Le Franco Phoney

Tête de veau means “head of calf” in English. So, why would there be a sign offering tête de veau and vegetables in Annecy recently? Because people eat whole heads of calves here in France, as well as in Italy and Germany.

And at just €6, you can see why it’s popular! Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t eat it if someone paid me. However, a couple of stories spring to mind. Back in the year 2000, when I had only just left Australia and had been talked into a quick bus tour of Europe, one of the fellow tour-goers ordered tête de veau when we stopped in Lyon, the culinary capital of France, for dinner. He had no idea what it was, but decided, since we were at this posh restaurant after days of eating boring tour-group food at pre-arranged locations, that anything on the menu must be good and that he would enjoy whatever came out. How bad could it be? The head went back uneaten, and the guy felt too ill (and guilty for contributing to the market of calf-head cooking) that he abstained from food for the rest of the night.

Recipes tend to involve the tongue wrapped around the head (minus the bone by the looks of it, but don’t quote me: I became too queasy just reading about it and had to stop), along with some boiled potatoes, capers and a vinaigrette. Brains are often served beside the meat.

Now, apart from the whole culinary delight thing, tête de veau is also an insult aimed at Parisians. The saying goes (spelling unknown, but it all rhymes with “go”): “Parigot, tête de veau”, so it’s really just a rhyme used by non-Parisians to make it clear they think that Parisians have calves heads. It’s a bonafide insult, albiet light-hearted most of the time. The only reason I found out about this was after a weekend ski contest in Le Grand Bornand for kids from villages nearby. Apparently, Manigod (pronounced “manny go”) did very well, much to the disappointment of the kids from other villages, who started chanting: “Manigod, tête de veau”. Parents were shocked and embarrassed and word got out — all the way down to the Australian (me) who doesn’t even know any truly local kids. Apparently, kids saying it to other kids is less light-hearted!

So, did I buy a tête de veau? No way! I’ll leave that up to the locals.

After challenging everyone to visit attractions close to home, I drove for two hours to Lyon last weekend and visited la Demeure du Chaos (the Abode of Chaos) with a friend who lives nearby (do I get half a point since it’s near her house?). Imagine the setting: a beautiful village with very posh houses and residents, then smack bang in the centre, some guy with enough money (Thierry Ehrmann) buys a large house with lots of land around it and turns it into a doomsday museum. Residents from the picturesque village of Saint-Romain-au-Mont-d’Or aren’t happy about the museum and have been pushing to have it destroyed. I’m not sure how I’d feel if I lived next door to it, but reading the quotes on the walls and looking at the artwork of varying detail but all with strong passion made me think a lot about what’s happening in the world. The museum is open from 3pm on weekends, but we got there at midday and were too pressed for time to stay until opening, although we could have spent three hours taking in everything viewable from the outside. Below are just a few photos from the huge property (my first gallery of images in a while). If you want to check it out for yourself, go to 17 rue de la République, Saint-Romain-au-Mont-d’Or, which is just north of Lyon centre.

I recently saw a blog entry entitled: “Travel Inspirations: Looking Further Than Your Own Backyard” and it got me thinking about how I explore. I’ve travelled a bit, and lived in three different countries, crossing the equator to do so. Is it because I’m Australian and we tend to value exploring the world? Is it because I’ve achieved a financial independence that my foremothers were always denied by the ones who were supposed to love them most? Is it because as a society, we never seem to be happy with what we’ve got, and look further afield for satisfaction? For whatever reasons, I tend to look way beyond my backyard for travel inspiration. And I think that’s a problem. Let me explain why.

Everywhere I’ve lived has gems that I’ve never discovered. When people discover I’m from Melbourne, they mention the Twelve Apostles or The Grampians, or broader Australian attractions such as the Great Barrier Reef and Uluru (aka Ayers Rock). Have I travelled to any of these places? Nope. And now that I’ve spent more than three years in France, I’m doing it again. When I first arrived, I was so excited to learn of a cheese maker in Thônes who does tours, the farm across the road from my place in La Clusaz where you can feed the cows in winter when they’re bored in their sheds, and the farm just up the road that sells fresh eggs and butter which I thought I’d visit regularly for such treats. There are cheese caves in Le Grand Bornand where visits can be arranged! Have I done any of these things? Nope. Okay, I’ve discovered all sorts of other great things around this area, but why do I look beyond my own backyard when there’s still so much more to explore on my doorstep?

