A Tale of Three Cities

AT GRACE CATHEDRAL: AMAZING GRACE

2009-12-22T17:21:00.000-08:00

This past Sunday, the San Francisco Chapter of The Royal British Legion staged its 31st Annual Service of Remembrance at Grace Cathedral. Based on the Festival of Remembrance held each year in the Royal Albert Hall in London, it is a tribute to the men and women of every nation who gave their lives in defense of freedom and justice. This year, it also paid homage to those currently serving in the armed forces.

What a time to leave home without my camera. Memorial services are not usually photo-ops, but I regretted not having a camera as soon as I took my first step on the climb to the majestic doors of the cathedral. There, on the top landing, was a state and city honor guard on horseback, carrying flags of the U. S. and California. Red-sashed, bereted members of the Legion, proudly wearing the medals they had earned in service, ushered us to our seats.

The stirring service of music and prayer began with trumpet fanfares announcing the processions of kilted Legion members, church officials in ceremonial robes, and the uniformed services of the U.S. The ceremony was in all ways a British/American celebration. We sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “God Save the Queen,” The Wreath of the Unknown Warrior, borne by honor guards of both countries, was placed on the altar.

A representative of Queen Elizabeth II told us that Britain makes and sells millions of paper poppies each year in support of the armed services.They were sold at this service, too; the pews were filled with poppies pinned to jackets. The Archdeacon of the Diocese of California told us that each year our Governor and Mayor receive written invitations to the service, and every year to date they have declined. In true feisty spirit, he announced that they would be invited again next year. The homily offered sobering thoughts on wars, past and present, and was especially meaningful in light of the tragedy at Fort Hood.

The service closed with a wrenching rendition of “Amazing Grace” played by bagpipers in full-dress uniform. As we sang along, poppy-red confetti drifted down from the apse, a melancholy symbol of those who “gave their tomorrow for our today.” It was a goose bump moment. But every minute of this service was riveting: The music, the pageantry, the speakers, and just being in the presence of white-haired veterans who have served nobly in the past and today’s young men and women who will carry on in our behalf.

Why do I write now about this past event? Because it happens every year. Look for the 32nd Annual Service of Remembrance at Grace Cathedral next November. The cost of freedom is high; it’s a privilege to honor those who pay it.

PARIS: NINE YEARS LATER

2009-10-22T18:44:00.000-07:00

The year 2001 was not a good year for Americans. It was a double whammy for me. Just weeks before the terrorist attack, I was diagnosed with a serious illness. The recovery from both would be slow and painful.
Adding to that pain, I had to cancel that year’s “Paris Fix.” It would be nine years before I saw the city I treasured again. During that time, I moved from New York to San Francisco. I think San Francisco is part of the reason I stayed away from Paris so long. I now lived in the American Paris and could enjoy the wonders of these sister cities without enduring a 13-hour flight.

But this year I needed to see the real thing once more. For me, the anticipation of a trip has always been part of its excitement. For weeks before takeoff, I was psyched about my return. But on the taxi ride from the airport to the hotel, I started noticing changes from the Paris I was expecting. The ride seemed longer, the traffic more gridlocked, and the outlying neighborhoods less pleasant than I remembered. That was the beginning of the then-and-now comparisons that shadowed the early days of the visit.

Paris itself seemed noisier, certainly more crowded than I remembered, and everything appeared to move faster (maybe because I now move slower). The lines at the museums, always long, were now prohibitive. Restaurant reservations were a must, no sign of recession here. My husband and I couldn’t risk something we’d always loved doing—starting out with no plans and eating when we got hungry, wherever that might be, delighting in our own discoveries, on nobody’s list of “Bests.” Maybe the hardest-to-take change was the euro, so inflated compared to our dollar. Though the euro is easier to use, I found myself yearning to do the math the defunct franc required.

Then something amazing happened: two days into the trip, none of this mattered. I was my starry-eyed Francophile self again, thrilled to be in the city I had loved at first sight many years ago.The drizzly weather failed to dampen my spirits. With a lilt in my voice, I “Bonjour”ed everyone who crossed my path. I stopped asking, “Combien?” before buying something, and knew all was well when I no longer mentally converted euros to dollars (gasping!) and just paid up with a smile.

When I look back at the disappointment I felt at first landing, I have to admit it was largely because it wasn’t only Paris that had changed; I had changed, too. Nine years ago, my life was very different. I brought a new me to Europe this year, and though I had not returned to the Paris I left, I could rejoice in the Paris I found by accepting that change happens. Neither time, nor Paris, stands still.

To contradict myself , there are places in Paris where time does stand still–its enchanting parks. To sit in the Luxembourg Gardens or the Tuileries today is no different from sitting there nine years ago. They are not only bucolic wonderlands, but restorative necessities for stressed-out tourists and locals alike.

Exiting the Louvre one day, we found that what had begun as a drizzly morning had turned into dazzling sunshine, immediately making everything look better. Even in Paris, a gray day is a gray day. We cut through the hordes of visitors rushing into the museum and made our way to the nearby Tuileries, where we claimed two of those familiar green iron chairs around the pool. This time, we didn’t feel the pressure to move on to other sights. We were content just to sit in the sun and watch the ducks circle the fountain, paired off in couples, like us.

Cafe Comfort

2009-04-14T15:02:00.000-07:00

I am an unabashed Francophile. Even during our national temper tantrum that put "freedom fries" on the menu, my fries were always French. One of the things I love most about living in San Francisco is its similarities to Paris, nowhere more so than in the cafe culture of both. Though separated by an ocean and a continent, San Francisco and Paris are cut from the same cafe cloth.

