Firsts and Third

The past few weeks have brought on a whole slew of new things here in France.
First of all, the other day, the first frost came our way. Holy Bejeezus, it was cold, but I am ever grateful, as in came the frost, and out went my allergies.
Really though, watching the sun come up over the hills of Roissy (the petite ville where I am at) while the birds fly south to Nice and the fist morning rays glint off of the newly frozen Earth almost makes it worth while to get up at 4:30 in the morning.
Almost.
Also, a month ago I got to experience my very first ever fashion week here in Paris, and though I attended a stunning total of zero runway shows, I can tell you that the news was all a-twitter with what is hot and what is not.
So, I'll just say for this season's colors: if you're into subtle, then you are definitely not part of the "in" category. Think primary colors, but neon. Oh, and in a dramatic, and some are saying vulgar turn of events, off-white and black is the new black and white. I know, I know: take a minute to catch your breath.
In another first, my friends Sean and Mike recently sashayed into town for a whirlwind tour of the city. It was Mike's first time out of the country, if you dont count Canada, and who the hell does? He did fabulously, braving the tumultuous Parisian streets and diving in, head first, to the shallow waters of introductory French. Good times were had by all, needless to say.
We did the usual things: Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, drinking a fifth of bourbon while touring Sacre Coeur, you know, the stuff everybody does.
One night though, we all went out to a club I have been really dying to get to. It is called Le Caveau de la Huchette, and it is a tiny jazz club tucked away in the back streets of the Latin Quarter. You might not notice it at all, if not for the small neon sign out front. Anyway, that night the club was hosting a group from the States that played exclusively American standards of beebop and swing.
When you come into the club, you enter the (extremely overpriced) bar, and to your left are the stairs down. Much like Le Guillotine bar, you wind your way down into a cave-like cellar. This cellar is much larger, though, with a sunken dance floor about thirty feet long by fifteen wide. There are stone benches all around, and a raised stage. Everyone there was dressed to the nines, and the music was fantastic! I thought I was going to drop dead of excitement when the band launched into "It Dont Mean a Thing (If It Aint Got that Swing)." I think somehow as you descend the stairs, there is some kind of very Bill and Ted-esque experience that you leaves you unaware that you have travelled back in time about 62 years, because the minute you get into that club, it is Paris 1945 all over again. People dress like it is, the music is exactly from that era, and the club is perfect for it. I felt like I was an American GI in Paris after the liberation from Nazi rule, and was out trolling for some dame to sweep off her feet. Granted, in this fantasy I am an American GI trolling for some dame while entertaining his two gay friends, but still...
I made a firm commitment to bring my wife here the next time I am in Paris. I came to find out later that the club is one of the most important in the Paris jazz scene, which is extensive. I was really glad to have come across it.
Speaking of firsts in music, Monday night was a big first in Europe, as Led Zeppelin reunited for a one off show in London. People payed upwards of 1000 pounds for tickets; that's around $2000. The reviews were that every fricking penny was worth it too. People in Paris even were freaking out. Word from Plant in London is that there are three big shows planned for New York City next year, so all you fans can keep your pants on, and start saving your pennies now. What I found interesting was the crowd. LOTS of Americans, so said the BBC. Unfortunately, they interviewed a couple from the States at the show, and that is where things just went down hill.
A very proper Englishman in his very smart Burberry suit, sporting a very smart microphone smartly ambled over to two Americans who could be described most accurately as anything but smart. He: black clad and sporting the most impressive mullet I have ever seen. It was feathered. He feathered a mullet.
Yikes.
She: black clad as well, but in painted on acid washed jeans, despite her...uh... larger carriage, we'll say. You could tell that if the Mullet was excited, then she had gotten all gussied up for the event too, as her poof was especially pooftastic, and the rest of her hair had been crisply and evenly crimped and frosted.
They told the BBC that they hailed from the great state of "Ohigher," which I can only assume is that elusive 51st state, just a bit north of the more well know Ohio.
When asked why they had paid such a grand sum and come such a distance for a one off show, the Mullet responded: "Its The Zep. Tern't no way we'dah missed it."
Tern't.
This "man" said "tern't" to the BBC, the most respected news organization in the world.
Tern't.
Tern't, I can only presume is the passive conjunctive form of "there weren't", or more extensively, "there were not"; neither of which is grammatically correct in this or any other universe. Who the f?@*! says "tern't"? Ohigherans, that's who.
And when asked to chime in (presumably to save the Mullet from further humiliating the 51 States), the Poof was only to happy to stare saucer-eyed into the camera and reply with a plastered on smile, the likes of which would make any Crest executive gush.
The reporter asked her if she were equally as excited about "the Zep's" imminent reunion as her her man was.
Her response?
"I'm just here for Foreigner."
Not surprisingly, the interview ended abruptly after that, as the reporter fought admirably to repress a smile, and the camera shook, presumably because of the unheard peels of laughter from the cameraman.
Thank you Led Zeppelin. Thank you for helping to embarrass the United States further.
Enemies of the state, they are; now and forever, in my book.
One last first to report. Yesterday I was transferred to garde manger from breakfast, as there was someone out sick, and the one person remaining on garde manger needed help. Garde manger, if you dont know, refers to all things served cold. So if you go to a buffet, and you have sliced mozzarella or cornichons in vinegar or whatever, thats all from the garde manger department.
I got into the kitchen really nervous, as I have never worked with GM before, and the only guy there, Abdella, only speaks French, heavily accented with his Syrian accent. I thought I was screwed, but then, I thought of all my recent triumphs, and I decided to really go for it. What the hell did I have to lose, I thought.
In an hour I preped four sauces, a whole carte of bowls of raw veggies, two huge salads, thirty hors d'oeuvres, and four plates of cold sausages (one of which was made from cow intestines, and smelled just like daisies....)
In short, I got a hell of a lot done, and it worked out really well. Turns out, I am kind of into garde manger. I like the challenge it presents: to serve delicious food, presented beautifully, without the use of fire. Its tough, but when it works, it can be great. Look to the cold lines at the next buffet you are at for evidence.
Finally, one "third" to bring up, sadly. That being the THIRD train strike the city is now facing. I cant tell you my annoyance with this. I mean, I have found a way around it now, and I know how to get into and out of the city with relative ease, if not a little lighter in the wallet. But still, grow up people! Whatever you keep striking for: its not gonna happen. I mean, if your first strike didnt work, and your second super long strike didnt work, then your third isnt going to either.
It will take a hell of a lot more public backing and governmental sympathy and funds to keep people paid so they dont become scabs in order to keep this strategy going. None of which are things these people have, and without them, there is just no way this strike will work.
I mean, really, if you think about it, tern't never a chance.