Le Franco Phoney

Le Bélier (the name of a local goat-like sheep whose head forms the logo for La Clusaz) is a 27km course around the five peaks of La Clusaz (click here for the map if you want to see the route), which was held today. Participants can run or walk, and the goodies on offer on the way around differ for both. Walkers are offered local sausages and Reblochon cheese while the ’serious’ runners get water and energy drinks. Walkers can choose to do just half the course (called “L’Agneau”, which means “lamb”), and many of my brave friends did one or the other today (well done to Dave, Alex, James, Paul, Jess, Richard, Samantha, Janelle, Steve, Max, Josh, Elliot and anyone else I’ve missed), with wobbly legs, a torn muscle and bloody toes just some of the outcomes from their efforts. Their reward, apart from the achievement itself, is a free massage and a meal involving more local sausage and some chocolate on bread, amongst other things.

I watched those doing the full Bélier course cross the finish line, and noticed this man who had an innovative take on the cow bell that’s so often heard at ski races in Europe and around the world. He’s stuck a cow bell on an old ski. If you’ve ever held a cow bell, you know how heavy cow bells are. Jingling them takes a fair amount of effort — and space. Carrying them to an event is dedication in itself! This man has all the answers: he can sling the ski over his shoulder while walking to his destination, then let the ski take the weight of the bell and simply wobble the ski to make the bell jingle. Congratulations again to everyone who took part in Le Bélier/L’Agneau today, but most of all, congratulations to this guy for coming up with such a great idea.

My recent trip to the north of France highlighted a law which I never knew about. According to some sources, it’s illegal to feed pigeons in Paris. I’m not convinced this is a specific law — and I continued to feed a single pigeon beside me with churros from a nearby fair while the guy sitting next to me explained that the law was passed for health reasons and that although he had no objections, the police might fine me. Just as an aside, he then chatted for about twenty minutes about his background and asked about mine and my travel partner’s, then handed me a bracelet as a gift. I’m pretty skeptical of people being this genuine, but he really was happy that I accepted his gift and explained that in his culture, it’s offensive to refuse a gift.

I’ve done a bit of a web search (because if it’s not on the internet, it doesn’t exist, right?) and I’ve found differing views about this pigeon feeding ban. One website says there’s a €35 fine, while another website quotes one section of a law which is a bit hazy about the whole thing, but does suggest it might be illegal. Local councils apparently have some say in the matter, but an outright ban on pigeon feeding in Paris is something I could not locate. It may well exist: my French language skills simply are not up to the task of inquiring wholeheartedly into this, and nor is my motivation since I don’t live in Paris. However, for anyone planning a trip to Paris, it might be illegal to feed the pigeons, and that’s as helpful as I can be on the matter. On a far more helpful note, don’t waste your money on the dodgy churros at the fair at the Louvre end of the big park between the Louvre and the Champs-Elysées — you’re likely to reject their dryness and feed them to the pigeons instead.

Us Aussies are pretty good at making biscuits, and that’s why Tim Tams have appeared as the only Australian product on the shelves of the supermarket chain Carrefour in Annecy.

These biscuits, similar to the UK’s Penguin biscuit (but nicer — I might be biased of course), are hauled all over the world by travelling Aussies and after years of only being available in shops selling Australian goodies (mostly to Australians desperate for a fix of something from home), Tim Tams made it onto the shelves of Tesco supermarkets in the UK about five years ago. I took them for granted: they were always available and I bought them only when I had a real hankering.

That all changed when I moved to France. The “foreign foods” aisle of the supermarket has various things from the UK — Heinz Baked Beans, treacle, tomato soup(!), and this really posh (ie, tiny cardboard container and very costly) oatmeal stuff that I never actually saw on the shelves anywhere in the UK — but there’s never anything from Australia — until now, that is. Wedged between random honey from the Middle East and biscuits from Italy (oh come on: Italy is only an hour away!) lies the Tim Tams in all their glory. Just to reiterate, I have never seen any Australian product on the shelves of a French supermarket. I heard rumours that vegemite is available closer to big cities, but I’ve never seen that. The Tim Tam presence is a total win in my books.

Upon arrival in the aisle containting these treats, I embarrassed my shopping partner by letting out a shriek, followed by “TIM TAMS” in an overly loud voice. The five shoppers in the aisle all turned and stared at me, my shopping partner disowned me, and I ran to the Tim Tams and picked up two packets for the trolley. The five shoppers shrugged at the weird English girl rejoicing about her English biscuits and moved on.

Since that day, I’ve been checking that the Tim Tams are still there (and they are). Just in case, I’ve been buying a few packets every few weeks — obviously to keep the Australian export market bolstered rather than for any personal enjoyment. Obviously.

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.

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.

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.

Below is a photo of a typical communal oven in France. A communal oven? What? Back in medieval times, these ovens, known in French as a “four banal” were used in many areas of the Alps as a way for villagers to cook bread. That sounds nice, doesn’t it. However, such privileges came at a cost: those wanting to use the oven would have to pay the village lord a fee, and according to some sources, home ovens were often outlawed so that villagers had no choice but to use the community oven. I can’t imagine living in such a rugged place during the drafty medieval days, let alone living without the heat of an oven. What a great monopoly for the village lord.