This week, I asked my friends if they do the same. One has been in a cheese cave at Le Grand Bornand, but it was to do with work. Nobody had been on the cheese making tour, and one friend had fed the cows right opposite my old place in La Clusaz when she was with some children. I trumped them all with my multiple visits to the goat farm, with extra points for regularly buying cheese from it. But still, we’re all a bit hopeless.

So, my challenge to myself and to you is to explore more of the local treats in your area and see just what’s there to discover and enjoy. Time starts now.

How do you say “I’m sorry for your loss” in French when someone dies? Apparently, with a six-pack of greeting cards. Yes, in France, you can buy packets of “Sincere Condolences” cards, which I guess is handy if a lot of your friends drop off in fast succession, or if you don’t have a chance to get to a card shop when someone has popped their clogs (quite possible, considering shop opening hours in France).

At first, I was shocked that anyone would consider buying a six-pack of cards for death, but then I wondered what the difference is between this and buying a packet of Christmas cards. Choosing a card that you can send to at least six of your friends doesn’t exactly say “this is personal and sincere”, but I think the difference is that Christmas happens once a year, so you can be a bit more blasé about it. Death is pretty much a one-off (unless you’re Slash or pretty much any other member of the old Guns’n'Roses who dabbled in drugs a little too much before being resuscitated), and I’d feel embarrassed if the only card I could find to send to a mourning family was one from a six-pack. Also, just saying “six-pack” reminds me of Australian beer. Although my brother would probably appreciate the sentiment, I’m sure he’d just prefer the beer.

Pictured is a Krispy Kreme custard-filled, chocolate hand-dipped donut (halo by me). How on earth does this relate to living in the French Alps? It doesn’t really. I just wanted to find an excuse to talk about these delicious donuts. See, there are lots of foods that I miss here in the Alps. Vegetarian supplies aren’t in much demand, so during my visit to England last week, I stocked up on Beanfeast vegie spag bol, Quorn vegie products and Haloumi cheese (which isn’t just for vegetarians, obviously, but very hard to find anywhere in the Alps). As I waited to board my flight with my bags full of English goodies, I kept my little bag with my single Krispy Kreme donut close to me, careful not to squash it. Then I saw a lady with an entire box of Krispy Kreme donuts. Then another lady. Then a teenage girl. Presuming their boxes were filled with the typical dozen, that’s 36 donuts on my flight, not including mine.

Once seated on the plane, the stewardess saw my bag and quizzed me about whether these donuts really are as good as everyone says. “Of course!” I said, “They’re fantastic.” She explained that she has resisted sampling them because she doesn’t want to start a new addiction. We chatted and joked about a donut for a few minutes — the longest I’ve ever spent talking to any airline staff apart from the check-in man who made me take some of my British food goodies out of my overweight suitcase despite my friendly pleas that I was only carrying minimal hand luggage — which was a few minutes later brimming with 1.5kg of food that had been in my suitcase. Maybe I should have arrived at the check-in desk with a Krispy Kreme donut to sway him.

When the stewardess got on with her pre-flight duties, the man sitting next to me carried on. “You shouldn’t have mentioned the Krispy Kreme donut,” he said, “because if you fall asleep, it won’t be there when you wake up.” As the conversation continued, I learnt that my donut, just like the one pictured here, was not his favourite. He wanted a simple sugared donut with raspberry filling. He said my donut was safe: chocolate icing is all wrong even on a Krispy Kreme, and anything but jam filling is just as bad.

As soon as our donut discussion came to an end, he turned his head to look out the window, and eventually buried his head in a newspaper. My donut managed to soften this otherwise silent seat neighbour!