There are many other similarities between the two, they're not called sister cities just for the way coffee is consumed. They are both architecturally beautiful, and philosophically inclusive. They each have a history and traditions that they fiercely protect. Their focus is not on change -- they like who they are and what they have and will march (SF) and strike (Paris) to the death to preserve it.

In San Francisco, as in Paris, there are cafes on every street. North Beach is one big sidewalk cafe; one has to walk single file to traverse the area, and then share even that narrow space with dogs leashed to parking meters. Which reminds me of another sister city similarity: both adore their dogs, who are walked, carried, and driven everywhere their owners go. Parisian pets, however, are not parked outside cafes, they are invited in. A bowl of water is often placed under Madame's table for her guest. And one dog per Parisian seems to be enough. San Franciscans, like most Americans, need more than enough of a good thing and are often seen hanging on to two or three leashes.

Even with so many cafes to choose from, when the need for a cup and companionship arises, our instincts often lead us to the same place, our place. We may even have a favorite table at that place, and a coffee choice that, in Paris, immediately becomes identified with us and is served by a savvy waiter as soon as we're seated. This is what I call cafe comfort. You can't buy it, you're just happy -- and lucky -- to be living it.

American cafes are size-obsessed and one has to learn an esoteric vocabulary to assure getting the desired amount of coffee. Just ordering "small," for example, doesn't do it. In Paris cafes, size is not a factor. There is no "large," and no cup runneth over. They are tiny and never filled to the brim. Parisians don't drink coffee out of soup bowls that require two hands to lift. If eavesdropping in public places is your thing, you'll find much to cherish here. I sat alone at a cafe on rue de Rivoli one day, tuned-in in the conversations around me. A man at a nearby table summoned his waiter and ordered a refill. I knew he was American when he said, "This time, fill the cup."

Both San Franciscans and Parisians love to linger at their cafes, but they linger differently. In Paris, one sips and observes the passing scene. In any direction one looks, there is something to soothe the soul: the spire on a historic cathedral, the mesmerizing bateau traffic on the Seine, the smartly turned-out Parisian women. Even just staring serenely into space is a respected activity.

While Americans linger at their cafes, they haven't yet learned the European art of relaxing. No sooner are they seated, when out comes the laptop or the yellow pad. I've come to the conclusion that, in San Francisco, the great American pastime is writing the Great American Novel. If cafe patrons aren't writing, they're reading, or knitting, or conducting business on their cell phones.

The unique similarity is, in both places, waiters don't intrude -- not on the serenity of Parisians, nor on the busy-ness of San Franciscans. Recently, I was at a cafe in North Beach during the peak lunchtime crush. Every table was occupied; there was a line waiting to be seated. When four people vacated the two tables next to mine, two men quickly claimed both. They set up a chess board on one, coffee mugs on the other, and settled in for a long, intense game. Being from New York, I expected a waiter to appear, "ask" them to free up one table, fold up their game board, drink up, and move out. It never happened. It's quite possible those two men are still at those two tables. Chess, after all, is a game that can't be rushed.

The unflappable laissez-faire attitude of the French, I'm happy to report, is alive and well in San Francisco.

The Decision

2009-03-29T14:30:00.000-07:00

After raising two children and two poodles and completing our careers in the East, my husband and I followed the sun -- and our son -- to the West. We had been visiting Bob in San Francisco for more than fifteen years. For my husband, Phil, it was love at first sight of the city. "I'd sell belt buckles on street corners if I could live here," he often said. But being creative director at a Manhattan advertising agency paid a bit better, so he put his dream on hold.

Living in San Francisco was never in my plans for the future. My feet were firmly planted in New York, where I was nurtured by a large family and friends of many years who were as close as family.

So, what was the impetus that convinced me to leave a comfortable, safe environment that was forty years in the making and start over in a city a continent away where we knew just the four people in Bob's family? Initially, it was the weather. We had been through a couple of winters of relentless snow, blizzards, and single-digit temperatures. After a brief respite during spring, which is lovely in NY, but passes through so quickly that if you sleep late, you'll miss it, we were enveloped in long, oppressive summers, with the heat and humidity becoming less tolerable as we aged.

The jewel in the crown of NY weather is fall, with its kind, feel-good temperatures and a gentle breeze at your back. The breathtaking beauty of its early days, with foliage that turns from green to gold, to pink-tinged orange and deep scarlet, is followed by heavier winds that send crisp, curling leaves raining down to blanket the lawn and crackle underfoot. These sights and sounds were so dear to me, I often put off the raking until the last minute before the first snowfall. I will miss forever the wonder of fall in New York.

I digress. But I don't want to leave the impression that New York weather has no redeeming factors.

Back to the reason for our move to CA. As I said, the decision was made at the end of yet another year when we were snowed-in most of the winter, and homebound most of the summer, leaving our air-conditioned house only to make bread and milk runs. It was in this vulnerable state that I accepted Bob's offer of a week in an apartment in the heart of downtown San Francisco. I was born and raised in a city, followed by many years in a sleepy suburb, where we raised our children. I liked the idea of trying city life again, if only for a week. This would be a trial run. We all understood that.

Bob found us a condo a block away from a Catholic church, within easy reach of public transportation and, most clever of him -- within walking distance of the French Quarter. In short order, we found our favorite bistro, the boulangerie with the flakiest breakfast croissants, the market with rotisserie chickens whose aroma we couldn't resist, and the sidewalk cafe where the price of a cup of coffee bought us table rights for as long as we wanted. I closed my eyes and I was in Paris. And the decision was made. Bob knows my weaknesses, and he doesn't play fair.

The View From Our Bridge

2009-02-12T16:20:00.000-08:00

Most people who visit Paris regularly have a favorite bridge. For my husband and me, setting foot on Pont Neuf is like having Paris say, "Welcome back."

