Edith’s Birth Step

Today started off great. I woke up to Lipstick by Jedward. Nobody could be grumpy around such a song. Go to Youtube and listen to it, you’ll be changed.

I didn’t know what to do today, so I looked at my long, long list of bakeries and museums and things to see and decided that we should buy meringues at Aux Merveilleux de Fred and visit the spot where Édith Piaf entered the world.

I got myself prettied up, and I have to admit, I felt exceptionally well-groomed today. Dark turquoise is really my color–makes my eyes pop more than a swipe of mascara. Jessica wore a turquoise shirt as well, we were basically twins. Both of us are wasting away to nothing. So, I was looking good, feeling gorgeous and off we went. Okay, hold on, stop. We need ourselves a RuPaul interlude.

Well, that’s how good I felt and how gorgeous I looked. While I was waiting to go, I had to get my dance on to the new Gaga song, Hair. Loves it. I mean, it’s an empowerment song about hair. I am my hair. Gurl, I know.

So, after discovering that I can somewhat shake my bottom (a discovery that positively filled me with glee–I needs me a club to hit and a video to shoot) Jessica informed me that I had no butt. She wasn’t sure how the man on the road could have liked the looks of it as it is nonexistent. Horrified at this accusation, I immediately examined my posterior in the mirror. It isn’t a juicy badonkadonk, but there is something there. I need to start doing more squats or buy more skinny jeans–but, oh, those are deeply uncomfortable on certain regions. I have seen underwear that has padding in the backdoor area…

Seeing nuns walking by my window helped me forget my misery. I love nuns. They are such fun–I think that in another life I would have been a nun. I’d rather be a nun than a monk any day.

Anyway, my positive vibe had come down several notches. We left and were quickly in the sixteenth arrondissement and I was delighted by the area instantly. It is charming and clean and there is a wide assortment of shops. I had taken perfect notes and led us right to the shop. Aux Merveilleux de Fred is a beautiful shop, understated and tastefully decorated. They have a chandelier, so in all honestly, they could have decorated it any which way and I would have approved. I love chandeliers. I am often times deeply distraught that the ceilings in my house aren’t tall enough for them. I’ve seen gorgeous ones in shops that I would love to have and I want to make one out of sand dollars. In my future home/apartment there will be moulding and chandeliers galore. Anyway, the shop sells only a few things: meringues, croissants, and the occasional baguette. There are three types of meringues: chocolate, coffee, and speculoo. I had the chocolate.

As we walked down a truly picturesque market road back to the Metro, Jessica decided to get a raspberry tart in the bakery. It was the exact same bakery as the one down on the corner that I love, so I was excited. The woman behind the counter misunderstood Jessica and gave her a charlotte aux framboises, not a tartlette aux framboises. Jessica was not amused, but didn’t correct her mistake.

She was insistent on trying it immediately, so we sat down on a park bench and she unwrapped it. Her disdain was palpable. She took a bite and declared it disgusting. I told her to wash her filthy mouth and I took it from her.

I took my pissy sister, the charlotte, and headed for the apartment. It was nibbles time! I love me some nibbles. In the train, she seemed to grow more angry with every second. When the train came to a halt, she couldn’t quite figure out how to turn the handle, so I told her what she was doing wrong so that she could learn. I’m a teacher of all sorts of tricks. She shouted, “I’m sorry I can’t turn a lever!” Somebody is grumpy.

Back at the apartment, I dove into the charlotte. It was absolutely heavenly. And they are such fun to make, but I haven’t made one in ages. I will definitely be baking them when I get home. I will make perfect little charlottes and I shall do it with ladyfingers as it should be! It was delicious and I devoured it.

Now it was time for my meringue. I looked at it awhile. I had never seen anything like it. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I did not expect to have a foodgasm. I have not had many of them, but this was exceptional. Crispy, perfect meringues, with chocolate cream in the center, with more cream on the outside and then rolled in more chocolate. Sweet Jesus, I’m drooling right now thinking of it. I need more. I’m going back for all the flavors…in multiples. Look at it! LOOK AT IT!

Jessica and I went up the road to a different Métro so that we wouldn’t have to switch trains as we made our way to Belleville for the second part of our adventures. For half of the walk we were behind two girls who spoke loudly in English about all the macarons they had tried and what they thought of them. They loved Ladurée. I wanted to say, “Bitches, is you crazy? Get yourself to Pierre or McCafé, or give it up. Holla at ur boie.” I’m really a ghetto snob about macarons.

It wasn’t a long journey to Belleville and I was amazed at the clear view of the Eiffel Tower down the rue de Belleville. I had not expected that at all. We took the wrong road and ended up wandering down a particularly boring road. There was a Picard, though, so we popped in there. So many interesting things, but I didn’t partake as they should remain frozen and I was not going to be back in the apartment for a while.

After rerouting ourselves, we quickly found number seventy-two. It was a delight for me to see. Legend has it that Édith Piaf was literally born on the step of this building. Her birth certificate claims that she was born in the Belleville Hospital, but we all know birth certificates lie. (Holla at the Donald Trump/Barack Obama reference/joke!) It was an incredibly unassuming place, not peaceful nor beautiful. I couldn’t imagine her walking along the roads singing for coins, but she did. Gosh, I love Édith.

Jessica gave birth:

We headed home and I made myself a frittata. It was insanely good. Needed more salt, though. I love frittata and if I hadn’t restrained myself I surely would have eaten the whole thing, not just the half I did. I think I need to make another one now. [The kitchen in the apartment is not logically thought out. There is no proper place to assemble ingredients nor is there a proper place to wash dishes. There is a weird half sink that is good for absolutely nothing. The oven is half a mile from the stove, but it looks good, so I don’t totally loathe it.] I gasped as the frittata slid out of the pan, it looked just like Martha’s. I need to get myself a job in her test kitchen. That would be such fun. I have already picked out my friends from watching the show every day. Thomas and I are going to be tight and Sarah is going to enjoy going to the market with me while we take pictures and videos for the magazine. It’s too bad this isn’t already true.

I took myself down to Notre Dame as the sun was setting to do some writing. The sky was like a painting, oranges, pinks, magentas. So beautiful. People were running onto the bridges to get a glimpse of this ephemeral display. I hadn’t brought my camera, though, so I can’t show you.

As I sat in front of the cathedral, scribbling away at Terrible Miss Margo, I watched the gypsies toss fire back and forth and realized that the centuries have certainly changed, but these vagrants have been entertaining us in this same spot in much the same way for centuries. Really rather remarkable.

I tired myself out on the walk home from the island and easily fell asleep.

Forgot about this:

Someday soon I must own an apartment on this road. It means “Road of the Bad Boys.” I know! Is there a better place to live? The answer is no.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s