Love confectionary? A Parisian Gem awaits.......

Step under the quirky street sign into Le Bonbon au Palais, 19 rue Monge, 5 arr, Paris and you could easily think that you had won one of Willy Wonka's prized Golden Tickets.

A dictation "test" above the shop, Le Bonbon au Palais in Paris's Latin Quarter.

The French have the ability to inject humour into the least expected places. 

This is a world where imagination and whimsy combine with passion and tradition to produce confectionary heaven. And like Willy Wonka, the owner of this establishment of guilty pleasures, Georges Marques, not only has a delightful sense of humour, but he is also out to educate those who venture into his world of sweets. He's amassed an abundance of vintage wall charts about the art of confectionary making which fill any spare space on the walls of his shop.

Courtesy of Le Bon au Palais

A plethora of different types of traditional and contemporary artisanal confectionaries fill curvaceous apothecary jars to  create visual displays that tease the tastebuds and fire the imagination. 
Fruits, flowers, leaves and even spices have also been transformed into delectable sweet treats. My personal favourites are les violettes cristallisées (which my mother used to make), les mirabelles gélifiées and les graines d’épicées cristallisées.

For the lovers of confectionary and purchasers of gifts, the inclusion of Le Bonbon au Palais to a Paris itinerary will not disappoint.

Courtesy of Le Bon au Palais

Le Bonbon au Palais

Address: 19 rue Monge, 75005

Nearest transport: Cardinal Lemoine (10)

Hours: Tuesday-Saturday, 11am-7:30pm; closed Sunday and Monday

 

A Page in Time - My French Folly

Then (1902)

Now (2019)

Toute chose apparent à  qui sait en jour.

André Gide

Everything belongs to those who can appreciate it

André Gide

One of the greatest joys when in France is sharing a wine on our terrace with local friends while inhaling the ever-changing views. Time becomes insignificant. Often conversations cease as attentions naturally focus on the surrounding beauty.

Being built as the guard house for a medieval chateau, My French Folly is located on the highest point of the old village, overlooking the surrounding countryside and the higgly-piggly houses across a valley. 

Often it's the simplest things in life which touch our soul.

French Faux Pas - an excerpt from a transitory life in rural France

The French language and I have been antagonists since our first introduction. I vandalised the language - according to my Father and teachers, and the language tortured me. Despite the many long hours I spent trying to make friends with The Language of Love, it was not to be , until I hit my mid-life crisis and spontaneously bought a house in France off the internet , in a region where English is infrequently spoken or understood.

With the aid of the Alliance Française, a truce with cette langue was conceded toute de suite and I recommenced French lessons in 2011.

Now I hold the dubious honour of taking the longest time of any Alliance Française student in Melbourne (or perhaps the world) to successfully complete Beginners Level French.  And it's not for lack of trying - it's just that my efforts have been sporadic and the hearing in my left ear has prematurely ceased.

There are words I can understand and spell, but not pronounce. Then there’re words I can pronounce and verbs I can conjugate, but fail to be able to put them into coherent sentences, unless I have preplanned and rehearsed what I want to say.  A killer for spontaneous conversation.  However, the greatest language mistakes I’ve made are with false friends – French words that look and sound like English words, but have a very different meaning.

A further barrier to my communication is the spit-fire speed at which the French speak and the plethora of silent letters that can make a sentence sound like one, very long, indistinguishable word. My comprehension, when it exists, lags at least few paragraphs behind the conversation making me look like a village idiot: my facial expression is blank as the flight or fight mechanism musters the energy needed to decipher what I'm hearing.  Definitely not a time to multitask.

Our first foray into a hardware store (un bricomarche) was met with puzzled looks when I asked the carefully rehearsed question "Est-que vous avez des planchers de chien s'il vous plait?"  Have you (floor) boards (made) of dog please? “Ahhh chêne – oui, oui “ was the relieved response of the shop assistant when I produced the piece of paper on which I had correctly written my question.

Excité(e) is a French word that I can pronounce clearly and confidently. In the past I’ve told quite a few French people (including officials) that I was très excitée to be in France, only to get a reaction which ranged from a smirk to a look of indignation. With such responses, a prudent person would have referred to their dictionary. Not me. 

It was the retort of our close French friend, Guillame, that finally goaded me into checking the translation of excitée. Unfortunately it remained in my oral French vocabulary for years 

One July morning, after a 6 am start in order to make as much possible progress with our renovating before the expected 40⁰ C heat arrived, a trip to the le bricomarché and le supermarché were necessary. As I was leaving My French Folly, clutching a shopping list, Guillame (artisan extraordinaire) appeared - just in time to advise me on what type and brand of wood preservative I should buy.

"Bonjour Guillame " I exclaimed, before kissing him on each cheek, “Je suis 

très excitée parce que tu es arrivé et je vais faire les courses . Quel préservatif, je dois acheter s'il vous plaît ?”