The majestic Pont Alexandre III, with its stunning gold-tipped columns, is more beautiful than our bridge; Pont Royal, gateway to the Tuileries Gardens and the Louvre Museum (for Left Bankers like us) is better located for visiting the major attractions; and Pont des Artes, one of the few pedestrian bridges in the city, may be crossed without dodging traffic.

But for us, Pont Neuf is not just for crossing. It's a destination in itself. It's our place for lingering and soaking up the feel of the city. It's where we people-watch and drink in the river views, and sit on a stone bench carved into a turret and plan our next move -- and then decide not to move at all, because we can't think of any place we'd rather be.

Initiated by Henry III in 1578 and inaugurated by Henry IV in 1607, Pont Neuf, or "New Bridge," is now the oldest standing bridge in Paris, and the longest. Its twelve arches span the widest part of the Seine, cutting across the tip of Ile de la Cite at midpoint. It is also the first stone bridge; earlier bridges were constructed of wood or cast-iron.

But the statistic I find most essential is, it was the first bridge built without houses and shops on it, blocking the river views. Kudos to whichever Henry issued that decree. Without it, we would be deprived of one of today's most stirring Paris sights -- the panoramic view from our bridge.

When we must move from our turret seat, any direction we choose takes us to a place we love. Just fifty yards from the bustle of the bridge, on Ile de la Cite, is the bucolic Place Dauphine. This triangular square is a vestige of seventeenth century village life in the heart of the city. British illustrator Ronald Searle sketched it more than fifty years ago. It looks the same today, an example of how the things I love most about Paris never change.

I like to watch Place Dauphine wake up. Arriving in early morning, I claim a bench under an ancient tree and enjoy the solitude and stillness of a new day. The first sign of life is a man walking his dog. Before tending to the business at hand, he stops at the boulangerie for a baguette, breaking off pieces to eat as he walks. Gradually, the cafes come to life as men in long white aprons turn up chairs and spread tablecloths. In a while, an artist strolls in. After carefully considering light and angles, she sets up her easel and, minutes into her work, is oblivious to the increasing activity around her. I, too, immersed in the serenity of life on this square, have to remind myself that I am in the hub of a great city.

My husband, who doesn't share my enthusiasm for dawn patrol, joins me later for breakfast, and we plan our day. I leave Place Dauphine without regret because I know we'll be back. We've made a reservation for dinner at Restaurant Paul, on the Place. Boasting no star ratings, appearing on no prestigious lists, this landmark bistro, where tables are shared and only French is spoken, is a quintessential Paris experience. The friendliness of the staff alone would keep me coming back. On our first visit, the waitress resorted to charades to prevent me from ordering a dish she suspected I might not like. There wasn't much I recognized on the French-only menu, so I ordered the veau, which I knew was veal. Our waitress vehemently pointed to her head to let me know what part of the calf they were serving that evening.

Leaving Place Dauphine, we cross the bridge to the Right Bank. The massive Samaritaine department store complex, dead ahead, flags flapping on its roof, beckons us once again to come to the top of Building Two for a heart-stopping view of the city. It's fabulous and its free, and there is no better way to begin a visit to Paris.

Knowing we'll be having a hearty dinner at Restaurant Paul, we decide to just snack as we go for our midday meal. At lunchtime we are well into the Marais. This is the place for citizens of the world who long for a taste of home. We are tempted by the succulent offerings in the windows of Chinese take-out shops, and enticed by the wealth of Moroccan and Turkish delights displayed but, never needing a break from French food ourselves, we stop instead at La Tartine on rue de Rivoli.

Without knowing the history of this rundown Marais institution, we would have walked right on by. The ambience, inside and out, is clearly in the minus category. But from all accounts, this was the place to have a tartine.This is simply an open-faced sandwich on baguette, my favorite being one spread with butter and topped with jambon, that unique dry-textured French ham. A tartine may be spread with cheese, dried sausage or pate, though even a humble petit pain spread with butter and jam qualifies. But only in Paris, where the butter is Normandy's finest and the jam is made from the harvest of a boutique vineyard in the Loire Valley. Does a Manhattan "buttered roll to go," spread with fat-free margarine and generic jelly, qualify as a tartine? Even when served open-faced? I think not.

Later in the day, after watching the street players on the lovely Place des Vosges and browsing the fashionable boutiques and galleries that now fill this trendy quartier, we stop at another Marais institution, Mariage Freres, the renowned tea importers on rue du Bourg-Tibourg. Founded in 1854, this combination tea boutique and tasting salon stocks hundreds of varieties from around the world. We watch as merchants, following the directions of their knowledgeable customers, combine several flavors to create custom blends. The possibilities are limitless. Nirvana for tea lovers, it is a bit overwhelming for us, and we retreat to the back room, where an elegant high tea is served. The glazed fruit tarts and buttery scones make a perfect mid-afternoon pickup. Unlike La Tartine. where one eats and runs, the plant-and-wicker filled ambience of Mariage Freres invites one to linger.

It's a trek back to our bridge and we've been on the go since breakfast, but we will have the perfect place to rest when we get there. Halfway across Pont Neuf, down a flight of stone steps, is Square du Vert-Galant. In a city of magnificent parks, the little-known Vert Galant is an unexpected island of solitude where one may find refuge from the noises of the surrounding city. We unwind in this lovely oasis, restored by the hushed environment. The views are stunning in every direction. Gazing straight ahead from this extreme tip of Ile de la Cite, we have a full view of Pont des Artes, with the Louvre on the Right Bank and the Institut de France on the Left. The graceful span of Pont Neuf is above us and, should we forget that this tranquil pocket of green is in the middle of Paris, in the distance is the tip of the Eiffel Tower to remind us. We would like to stay longer but it is late afternoon now, and another old haunt is calling.

