caesar’s Salad and a BLT Sandwich on your menu and your restaurant will officially be hip.

Optimists would expect the French to make the burger even better. But optimists certainly do not hang out in Paris hip restaurants. Most burgers there are quite forgettable. The best part about a Paris hamburger is its price. It is virtually impossible to find a burger in Paris for less than 13 euros. Even gastronomic restaurants start offering a gastro-burger, usually with foie gras in it.

When ordering a burger, the Parisian needs to show how much of a New-Yorker he is, how comfortable he can be with the whole burger thing. So he shall rarely order “un hamburger”. Most likely, he will ask for “le burger” or, in the case of a cheeseburger for “le cheese”. The nickname “burgie” recently came up amongst younger Parisian men.

It is indeed absolute Paris fact that no Parisian woman has ever ordered a burger at a restaurant. Ever.

Lovers of timeless Paris can – after all – rest assured.

Useful tip: Burgers do not come with coleslaw in Paris – for good coleslaw, go to a traiteur.
Sound like a Parisian: « J’me ferais bien un ptit burgie… ».

O Chateau just got written up in Time Magazine. In an article called ‘Wine: Best Enjoyed Young’, our wine tastings caught Time Magazine’s attention for being “the most irreverent in Paris“. Read the article…

Mechanically he who is not happy is gifted, he whose brain does not agree with the world is intelligent. The more brutally unfitting the person is, the more gloriously superior his brain is. In this undeniable logic lays the utter privilege of the crazies: that of being looked up to by the Parisian.

The inability to handle the vicissitudes of life testifies to the Parisian eye of an acute perception of the incertitudes and difficulties that make up life. Knowing that life is about incertitudes and difficulties is pure intelligence to the Parisian. Therefore, if they were to choose between being an irremediably unhappy creative genius or a perfectly happy nobody, most Parisians would opt for the grandiose life of misery. If misery is the price to pay for intelligence, Parisians are happy to open wide their happiness wallet.

The glory points of the craziness package do not come distributed evenly. Some afflictions score higher points than others. Schizophrenia for instance inspires much less admiration than beautiful depression. When afflicting upper class people, some mental afflictions stemming or resulting in self-destruction become psychological pantheons. Such is alcoholism.

The affliction Parisians look up to the most is insomnia. Parisians all wish they could claim for their bed to be crossed by the unstoppable train of the unresting thought. Parisians admire insomniacs for whom they truly are: people devoured by the discomfort of thinking. Insomia is the most elegant claim of the active brain. All Parisians wished they could be the victims of their fully ruling brain. Slaves to a cerebral monarchy. The fact that being an insomniac is pure torture is irrelevant.

Longing to being something or someone in Paris by no means relates to these desires being pursued in reality. What Parisians cannot get enough of is poetic aspirations. As much as they love them, they are happy with quite prosaic a life.

The crazy in the end is a lovely thought. A crazy to the Parisian is the living evidence that being a tad more intelligent than him equals craziness and misery. Really, the Parisian got lucky. That intelligent. Yet not crazy.

That was close.

Useful tip: If you are in Paris and suffer from a mental affliction, just start wearing unusual clothes and call yourself an artist. Maybe that’s your path.
Sound like a Parisian: « Ouais, ça va, j’ai un peu de mal à dormir en ce moment, mais ça va…».

Guys,

Period of intense writing for me. Working on a lot of new material that will be exclusive to the book. Quite excited about it.

Not only do I have to write in English, I now also have to write in French. I’m very happy to announce that Stuff Parisians Like will soon be published in French. The publisher is 10/18 and the book should be available in November (and yes, it would make for a fantastic Xmas present ).

So I presently find myself in the pretty random situation of having to translate my own articles into my own language. It’s a very different exercize from creating them from scratch in English but all in all quite fun.

Anyway… met up with the publisher yesterday (who kindly told me the deadline for the manuscript was no longer July but… June – as in… argh… a month from now) and we need a title for that book in French. Title needs to be in French, light-hearted and probably with the word Paris or Parisien in it.

So my question to you is: any ideas?

Parisians love their baguettes. Tasty and phallic, baguettes are a landmark of Parisian food culture. But lately, a wind of change has been blowing on Parisian bakeries. A sweeping one.

Hurting the good old baguette. At their local bakery, Parisians now massively opt for “La Baguette Tradition” instead of the good old baguette. La Baguette Tradition is a new phenomenon that has taken over Parisian bakeries over the past ten years. It is made exclusively out of wheat flour, no additives are used. It is shorter, better and more pricy than the regular baguette.

The real bread-loving Parisian escalates the provocation to the regular baguette by asking for “une tradi s’il vous plait”. That’s right. A nickname. No plain baguette ever reached this level of intimacy with a Parisian. Ever.

Besides this obvious familiarity with his new beloved bread, the Parisian will know at what time of the day les tradis come out of the oven. That’s when he’ll go buy his. For bread is of course much better warm. And Parisians like better.

While most Parisian families usually opted for one baguette, they now go two tradi. For one –especially if warm – is going to be eaten on the way back home. Thus, this most daily Parisian act – buying bread- has lately turned into a little daily luxury: that of turning your back to la baguette to indulge in the irresistible tradi.

Such is the Parisian: constantly reinventing Tradition.