Loosely translated I said "Hello Guillame, I am sexually aroused because you had arrived and I'm going shopping. What type of condom do I need to buy please?"  

Note to self: excité = sexual excitement or arousal (not thrilled or excited); un préservatif = condom; chêne is not pronounced chien.

Lavoirs - a snippet of social history for visitors of France

The village in which this washhouse (lavoir) is located, is devoid of a bakery and any shops, but it boasts a castle and a charming lavoir. The domed roof covering the spring, is particularly attractive.

It was a recent post from Fabously French that had me scouring my poorly archived photos for some images of lavoirs* – sign posts of a now fragile heritage.

Adjacent to the 13th century church that sits at the bottom of a steep incline in our village, is this colourfully decorated lavoir. The flowers are voluntarily grown and nurtured by the surrounding neighbours.

The quaintness and charm of surviving lavoirs, that can still be seen in many French villages today, usually belie the often gruelling demands of laundering in bygone eras. More than just a place of work, a lavoir also provided a place where women could meet and chat while attending to an extremely time consuming, and often arduous domestic chore. 

A quaint washhouse can just be seen to the right of this stream that runs through Beaune. 

Household laundry consisted mainly  of rags, cloths and the inner garments worn close to one’s skin. Bed linen and outer garments were washed sparingly.

This lavoir is located under the private home, shown below, and is constantly fed by a spring just a few metres uphill. There was no available information about the history the building. 

Scrubbing, thrashing and wringing out the sodden fabrics involved physical strength, mental stamina and having one’s hands constantly wet - despite the ambient temperature.

Adjacent to notre maison, is a set of stone stairs that descends to the foot of our village, where there is a wash house that would have served the past inhabitants of My French Folly.  The garden is the result of the generosity of the lady who lives opposite the perennial spring on which this washhouse is built.

This stray cat can usually be seen basking in the sun on the leaver walls.

Of course there was also the task of carting the laundry to and from the lavoir on roads that were often unpaved and not necessarily flat. The 3 lavoirs in our French village are located at the bottom of the hills - on which most houses are perched - where water continuously flows from underground springs.

*Lavoirs were communal spaces - often roofed -  in which the public could wash clothes. They were commonly used throughout Europe for hundreds of years before the advent of household laundries.  

Stepping into the cool dampness of this washhouse provided a welcomed relief from the heat outside.

A private washing "sink" located in an isolated hamlet in eastern France.

There is a school of carp of varying sizes that inhabits the waters under this roof.

The 2 images above are of a washhouse in an un named hamlet nestled in the hills around Louhans. 

Each time I descend this set of steps that winds downhill from My French Folly, and pass the lavoir that sits at its feet, my mind drifts to the past inhabitants of our French home. Water and sanitation had never been connected to our house when we purchased it.  The installation of these modern amenities was a costly exercise, fraught with unforeseen complications.

Twilight as we walked past the nearest lavoir to commence our climb  home, after a delightful
apero with some local friends.

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Autumn in France - a new experience

1 September. North-east France

From my bed, the morning sky is noticeably different – nature has removed the familiar, saturated hues from the sky. Dull, white and grey clouds fuse together to obliterate the insipid blue backdrop.  There’s a "nip in the air": a different coldness to that of a cool summer’s day. It appears that while I was sleeping, a deity has flicked the weather-switch from “l'été”  to “l'automne”. 

The hollow sounds of my foot steps on the stairs linger a little longer than usual as I descend the wooden 

spiral to commence my daily routine: open shutters; a cup of tea; bathroom rituals; boulangerie; a croissant and coffee on the terrace. 

But today I falter as the tatty, internal shutters of the sitting room are flung aside: familiar village roof tops are revealed, but strikingly with unfamiliar thin wisps of smoke hanging above their chimney stacks. No movement - just perfectly still. 

Something else is awry – the feathered acrobats that keep us entertained each morning and evening are missing. Squinting, I can just make out their motionless silhouettes across the valley – a row of small dots along the spine of the church roof. 

Opening the terrace door I investigate further: no familiar morning kiss from a timid dawn breeze.  The air is paralysed - devoid of any movement or sound; its chill has mingled with the herbaceous scents of damp foliage, proclaiming “summer’s over”.  I stand transfixed by the canvas before me. Such a dramatic change. So sudden. So unfamiliar. The motionless smoke continues to play statues. I stare, “perhaps I’ll catch it out?” I stare further.  No. 

Time stops. I feel at one with the world; utterly content; incredibly grateful.
..................my first autumn in France.

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Melbourne’s Autumn brings Back a French Summer

The start of autumn this week has seen the return of summer heat to Melbourne, with skies and light reminiscent of our summers in north-east France. A recent discussion during dinner had us recalling the first July we spent at our house in France - an unforgettable event.

Late July: our first French Summer

Plaster dust, spider webs – old and new, airborne grime generated by decades of neglect, and reconstituted glue from soggy pieces of wallpaper, manage to amalgamate with perspiration generated by the summer heat, to form a sticky coating on our skin.