We leave the park and head for Taverne Henri IV, which sits on the edge of Place Dauphine. Though named for the popular monarch, at this venerable neighborhood bistro a vin, it's wine that is king. There is a wide selection, much of it purchased in bulk from small domaines and bottled by the owner. Mellowing out on a soothing country red, we have come full circle from where we started our day. And we have dinner at Restaurant Paul to look forward to.

On the way back to our hotel, we take one last look at the view from our bridge. The star-lit evening sky is mirrored in the river below. Passing bateaux mouches cast a brilliant light on the banks of the Seine, setting ablaze the museums and monuments in their path. The City of Light is putting on a dazzling show, and we have front-row seats.

The Farmer's Market at the Ferry Building

2008-10-17T10:29:00.000-07:00

The weather is the reason I moved to San Francisco. The heirloom tomato is why I stay.
Moving to a new place after having spent all of my life someplace else called for some major changes in lifestyle, one of the biggest being the way I now shop for food and the way I cook it.

I’m blessed to be living within walking distance of the Ferry Building where, every Saturday morning, a happening takes place: the spectacular greenmarket that has become an essential part of my life. Each week, I try to get there in time for the scheduled events, starting usually with a talk by a farmer who has brought his crops to market that day. I look at a bundle of asparagus with a more appreciative eye after hearing about the ongoing research and the dedication that went into growing it. A cooking demonstration by a chef or cookbook author follows, using seasonal produce from the market. After tasting the featured dish, the audience fans out into the stalls to purchase its ingredients.

Overwhelmed when I first came to the market, I have since learned how to navigate its many delights. I’ve identified my favorite vendors, starting with those on the Embarcadero side of the building, where I fill my basket with bouquets of basil selected from a huge mound so impellingly fragrant that it stops traffic each week; glistening red onions; and those miniature heads of red, green, and purple lettuce that are indeed Little Gems, sold by the matriarch of a farming family who scolds me when I forget to bring my bags back for recycling. The market is green in more ways than one.

Walking through the Ferry Building, I pass shops selling exquisite French pastries, Japanese bento boxes, Italian salumi, and artisanal cheeses. I quicken my pace and breathe deeply as I come to the bread bakery, its intoxicating aromas beckoning. I exit on the waterfront side of the building, onto the Promenade facing the Bay and the ferries that shuttle between The City and the picturesque islands of Sausalito and Tiburon. I yearn to board one.

But I’m on a mission. I don’t have time for sightseeing. Accepting samples of Asian pears and pink-tinged apricots enroute, I head directly to the stalls selling my favorite heirloom tomatoes, the reason why, rain or shine, I never miss the Saturday market. Heirloom tomatoes drive my weekly menus, often as a side, sometimes as a main course, always showy, always delicious.

Each variety of heirloom (there are hundreds!) has its own distinct look, taste, and fan club. I am a loyal fan and defender of the homely Cherokee Purple. These deformed beauties, blemished and bumpy, feisty and free-spirited, bulge in any direction they choose to grow. And every bite bursts with flavor.

Two kinds of people come to the Ferry Building market—locals and tourists. It’s easy to tell us apart: locals are the ones carrying baskets spilling over with leafy greens in one hand, bunches of long-stemmed sunflowers in the other, and a still-warm baguette tucked underarm. We are the happiest beasts of burden you will encounter anywhere. Tourists are the ones taking pictures of us.

But tourists and locals alike have one thing in common: we are all devout foodies. Witness the enthusiasm over Brussels sprouts on-the-stalk, the discernment when choosing arugula with the exact degree of spiciness. And the current rage—heirloom beans. From the everyday green variety to Scarlet Runners and Spotted Eye of the Tiger, market regulars are swooning over beans. Who would have guessed that this definitive Depression dish would become the new icon of the food cognoscenti?

We talk to each other, we devotees of the market, friends and strangers alike. I once stood next to a man who was carefully picking knobs of green garlic. He turned out to be a chef who answered my question, “Why green garlic?” with a lengthy discourse on how all garlic is not created equal. Another time, I ask a woman how she will cook the armful of Swiss chard she is buying. Armed with her recipe, I buy some, too, and cook it for my family, who come to my kitchen expecting basic Grandma food and are fed, instead, the organic lean, green bounty I carry home from the market.

My husband, who rarely accompanies me to market, doesn’t understand what it means to me. He comes only when I expect to buy more than I can carry home. On one such occasion, I picked up a head of heart-stoppingly beautiful butter lettuce. If the great Renaissance painters had chosen vegetables instead of fruit for their masterpieces, this head of lettuce would surely have been a contender. Cradling it reverently in two hands, I walked over to my husband and said, “Isn’t this gorgeous!” He looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face, and said, “It’s a head of lettuce.” He doesn’t get it.

But I do. I get it. And I will never take for granted these gifts from farmers who for generations have nurtured the seeds of this dazzling bounty, harvested this morning in the fertile farmlands that ring our city, and gracing my dinner table this evening. Jeff McCormack, seed and pollination expert, says, “The world is a large garden and there is room enough for everybody to cultivate a piece of happiness.” The farmers who feed the Ferry Building greenmarket bring to our community an extraordinary piece of that happiness.

The Search

2008-10-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

A major trauma in considering the move from the East Coast to the West, was leaving my hairdresser of many years. My internist, gynecologist, dermatologist, opthamologist -- all were expendable. But how would I survive without Sharon, who embraced me each week, all frizzy and frazzled, and made me whole again.

During my first months in San Francisco, I was on a constant Search for a new Sharon, threatening each time I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself that I wasn't staying. I was going home. Phil, fearing that he would lose his long-awaited Shangri-la, walked all over the city gathering cards at hair salons that he thought might please me.