The oven pictured here, taken last week on a snowy day in Les Allues, just down the road from Méribel, and one of many communal ovens in the valley, is no longer the only oven in town. The locals tell me that the community oven is still used sometimes, but only for special occasions such as town fêtes. Looking at it closely, you can see the darkened wood and bricks from previous baking sessions.I guess the wood has been replaced more than once over the years, and probably some of the bricks too, but when I lived in Les Allues many years ago, walking past the big old oven always led me to imagine the villagers’ way of life and what a relief it must have been to have this great big warm room to sit in, waiting for their bread to cook. The oven sits in the centre of the village, which, although modernised to a certain extent, still bears the charm of an old French farming village despite its proximity to the pistes. The village has found a balance between the medieval charm of its buildings and the twin-tip skis and inverted camber snowboards that are now as prevalent in town as personal ovens. Les Allues have certainly seen some changes, but its communal oven remains, thankfully.

St Jean de Sixt is quite a small village. It has a fruit & veg shop, a convenience store (called “8 to 8″, but actually, it’s more like 9.30 to 7 with at least a two hour closure for lunch, closed on public holidays and possibly Sundays and sometimes just if it’s quiet, and perhaps it should be renamed an inconvenience store), a tourist office, TWO ski shops and two bakeries. It’s the village nested between the ski resorts of La Clusaz and Le Grand Bornand, although perhaps some would argue that it’s a ski resort itself, as it boasts a few drag lifts and has its own ski lift company.

Regardless, St Jean de Sixt is not a big town. Yesterday, I decided to try out the free bus service (free to resident card holders or people with a season lift pass for Les Aravis—La Clusaz and Le Grand Bornand). The bus was on time in both directions and the connection to La Balme once I was in La Clusaz was conveniently timely. After a day on the slopes, the bus dropped me off once more in St Jean de Sixt. Within metres of the bus stop, a kebab van had appeared. It was open, although its number plate and signs suggested the van was normally stationed down by the southern coast of France. Still, I was impressed that I’m living in a place big enough to have a kebab shop, even if it’s just for the winter. As I walked home, I noticed that the van driver had plugged in an electrical cable. It trailed about ten metres from the van, around a corner, along a car park and finally, wedged under a closed door of the public toilets. I wondered if anyone had opened the door, pulled out the cord and watched the man in the van saying: “Bah, qu’est-ce que…putain” and shaking his fist, then chuckling as the plug-puller plugged the cable back in. I honestly can’t imagine anything more sinister.

Today, I was in a car with a friend who also lives in St Jean. I told him about the kebab van and he was very excited. After our afternoon on the slopes, he decided he deserved a kebab for his dinner. We drove down to where the van had been but it was gone. GONE.  I think I ruined my friend’s day, with the excitement, then disappointment of the fallacy of a kebab shop much closer than ever before to his home. He wants it to come back. Will it be back? Or did too many people pull the cable from the power socket in the public toilets for it to make him smile anymore? If you’re out there, kebab man, please come back.

In France, the 6th of January, Epiphany, is celebrated with a sweet treat. La galette des Rois (wafer of the kings) is a puff pastry pie-like thing with a layer of almond paste, known as frangipane, sandwiched between the pastry. It’s a special cake because it contains a porcelain figurine (now usually something plastic), which entitles the finder to be king of the household for the day.

Some history of the cake can be found here, but I’d prefer to talk about the here and now. Pictured is my very own wafer of the kings, which I bought at the local bakery yesterday. As you can see, it’s more like a pie than a wafer, and you get more than just a baked good when you buy this beast. Apart from the hidden figurine, the cake also comes with a cardboard crown for whoever finds the figurine to wear for the day. It also comes in this cool paper bag which allows the pie to be lightly heated in a microwave without losing its crispness.

My bag contained logos from the Savoyarde region. You can see there’s the Savoie coat of arms in the centre, a skier on the left, a local flower, a chalet (hidden by the galette), a bottle of booze with the same coat of arms, and just out of the the shot is a kid with a ladder because the Savoyardes used to be very poor and they would send their kids away to work as chimney sweeps in big cities. I don’t know why the yellow thing at the top has elephants sticking out of it. This must be a Savoyarde memento I’ve yet to familiarise myself with.

The great thing about this pie is that you don’t have to carry it flat. It’s so dense, it’s like a giant biscuit, and I guess that’s why the bag works so well. I carried this one to a friend’s place last night and we cut it up and ate all but two pieces. The hidden figurine is still hidden (hopefully). Maybe it’s an elephant sticking out of a yellow thing. Can anyone tell me what that’s about? None of the French people here seem to know.

First of all, I’m very sorry about this image, but it wasn’t fair that my eyes should suffer it alone, and my blog has been a bit barren of images of late, so I’m sharing it. Once again, I have French junk mail to thank for finding me a topic for my blog.

What we have here is a whole rabbit, skinned, and apparently ready for cooking and eating, with pleasant garnish. But I can’t help but see a human backside on this bunny. My overactive imagination has been aided by the hidden head and lack of paws, which would have made this meat more identifiable as a dead rabbit instead of something resembling a human. Is it just me or is this actually quite gross?