Empty glasses and water bottles litter the deep, buckled windowsill. Actions are laboured, but spurred on by the limited time available to renovate this minuscule room – a task that appeared to be straight forward and quick, but is now proving otherwise.

There is no movement in the village. Lunchtime has extended into a siesta as patches of bitumen on the road start to resemble tacky molasses. Charlie and Kenzo, our neighbour’s cats, lie splayed in the cool under the lone conifer that stands like a sentinel to the cluster of houses in our ancient ruelle (lane).

Unexpectedly the faint sounds of plodding hooves pierce the silence, echoing as they rise from the street that sits in the valley below. Inquisitively I poke my head out of the second storey window while straddling its sill – a precarious move.  Nothing new in the landscape to report.

As the sounds grow louder, the shouting of children becomes faintly audible. Peering left through the breaks in the tree-tops, I get a brief glimpse of the scene below just before a parade of tired, hot bodies becomes fully visible.

A young boy, perhaps 10 or 11 years old, leads a pony on a slackened reign. Like his 2 friends trailing him, he’s abandoned his saddle. A fourth pony, head drooping and strapped into a cart harness, slowly edges into the picture.

The poor animal is pulling a tatty canvas covered wagon, reminiscent of those of the Wild West, albeit smaller and in proportion to the creature’s size. 

My pity for this equine slave soon gives way to warm amusement as the rear of the cart and source of the high pitched voices, come into view. Pushing the wooden structure up the road’s steep incline, and almost parallel to the ground themselves, are 2 small lads, shirtless and gasping for breath amidst their encouraging shouts to their hoofed companion up front..........The doors to my childhood memories are prised gently open.

My husband now joins me at the window.  “How stupid to be riding in this heat, but what a great adventure” I mutter. “Oh to be young again.” “ But we are young, and a touch foolish – look what we’re doing!” he chortles as he deposits a sticky kiss on my damp, grime-encrusted face......

Life alters quickly when one’s perspective changes!

One clean and painted room - small, but mighty significant
for us.

Une Célébration

Ritual is important to us as human beings. It ties us to our traditions and our histories. Miller Williams

The faint sound of car horns constantly tooting is unfamiliar. Perhaps the gendarmes or pompiers alerting the traffic to make way? The cacophony grows louder before its source is revealed.  

Unexpectedly, a Citroen 2CV cabriolet, festooned in bows, appears around the 

corner of la grande rue. Its windows open and roof folded down, defying the intermittent rain. The female passenger is frantically waving to the empty street, while her male driver has his right hand simultaneously on the steering wheel and horn while making large circular motions with his left arm. Following closely behind the Citroen is a long procession of horn blowing vehicles, each with a bow and occupants who are whooping, cheering or waving. Obviously a celebration.  

The motorcade winds through the village, past the church then down Rue Jean Brugnon while, from our vantage point in the boulangerie, Mr R estimates its length - at least 1.5 kilometres. The noise trails off into the distance long after the last car disappears, leaving us to guess the reason for ces festivités. "C'est une célébration de mariage, bien sûr," explains our neighbour a few days later.

This is the France we want to experience - away from the tourist hot-spots, hotels and charms of Paris. The reason for buying My French Folly. It's the people and rhythm of daily life in les petites villages and countryside that we find truly enchanting.

Marriage brings one into fatal connection with custom and tradition, and traditions and customs are like the wind and the weather, altogether incalculable. Soren Kierkegaard

The Truffle Hunter

The corner of Guillaume's workshop

Guillaume is the quintessential Frenchman. Charming with a commitment to la bonne vie and a quick sense of humour.  He is well versed in many and varied topics and quite handsome.

Guillaume is also a stonemason par excellence: an old school artisan with skills that are sadly disappearing in France. His work can be found in all manner of ancient buildings across the country, including a few famous cathedrals and chateaux ……….and now in My French Folly.

An invitation to his meticulously restored maison revealed an enormous hand-built wood-fired oven in the kitchen, a productive orchard and potager and a decent sized cellar systematically packed to the ceiling with wonderful French wines, (all reds) according to their origin. 

The subterranean cellar air was noticeably crisp and held a faint aroma of ripened fruits. Standing in the centre of this vast cave was a refectory table on which sat enormous, old glass and earthenware bottles of home made brandy and jars of preserved Tuber uncinatums –  truffles………. the size of tennis balls! 

Conversation quickly turned to cooking and truffle hunting.

Courtesy of wikipedia.org.

Yes Guillaume truffle hunts in the surrounding forests. No, he doesn’t forage with others, nor does he use a truffle pig or hound. And no, the truffles aren’t always located in the same area. The obvious question had to be asked, “How do you find them?’

Courtesy of wikipedia.org.

His eyes glinted as he gently tapped his nose and replied “mon nez”! A joke? Apparently not, according to his wife. Guillaume is so attuned to le terroir that he has no need for aids to root out his prized culinary gems.……..l'art de vivre à la français.