No matter how weird my hair, my grandchildren always told me I looked nice. They lied. My daughter-in-law heard good things about a place in Chinatown called Mona Risa. I was sure she had it wrong. It must be Mona Lisa, I insisted. But I walked by the place one day and sure enough, there it was. Lisa with an "R." If they couldn't get the name of the most famous painting in the history of art right, what would they do to my hair? Tempting as the big "$5 Haircut" sign in the window was, Mona Risa was not a contender.

When I found Andy, a Vietnamese hairdresser who worked magic with color, I was delighted. But he never could get the cut right. I stayed with Andy for color, but The Search continued for someone who cut well.

I found a stylist when I stopped a stranger in the street whose cut I admired and asked who did her hair, the acknowledged best way to find a hairdresser. This led me to Eddy, who gave me a great cut. The Search was finally over. I now had a colorist and a stylist I was happy with. All I had to do was make sure that Andy didn't know about Eddy, and Eddy didn't know about Andy. Life was good.

After a year of secretly shuttling between two salons, Andy told me his landlord was selling the building and he would have to move. Where was he going? To Eddy's salon. I panicked. How could I go to two competing hairdressers at the same salon without offending both? As time for the move drew near, I had to confess to each of them that I had been seeing someone else. "No problem!" Andy said. "Relax!" said Eddy. They assured me they were both okay with it. Knowing how proprietary hairdressers are about their clients, I didn't believe either of them, but decided to give it a try, anyway.

On my first visit to Andy after the move, I was traumatized to find his station was right next to Eddy's. I could feel Eddy's eyes on the back of my head as Andy worked. When I went to Eddy for a cut, I could hear Andy's disapproving grunts in the background. Overwhelmed with guilt at my lack of loyalty to these two good men, I began to stutter, calling Andy Eddy and Eddy Andy. I apologized to both and told them I would go home, take a tranquilizer, and try to remember everybody's name.

Phil took one look at my pitiful condition when I got home and, guessing what had caused it, moaned, "Oh, no." The Search, he knew, was on again.

Growing Up Sexless in Brooklyn

2008-09-27T17:42:00.000-07:00

Now the oldest of my family's three generations of women, I am constantly amazed at how far we've come from my passage into womanhood, shrouded in mysteries and taboos, to today's free and open dialogue between mothers and daughters.

In my entire life with my mother, I never spoke a sentence to her that had the S-word in it. Learning the facts of life was not something we did at home, and certainly not something we talked about at home after we learned them.

Nor did we learn them at school. Sex education was not on the curriculum in elementary school, and was addressed in high school only as its role in reproduction, complete with charts and parts we never associated with our own bodies. The woman who taught this subject was clearly as uncomfortable with it as my mother. Somehow, she succeeded in making what has been the driving force of life since the beginning of time the most boring hour in the entire week's curriculum. I speak of the girls' class here. I suspect the discussion was livelier in the boys' class.

In my family, nobody went through puberty. These matters were not discussed. Fortunately, I had two older sisters to turn to when my period made its first frightening appearance. They introduced me to that basic fact of female life and assured me that I didn't need to go to the emergency room. My aunt made a special trip across the street to hug me and whisper in my ear, "Today you are a woman." I was eleven years old. I didn't feel any different from the kid I was yesterday.

Buying Kotex in those days when sex was in the dark was a sensitive issue. Since stores were not self-service then, you had to ask the sales clerk for them, so you waited until a woman was behind the counter. One of life's great embarrassments was having to ask a man for a box of your monthly needs, which were always stored out of sight. That's why, when I was just a kid, before I became a woman, I was often sent to the pharmacy by older sisters and cousins who didn't want to risk dealing with a male clerk. Not knowing what I was buying, and not yet indoctrinated in the shame of my sex, I skipped to the store, plopped my quarter on the counter and, following instructions, I announced to all within earshot, "I would like a box of sanitary napkins, please."

"Sex" wasn't the only word on the taboo list when I was growing up. When I came home from school one day and announced that Mrs. Wilson, my English teacher, was pregnant, my mother gasped, and warned me never to speak "that word" again. Nor did we see it in print. An avid reader of romance magazines, "enceinte" is the first French word I learned (a precursor to my becoming a Francophile, perhaps?). This carried over to the movies, where "fading to black" hid a multitude of sins.

Getting my first bra was another rite of passage for which my mother set the standard. It was her firm belief that I shouldn't wear a bra before I was twelve. Well, Mother Nature and my mother were at odds here because it was embarrassingly apparent that I was ready for one at eleven. Taking matters into my own hands, I locked myself in the bathroom and cut an undershirt into what was probably a prototype for the first training bra.

This is one area where, in just one generation, sex came dramatically out of the closet. When my daughter thought she needed a bra (though the need was only in her head), we made a date to go shopping the following weekend. "Don't tell Dad!" she exclaimed. I promised I wouldn't, but as soon as my husband and I were alone, I whispered, "Amy and I are going shopping for a training bra on Saturday." He whispered back, "What are we training them for?"

The generation of girls now coming of age has it even easier. The first time Amy's early-teen daughter visited us in San Francisco, she unpacked her bags, then asked, "Is there a Victoria's Secret nearby? I need some bras." A discreet glance told me the need was not yet there, but the desire was. So we walked to Victoria's Secret and picked out several styles. She made her choices and they were packaged in the Victoria's Secret seductive pink bag, which she carried home in full view of the passing public.

How painless the rites of passage are now for a girl on the threshhold of womanhood. How enlightened that embarrassment is no longer a part of that passage. How privileged I am to be invited along on that journey.