So, I was wondering what would happen if Krispy Kremes came to France. Would we all finally discover a language that we all understand? Would Savoyardes, other French and non-French people all just be friends? And would the shop owner keep a few of the favourites hidden so that there’d be some for the regulars coming in later on? Would they be pronounced “Krispy Krem” by the French, causing massive confusion for locals serving the tourists (“what is zis ‘crispic ream‘ thing zey are talking about?”). Perhaps I could open a shop on the St Jean de Sixt roundabout that no longer has a hut on in. Imagine the new friendships! Imagine the donut love! Imagine the chaos of the queues. Maybe, then, the roundabout mannequins wouldn’t seem like such a health and safety risk.

The title of this post might conjure up images of the usual roundabout shock in France — someone actually using an indicator at some point. However, my roundabout shock a few days ago didn’t relate to cars at roundabouts at all. The St Jean de Sixt roundabout has changed. It’s become boring. Can you spot what’s missing? Here’s an ‘after’ shot:

Can you see what’s gone? The hut has vanished. I walked past the other day and noticed a man on the roundabout next to some planks of wood that were once the hut. It’s a shock but not just because the hut has gone. The reasons behind it are rather more depressing. But first, let’s reminisce.

Now here is a photo of the roundabout last summer when we had some historical French figures in traditional attire gracing the roundabout. Some garden fence had been placed at the front to make it that extra bit more homely. Without the hut, what use would these mannequins have been, just hanging around on a roundabout? The hut made it.

And just last month, we had the ski instructors in various shapes and forms to celebrate the massive meeting of French Ski School ski instructors. The roundabout was literally the talk of the town…well, amongst my friends anyway. What’s not to love about a white plastic ski slope and some ski instructors complete with goggles and hats and everything else gracing the roundabout?

So, this is all hearsay, but I’ve heard that the hut was removed because the man who puts the mannequins up is no longer allowed to. Apparently, it’s against health and safety for him to continue, so he’s been told he can no longer do this. I guess there’s no point in having the hut without the figures, or perhaps there are new plans ahead for the roundabout. What I find sad is that in a country where health and safety is sometimes alarmingly amiss (who needs a fire staircase on a wooden chalet?), it’s struck at surely the dumbest area possible. Okay, the guy could get run over or cause an accident if he drops one of his mannequins while he’s crossing to the roundabout, but it seems to me that far riskier health and safety issues remain unaddressed. I’m sure it’s for everyone’s good, but I can’t help wondering how less joyful my days will be without the surprise of what the roundabout holds from week to week. RIP St Jean de Sixt roundabout goodness. I miss you already.

Wandering through Le Grand Bornand the other day, I came across this art installation (click on the image for a bigger version) by Miguel Chevalier. The image shows just half the room of digital snowflakes, projected on three walls of a darkened room, and apparently interactive. Interactive? Yes, well, apparently. The information plaque says that the more movement and people there are in the room, the more active and numerous the snowflakes. A friend and I tested the activity scale by running in circles and waving our arms around in a darkened room (much to the surprise of others in the room). We had some success in making a snowflake twirl in reverse and much faster than previously, but that’s all we could muster.

We sat for some time prior to that, watching all sorts of snowflakes form, drift, enlarge, blur and disappear. This is enjoyable art!

Little did I know, it’s actually just one of many other art installations around the Aravis region that I’ve noticed but haven’t paid much attention to — and they’re here until August. I hadn’t realised that the ice rink in La Clusaz, which now has various colours painted under the ice, is one of those installations. Nor did I realise, way back at Christmas time when I drove along the valley opposite Dingy St Clair, that the giant red bulbs hanging hundreds of metres down an invisible-at-night rock face were more than just a Christmas decoration. They looked like lights dangling from the ski they were so high up, and so seemingly unattached to anything but the darkness. I haven’t seen it up there since and I presumed the police had arranged its removal because it was dangerous for drivers, who might divert their attention from the road to the strange red lights dangling from the heavens!

So, here in St Jean de Sixt, what do we have? Artisinal artwork, according to the Aravis art installation website. I’ve yet to see any of it, but apparently, the local baker has made a tree out of baked pastry goods.