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Back to School Plein Style

When my sister and I were in junior high mom would give us each 200 dollars at the end of August to get school clothes, then she would let us loose at Capitol Mall in Olympia and we would scramble to buy what we could: Mr Rag’s sweatshirts, Normandy Rose Jeans and polo shirts before all the money ran out. I had a Déjà vu of that in Paris last week and I truly felt like a little school girl buying clothes for the rentrée.  I had to sign a paper at the American embassy, so I told my fearful husband, “I have to go to Paris for a couple of days and while I am there I can do some shopping.” He promptly took away my credit cards before I boarded the plane. Left with only my stash of Euro cash, the days of back to school shopping, budgeting for that special hip shirt and those designer jeans was on my mind except this time, I was plein (French slang for “knocked- up”) and it was stylish maternity wear that I was after.

Pushing out my belly a little extra at the Easyjet ticket counter secured priority boarding and good place on the plane and I was allowed my bottle of water, no questions asked.  It was that magical moment on this trip where people realized that I was pregnant not just fat from eating ten banana splits. They offered me their seats, Madame Pee Pee let me use the handicapped bathroom suite (amazing!), and other French pregnant women talked to me. They let me into their cult, even while I butchered their language. We looked at each others bumps in lieu of a secret handshake and compared maternity fashions in Galleries Lafayette. They told me I was mince and it was a boy for sure, because I was carrying all the load in front. It was a happy atmosphere full of félicitations to all, no pregnancy police anywhere to be found in France. No fear inducing stories of your life is over and will be pure hell, or childbirth is painful like having your skin peeled off your face, and no horrible dead baby stories like strangers in America always seem to want to tell pregnant women. Simply French women and their mothers (or ecstatic mother-in laws) happily congratulating you and discussing the latest fashions and food.

In fact, all the talk and shopping made me very hungry. I went across the street and devoured the most wonderful gigantic gelato ice cream cone at “Amorino” inside the Lafayette Maison-- they have ten locations all over town. For four euros you can have them fill a cone with as much as you can handle rich Italian gelato. As Italian fate would have it a bright orange Lamborghini drove up behind me as I was eating Italian style—al fresco on the sidewalk. He honked and smiled (Saudi plates and open shirt with gold chains); I turned and flashed him my belly. Men, when will they learn? No, I was not looking for a good time—my God, I am already knocked-up.

It was an ethnic food trip as well.  Only a few moments after I landed in Paris, I made a direct beeline to Al Diwan to have Lebanese food at their snack bar my old haunt.  The best chicken shawarma sandwiches with garlic sauce, tomatoes and pickles and hot peppers on the side. I ordered in Arabic (I only know about 40 words) and was met with smiles and good service. It is also a patisserie so I took some delightful treats to go since I am always starving-- salted treats: Lahmahjoon, a type of Armenian meat pizza only sold in Arabic bakeries.  My up-and-coming fashion designer friend, Natale met me there on the Champs (where Diwan is located, across from the Georges V hotel) and we began our shopping experience. I was on a mission to find cute "future maman" clothes as they call them here.  I only brought a backpack with me, but left with a suitcase (one that I had conveniently left at Natale’s house previously—oh, DH don’t underestimate me!) full of new clothes. And one item, I left at Natale's atelier where she is going to convert a cute pair of stylish brown cord jeans into maternity wear for me.

Early the next morning we stood in line at the US Embassy and I just barely rubbed my Buddha stomach and magically my dossier got called first and the waiting crowd didn’t mob me, but smiled and nodded. After, I signed my papers and we rewarded ourselves for surviving the  bureaucracy with giant pistachio macarons from Angelina's on rue de Rivoli across from the Louvre. Angelina's makes their macarons by hand not machine like La Durée (which I still love and anyone that comes to visit is welcome to bring a box of La Durée, hint hint) and they were incredibly tasty. The tea salon is art deco, a turn of the century building with painted ceilings and guided gold decorations. At Les Halles, I found a bounty of clothes for my growing ripe figure and was more than satisfied, I was ecstatic. H&M was the jackpot! My feet were painfully killing me from all this walking. I needed inspiration in the form of shiny copper ballet slippers which I bought and changed into on the metro to our next stop: the fabric district of Paris in the 18e called St Pierre that is nestled underneath Sacred Coeur.

For lunch,  I had a hankering for my favorite Ethiopian resto in Paris, Addis Abeba
(56, rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, metro: Pigalle), but they were closed for the holidays. So sad as injera bread was calling my name. “Oh why oh why can't you be open?”  I shouted as I rattled their security gates. Onto plan B: Rose's bakery  (46 rue des Martyrs, 01 42 82 12 80) just three streets down, in the 9e, a healthy organic place that sells English goodies as well. I have eaten here many times and love their fresh salads like beet and turnips, green beans and roast fennel, all with very exotic textures and flavors. I was so happy to sit as my feet were aching since we had criss-crossed the city several times that day and the day before—note to self, next time bring roller blades. I was pleased to be served homemade sour dough bread, rich fluffy and wonderful; its touch of sourness satiated my injera cravings sufficiently. For lunch, I enjoyed four different types of salad and their fabulous carrot cake for dessert. 

Dinner was my shining star, my raison d’être for coming back to my old neighbourhood of Paris, Lao Siam, (49 rue de Belleville, 19e) the most delicious part Siamese and part Laotian resto that I can only dream about now that I live in the remote southern countryside.  Each time, I try to order from both menus to get a touch of each country. We ate like little piglets (luckily we had hiked all the way there from downtown shopping all the way, so it was justified) and sampled five dishes: banana flower salad, pineapple and coconut shrimp salad, paté imperials, shrimp salad spring rolls, and chicken pad Thai. Lao Siam would have been delightful as usual except for a bunch of loud (very, very loud) Americans that showed up. Horrified, Natale and I slunk back in our chairs and tried to pretend that we were not speaking the same language. They were being so rude and disrupting everyone’s meals. I was mortified to think that perhaps these interlopers had heard about the restaurant from a review that I did about a year ago. “Please people, if you go to a restaurant that I recommend don’t act like a jackass,” I should have put at the end of the review.

We started our final morning off right with a visit to La Petite Rose for dessert first (a rich Costa Rica coffee mousse tart with biscuits and chocolate fondant) and Lap sang Sujong tea. We were waiting for the bizarrely named “Feel Food” Kosher bagel place across the street to open up for lunch and thought why not enjoy a rich Parisian pastry and some tea beforehand? I also bought a box of assorted macarons to take home to my mother in law to thank her for watching our annoying cat for the week. After dessert, we went over to the bagel place and had big fluffy kosher bagels with cream cheese and avocados, Natale had a sesame seed bagel with lox and cream cheese. It came with pickles and a basket of chips and was good, but lackluster compared to a Baltimore Bagel--although a nice way to fill up before heading off to the airport. Natale took me as far as Gare de Nord and I sighed heavily as I boarded the RER and said good-bye to my friend, good eats and excellent shopping and my old city. Until next time, I have to sign some dumb paper at the Embassy and have another great excuse to run up to Paris.