Foodie or Fashionista? You Can't Be Both

2008-09-11T23:08:00.000-07:00

Judith Jones, writer, editor, foodie, and Francophile, wrote, "I believe that some of us are genetically predisposed to love food, whereas others are not so blessed."

I am one of the blessed. Food drives my life, it motivates my day, it sends me regularly on pilgrimage to Paris, mecca for food lovers of the world.

Fashionistas are just as driven. They are passionate about Prada, frantic to flaunt the latest Fendi, and, when fashion dictates, they hobble happily on Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels.

What foodies and fashionistas have in common is that both our hungers are best fed in Paris. Mine never more so than when I walk through the doors of La Grande Epicerie de Paris, the ultimate foodie destination in the City of Light. Sandra Gustafson, whose books are a roadmap to good eating abroad, says, "Close your eyes and think of a supermaket in heaven. Open them, and you will be in La Grande Epicerie de Paris."

This vast, deluxe food court of Au Bon Marche, the venerable Left Bank department store, never fails to entrance me with its dazzling displays of all the foods that France is famous for: artisanal cheeses made with raw milk that intensifies their taste but keeps them out of U. S. markets, charcuiterie offerings of mosaic pates and lusty sausages in their floury skins, pyramids of pristine produce that only the most fearless of shoppers dare touch.

And my personal dietary downfall, the boulangerie. In France, bread baking is considered an art, and Parisians are discerning patrons. Waiting my turn on the bakery aisle at La Grande Epicerie is pure pleasure. I never tire of gazing at the nests of puffy croissants, the flat onion-and-olive-studded loaves of fougasse, the voluptuous sourdough boules snuggling into long, lean baguettes. Even for Paris, where all food display is theatre, La Grande Epicerie is a showstopper.

Depending on the time of day, I may choose a pate de campagne, a crisp baguette, and a wedge of Pont l'Eveque for a picnic in the park across the street. If I'm between meals, I wander up and down the aisles, lingering in the luscious prepared foods section, mentally putting together a dream dinner, then choosing a wine to enhance it further.

I always return to Au Bon Marche just before the flight home and fill a shopping bag with gifts for my foodie friends and treats for myself that I try to make last until my next visit. On the check-in line at the airport, I stand proudly amidst the fashionistas with their glossy couture packages, a jaunty baguette leaning out of my bulging supermarket bag.

I don't know what started me on the path to seeking nirvana in food rather than fashion, but at some point in my life, I chose cuisine over couture and have never looked back. Maybe it was the sign I saw in a Paris boulangerie that read, "Bread is the warmest, kindest of words." It brought tears to my eyes then. It still does.

My Almost-Friend: The Vampire

2008-09-01T16:37:00.000-07:00

My first months in San Francisco were not happy ones. Though I tried to hide it, not wanting to hurt my husband and son who had pushed for the move from New York, I was undeniably homesick. Worse, I was friendless, and didn't know what to do about it. I no longer had young children whose mothers would become my friends. I no longer had a dog, almost as good as children for meeting people. And I was retired, no longer having co-workers to share common ground with.

So, I resorted to what had seldom failed me in the past: the written word. I posted a note in the laundry rooms of all four buildings in my apartment complex asking anyone interested in forming a book club or a writers' group to contact me. My first response was from a woman named Tanya, who had also posted a note on the bulletin board. She was seeking writers of "horror, crime, and black fantasy." I decided Tanya and I had very little in common, writing or otherwise, and didn't answer her ad.

She answered mine. She called one evening and said she wanted to meet me. I reminded her that my writing genres were memoir, travel, and food, hardly a perfect fit. She said she was sure we could overcome our genre differences. I told her I was just as sure we couldn't, but wished her well. I got off the phone and was pouring a glass of wine when the doorbell rang. And there she was, all six feet of her, dressed in black from her earrings to her dominatrix boots. Long, lank hair, streaked with magenta spikes, framed an eerily pale complexion. Her smile revealed two prominent fangs.

Next thing I knew, she was sitting on my couch, drinking wine and trying to convince me that we could be friends. I said, "Tanya, that's not gonna happen. You have fangs, for God's sake." She said, "I've wanted fangs since I was thirteen, but my mother wouldn't let me have them." Then she told me that I was the only one who's talked to her since she moved in. "Do you believe, when I walk into the laundry room, the other women walk out?" she asked. Again I said, "You have fangs, for God's sake."

All the while, I couldn't wait for Phil to come home to get his reaction. Finally, I heard his key in the lock and the door open. He could see the couch from the doorway, but couldn't see me where I was sitting. "Cathy???" he called, warily. "I'm here," I said. "Jesus!" I thought I was in the wrong apartment," he replied. Tanya wasn't offended. She stayed a while longer. When she finally left and I was explaining to Phil how I happened to be sipping wine with a vampire, the doorbell rang, and there she was again. This time, something was moving under her jacket. It was her pet chinchilla (pets aren't allowed in our apartments). She came back because I had told her how much I missed my dog. It was wonderful to hold a pet in my arms again. Tanya had sensed that need. Behind those fangs was a kind person who, like me, needed a friend. Phil didn't think I should be it. "Think about it," he said. "If you make her your friend, she'll be the only one you have here."

When my son heard about Tanya's visit, he said, "I'm not comfortable with my mother entertaining a vampire in her living room." When he told my New York daughter, she threatened to come out and take me home.

They were right. I knew it. But that Sunday at mass the gospel was about lepers, and the sermon was about the world's rejected. Rejection, the pastor said, is one of the cruelest things we do to each other. And that's just as true today as it was in biblical times. "Who are today's rejected?" he asked. "They're the homeless, the disabled, the poor....."

".......the vampires," I added.