Useful tip: Bread is not a meal in France. Bread, even if good, should accompany your meal.
Sound like a Parisian: « Les tradi sont prêtes ? Non ? Oh, je vais attendre 5 minutes.»

Credits: Top left baguette image courtesy of (roboppy/flickr)

O Chateau just got written up in March 28th edition of the New York Times. The article called ‘Going Underground in a Private Paris’ was written by Seth Sherwood and featured in the Fashion & Style pages. Read the article…

If you can possibly wonder what Paris Hilton, slow service at a restaurant, how early people in the military retire and this one stupid girl standing right there have in common, you clearly are not a Parisian.

For the Parisian knows instinctively that what all these things have in common is that “c’est un scandale”.

Parisians are not dramatic people. Their daily display of measure and reason is seldom breached. Only rare frenetic dispossessions come trouble this calm torpor. Those sporadic episodes are usually fully explainable. Reason – always – even in dispossession.

The Parisian does not deal well with the unfair. No matter how old the Parisian gets, he never seems to come to terms with the idea that unfair is – actually – the norm of life. Mostly because the Parisian struggles with the idea that life differs from his life. His life being governed by reason, it seems illogic to him that life may not be. Illogic though is something the Parisian in his great modesty can deal with. Unfair on the other hand is a different story. Unfair, in the Parisian’s mind, is simply when illogic has become profitable.

More profitable that is. Thanks to his sharp reason sword, the Parisian is mostly on the privileged side of the great social circus. Glimpses at what his reading prism tells him is an illogically profitable situation leave the Parisian in pure torment. Unfair is punching the Parisian from the inside. The Parisian being no fighter, he shall not fight back.. But he shall whine. Grandiloquent whining of course. Politically flavored whining. Obviously always educated and superior whining.

Saying “c’est un scandale” is the Parisian’s systematic response to what seems unfair to him. Flouted order of things shall not remain unpunished. Some would argue this loyal tribute to reason in dealing with an issue diminished reason fostered could seem unreasonable. Not Parisians. Parisians reckon that outside of reason is a world of crooks and idiots. Saying “c’est un scandale” is just an unconscious way for Parisian to assert that this is not their world. No matter what, Parisians are more elegant than dogs.

Younger Parisians find themselves quite witty mockin older people’s alleged tendency to say “c’est un scandale” a lot. Older people’s cultural indignation faced with phenomena it has gotten socially gratifying to simply justify – if not enjoy – is indeed very funny. Not funny on the other end is younger Parisians’habit to genuinely find that the theme of an expo, the quality of a Spring roll, or the price of a movie ticket can be “un scandale”. Those are real scandals. And young Parisians are cultured and strong enough to stand tall against such evolutions.

The Parisian is convinced that saying “c’est un scandale” will immediately lead to solving the situation. As if his vision of fairness was the Deus ex-makina of social interactions. Needless to say this never happens. “C’est un scandale” in his utter inefficiency is an almost aesthetic tribute to the Parisian’s persisting and well bred soul, an outdated hommage to deposed reason. Reason being such a cardinal value in Paris, Parisian men use this line to prove their superior intellectual qualities to their female companions – a very Parisian vision of an alpha male. This line reminds Parisian women of endless Sunday lunches with their father and uncles – they find it annoyingly unsexy.

Instead of keeping a low profile, looking at a situation with humor or trying to be pragmatic about it, the Parisian always prefers to show intelligence and reason. Thinking that intelligence and reason at that point would be to keep a low profile, look at the situation with humor or be pragmatic about it is not a Parisian thing to think. Even when he whines like a little boy bullied by a bigger child, the Parisian sees himself as the epitome of triumphant reason – adulthood in its splendor.

So, really, unless you want to deal with outraged reason – and the crippling sound of S bombs being dropped – do not mess with the Parisian.

Useful tip: Scandale in French does not carry a sexual undertone. So feel free: be generous about your “c’est un scandale”s. .
Sound like a Parisian: «Attends: on a fait entrée, plat, plus une bouteille de vin. A deux, on en aeu pour 95 euros… 95 euros, sérieusement, c’est un scandale… Entrée plat putain!».

What is your job? Winemaker

Where is your domaine? In Perpignan

Why did you choose  to be involved with wine? It’s more that wine chose me; it has run in our viens for three generations with intact passion.

Describe your wines in one word. Strength and elegance.

Your best wine moment? There are too many! The latest (a week ago, in the restaurant le Grand Pré in Roaix) was a very admirable Cuvée des Célestins 1998 d’Henri Bonneau.

Your favorite dish? Here again, there are too many! Let’s say great ingredients cooked perfectly.

Your favorite film? One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Milos Formas, 1975

What does ‘terroir’ mean to you? A precious ally.

A quotation about wine? Amb pa i vi, es passa el cami: with wine and bread, one can go a long way.

What are you most proud of? To have contributed to the recognition of Roussillon wines.

Your dream? The next bottle I will open.

Your idea of happiness? My family, I love you.

An essential quality for you? Human will.

The most beautiful place on earth? A place where one feels good: it can as easily be an exotic place as a voyage around my own bedroom.

Your favorite swearword? The one that I never use: Chinese firecracker!

Your motto? It is not things are difficult that we do not do them, but rather that by not doing them they become difficult.

Any last words? The cellar is open to all; it is a site of sharing and of emotions. See you soon…

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