Park Slope: My Brooklyn Beginnings

2008-06-30T17:07:00.000-07:00

I read recently of a young writer who defines her dream of success as writing a book that will "propel her into the life of Park Slope brownstones." I have lived this writer's dream. I was born in a brownstone in Brooklyn's Park Slope, and lived there through my teen years during the World War II era.

Now a magnet for publishing professionals, then Park Slope was home to large families of diverse cultural heritages. The story of it's rebirth as a desirable address for affluent professionals is well-known. My story is about the people who settled there pre-1930 and planted the seeds for the neighborhood it was then, and is again today.

I believe there are circumstances in everyone's childhood that forever define who we are. Such a circumstance for my generation was the Great Depression. Growing up in those difficult times, when financial disaster was always a payday away, would have an enormous influence on the adults we would become.

My father had a soft-drink business called, appropriately, Park Slope Beverages. But soda was a luxury and when the economy went downhill, so did the business. In spite of that, I don't remember being poor. We had everything we needed. And, contrary to that famous symbol of the Depression, we never had holes in the soles of our shoes. It wasn't until much later that I learned why: my father worked in a shoe store two nights a week and was paid in shoes for his family.

Life may have been a struggle for everyone around me, but I remember thriving in a structured environment of clearly defined responsibilities: first my schoolwork, then my chores, then my reward -- pasting movie stars' pictures into a cherished scrapbook.

This simple, innocent life took shape at a place that is a landmark address for my family. If home is where your history begins, then 410 Second Street is where history began for my four siblings and me. We were all born there.

This four-story brownstone housed a large part of my mother's family. We had an aunt on every floor and another across the street. Our grandmother lived a few blocks away on Garfield Place. And there were, literally, dozens of cousins. We wrote the book on the extended family. Because our mothers had so much to do, the older children looked after the young. No one was allowed to cross the street without holding the hand of an older sibling or cousin.

I remember listening on summer mornings for the sing-song proclamations of Andrew, the produce peddler, whose offerings determined what we would all be eating that night. His lethargic old horse, hitched to a sagging wagon, clip-clopped through the spray-washed streets of our neighborhood every day, in good weather, and in bad. As he pulled into Second Street, one of us kids was sent to alert our mothers, who would stop what they were doing and gather around the wagon. If a vegetable was specially priced on a given day, all the aunts bought it. If it was broccoli, all four floors of 410 smelled of broccoli as dinnertime approached, even the dumbwaiter, a ramshackle wooden car that rattled between floors in an enclosed shaft. Working it manually with a rope pulley, my mother and her sisters used it to send each other whatever was needed at a moment's notice -- a spool of thread, two aspirins, a bowl of soup for a sick child.

On Saturday mornings, my sister and I went with my mother to the live chicken market. We were greeted by a raucous flock of birds that squawked and fluttered across the feather-strewn floor, vainly seeking escape from a foretold doom. When my mother had made her choice, she would say, "That one," pointing to the unfortunate bird that would be our Sunday dinner. Knowing it was as good as cooked, the chicken flapped wildly across the market floor, the ill-tempered butcher in pursuit, spewing profanities meant only for the ears of the hapless hen. When caught, the bird's neck was broken with one expert twist. With a triumphant grunt, the butcher delivered the beheaded bird to my mother. On the way home, she assured my sister and me that the chicken hadn't felt a thing.

Entertainment was not in our budget during the Depression. But money wasn't an issue for the children; most of our fun was free. The boys played stickball in the street, the girls played hopscotch in the fenced-in airy-way. Roller skates, adjustable with skate keys, were shared. A set of jacks was amusement enough on a rainy afternoon. Prospect Park, within walking distance of 410,was our escape to the country, providing the only open space in our lives. In winter, we raced our sleds down Dead Man's Hill. On summer days, we picnicked in the shade of its venerable trees, trailed our feet in the cool waters of its lakes. The broad beaches of Coney Island were a 5-cent ride away at the end of the line on the Fifth Avenue elevated train. On the way to the beach, we walked along the perimeter of the Cyclone rollercoaster, experiencing its thrills vicariously through the blood-curdling screams of riders on the descent. Occasionally, my mother wouldn't pack lunch and we were treated to a hotdog, fries and a soda at Nathan's, a feast for fifteen cents.

For everyone at 410, mothers, fathers, and children of all ages, the center of family life in the early days of the Depression was the stoop. This is where we gathered on warm summer nights and watched the searchlights sweep the sky. Legend (our mothers) had it that there were baskets at the end of those lights that would swoop down and pick up naughty children who were never seen again. As if that wasn't terrifying enough, the older children told ghost stories to the young and, though scared sleepless, we begged for more. If our fathers felt flush, we were treated to a 2-cent lemon ice when a jingling bell announced the arrival of the ice cream truck. Life was good.

And holidays were great. My mother and her sisters were some of the most frugal women I have ever known, but on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, the heavens rained food on their tables. Everyone was welcome. Unexpected arrivals were warmly received by the adults and dreaded by the children who were often bumped from their place at the table to make room for the drop-ins. The festivities began early and continued into the night. Afternoon dinner segued into evening supper, each capped with the desserts of the season: the pies of Thanksgiving, the cheese cakes of Easter, the Italian pastries at Christmas. Mothers cooked and served, chestnuts roasted as fathers played cards, children stuffed with goodies played games, and everyone wished the holiday would never end.

When it did, it was back to school at P. S. 77, just across Sixth Avenue on Second Street. I made my first friends in school. Until then, all my playmates were cousins. But having friends was not enough. It was important to have a "best friend." Being part of a twosome who studied together, taught each other to dance, styled each other's hair, each an acknowledged member of the other's family, gave one a sense of importance and confidence. How I had envied my sister her Dorothy. In first grade, I met Annabelle. It was friends-at-first-sight for both of us and it lasted all eight years of elementary school. When she moved away, I was left with a gap in my life that, for many years, couldn't be filled.

On Wednesday afternoons, we were released early from P.S. 77 and sent to Saint Francis Xavier Catholic Church for religious instruction. We were prepared to receive our sacraments by an order of nuns whose discipline rivaled that of our mothers. We were drilled until we got it right, and when we did, we were sent home with laminated pictures and plastic statues of heavenly VIPs. In all areas of my life -- home, school, church -- discipline was on the curriculum. As I passed from one sphere of authority to another in the course of a day, so the responsibility to mold my mind and my character was passed from mother, to teachers, to nuns.

While we were dealing with the Depression in our simple, innocent way, the rest of the world was fighting World War II. When America, too, went to war, it ended the Depression, and it ended our childhood. The next five years was a very serious time for us. We all had family members in the service. The neighborhood boys were gone and everyone on the home front mobilized to support them. My sister and I went door-to-door selling war bonds. My mother shopped with food-rationing stamps. Sugar became a luxury, and nylon stockings were just a fond memory, parachutes taking precedence over hosiery. At P. S. 77 there were routine air raid drills when we crouched under our desks and didn't feel safe until the all-clear whistle blew.

Though under strain of "The War," as those of us who lived through it still refer to World War II, the economic burdens began to lighten, and luxury entered our lives in the form of Friday night movies. My sister always chose Goobers as her treat, and I chose Good 'n Plenty. Seeing those chocolate-covered peanut and candy-coated licorice boxes at the refreshment counters in today's multiplex cinemas never fails to send me hurtlng back to childhood, to a time when Shirley Temple sang and danced and all the endings were happy.

After the war, life was never the same for any of us at 410. As we entered the years of peace and prosperity, the neighborhood went down and my family moved up. We joined the exodus to the suburbs.

In later years, my mother, remembering the day-to-day struggle to make ends meet, would say, "Those were hard times." When I look back at that time in my life, I remember being surrounded by a large family of aunts and uncles and cousins, and the grandmother who started it all and kept it all together. I remember the safe environment they provided the children. I remember the good times.

More than fifty years later, nostalgia for my Brooklyn beginnings prompted me to revisit the past. On a pleasant summer day, I set out with my husband to retrace my steps in the old neighborhood. We took the Metro North rail into Grand Central Station and boarded the F Train at Rockefeller Center. A half hour later, we emerged on Seventh Avenue and Ninth Street. I was home.

Blame It On the Pommes Souffle

2008-06-28T10:05:00.000-07:00

How did a girl from Brooklyn fall in love with Paris?

My life as a Francophile began with pommes souffle. Actually, it began with my friend Mary, who introduced me to pommes souffle many years ago. I've been following my taste buds to Paris ever since.

I met Mary when I applied for a job as her editorial assistant at Parents' magazine in New York City. I was just out of college and just over the bridge from Brooklyn. Mary took me under her wing and I followed her lead, not only on the job, but after hours, too, as she introduced me to her city, and to the world beyond.

Even then, dining in Manhattan was intoxicating, especially for a new arrival. The pommes souffle at Mary's favorite French restaurant were an epiphany for me. Savoring those elegant fingers of puffed potatoes, hollow inside, cracklingly crisp outside, was the beginning of my love affair with all things French.

The first time I went to Paris, Mary gave me a list of things to do in the three days I would be there. There wasn't a museum or an architectural marvel on it. "Time for those on your next trip," she advised. Instead, she sent me to fabulous food markets to observe the soul of the French at work. She named her favorite sidewalk cafe, and put the city's public parks high on the list. "Make time for the Tuileries Gardens," she wrote. "Have a picnic by the pool and watch the French do their thing." The French thing, I learned, is the same as Mary's. It's the art of enjoying life.

More important, she told me to go to France expecting to like the French and they would like me, advice I continue to pass on to friends facing their first encounter with Parisians. In thirteen visits to the French capitol, Mary never met a Parisian she didn't like.

Cooking was another of her passions. She had learned from observing the French in their marketplaces that the secret of their success is the use of only the freshest ingredients. In recreating the food she loved, she did as Parisians do. She went daily to the markets of her East Side neighborhood, buying just what she needed for that day's meals. She applied the same rule to coffee. No bean was ground before its time which, for Mary, was immediately before it was brewed.

I rarely declined an invitation from Mary, but the one I prized most was to her annual Christmas cocktail party. Friends from far and near fought holiday traffic and winter weather to get there. Mary would be at her door to greet us, strands of pearls cascading down her caftan, one hand outstretched in welcome the other holding a very dry martini.

In a world of relentless change, Mary's Christmas party was a constant. The guest list was always the same, for some of us it was the one time during the year that we met. We nibbled on bite-size squares of her famous quiche and exchanged gifts to the intimate crooning of Yves Montand, whom Mary had "bumped into" in a Paris bookstore many years before, and had retold the thrill of that encounter every Christmas since. Some of us had come a long way for those bites of quiche. We all felt special to be there.

In the beginning, I had a hard time accepting a world without Mary in it. Until I realized that she is still in my life. When I see pommes souffle on a restaurant's menu, the "Aha!" I exclaim is for Mary. On my last trip to Paris, when two sparrows swooped down on my table at her favorite cafe and flew off with pretzels in their beaks, my first thought was, Mary would love this! When I arrive at Grand Central Station, I look for her at the information booth, in raincoat and Reeboks, ready to lead me to a gem of a bistro.

From potato puffs to Paris, I continue to love everything French. As I continue to love Mary for unveiling the delights of a fabled city, many years ago, to a young girl who's been infatuated with it ever since.