Time to celebrate!!
When: Saturday, March 13th (this coming Saturday)
Time: 10pm-2am.
Where: One of my favorite bars in town: Le J Go – 4, rue Drouot – Métro Richelieu-Drouot (line 8 or 9).
Spirit: Casual and Fun
SPL is you just as much at it is me so let’s celebrate together.
I intend to get drunk.
Hope to see many of you there!
Parisians have mixed feelings about weddings.
When Parisians first hear about a weddding, they get excited. Mechanically. Not by the good news itself; by the announcement of it: le faire-part. This one piece of paper that defines both the class origin of the couple and the social value of the new household. Le faire-part is an indelible imprint. Friends will find it “super classique“, “hyper moche“, or “original, disons“. Le faire-part is not really a wedding announcement note. It’s more one of these bound-to-fail tests. Mechanically indeed, excitement ensues for the Parisian.
Such pace is hard to sustain. At this point then, the Parisian gets annoyed with the wedding. He happily claims that he does not want to attend. Fun events are by essence painful to the Parisian. When fun takes the form of a social obligation, the Parisian sees nothing but non-sense. But he shall give in. Resiliently for the Parisian man; in vaguely hysterical stress for the Parisian women: “Oh la la, j’ai rien a me mettre. Et puis j’suis grosse, faut absolument que je perde cinq kilos d’ici le mariage“.
Then comes the glory day. Everytime, the same magic happens. The nice dresses, the charming church, the beauf uncle… Parisians smile. Genuinely. They are happy to be there. For a few minutes. And, slowly but surely, the soothing pleasure that comes with the reassuring ceremonies of life gives way to a new form of excitement. A more Parisian form of excitement that comes with the unconscious treat of encapsulating countless new people and groups into little boxes. Plenty of tiny boxes – usually sealed for life. The excitement is all the greater as all these people are acquaintances of a friend or a family member. “Oh, putain, tu l’as vu avec sa cravate l’autre, oh la la, putain, c’est pas possible“. It is impossible to have more fun than this.
Weddings do give many opportunities to judge. The ceremony, the venue, the looks of the guests, the food served… That is judging instead of enjoying. Which is fun enough to the Parisian. But a good Parisian wedding also allows Parisian guests to judge while enjoying. This happens during dinner. Good things come to those who wait.
The past few years have been years of escalation in French weddings. Escalation in the broad category of “les discours“. Between each course, one, two or three “discours“. Everytime, the same interrogations around the tables: “Alors c’est qui ca? Ah, les amis d’ecole? Il a fait l’ESSEC, lui, c’est ca? Bon, bah ca devrait etre pas mal alors!”. Just like in Roman times, each discours only has two possible outcomes. One – guests are captivated, smile, laugh or are touched. Two – discours sucks: polite guests simply look down – cheeky ones look for partners in crime to makes faces to.
An advanced form of “discours” is one enriched with a powerpoint presentation presenting old and funny pictures of the two. Pictures are certainly powerful allies to the uninspired. But the climax of the “discours de mariage” is la chanson. Cousins, friends from university, colleagues… Each coherent group feels a disturbing obligation to come up with a personnalized cover of a famous song dedicated to the newly weds. While some of these songs confine to comic genius, most navigate somewhere between plainly useless and straight-up embarrassing. Interestingly enough, the moment when a group of friends grabs the microphone and says “Lili, Nico, on vous a préparé une p’tite chanson” is the moment where Lili for the first time considers running away in the middle of dinner a worthy option.
The rest of the night is history. Older guests will go to bed early. University friends will get drunk and dance. The rare single friends left will regret the good old days where weddings were a good opportunity to meet people. The encapsulating process will be debriefed and continued in small groups. Newly weds will be amazed of how fast the day flew by.
The next day, everyone will agree that “Non, vraiment, c’était super“.
Super is strong enough a feeling not to sink in disliking weddings.
Mixed feelings, really, will do.
Useful tip: When it comes to “discours”, “Go strong or go home” sounds likes a wise policy.
Sound like a Parisian: “Ecoute, finalement, c’était hyper sympa le mariage. Ca me saoulait un peu d’y aller, mais vraiment, super cool finalementl. A part le DJ, ca, c’était un peu la cata, le reste vraiment, c’était super.”
NB: The URL of the blog has changed. It now is http://www.o-chateau.com/category/stuff-parisians-like. Best to update your RSS if you have one .
NB2: I have no idea what that last sentence meant 
Sweet in Paris is guilty. Gently guilty. In life even more than in food, sweet is about discretely collapsing. Breaking the balance of life towards easy satisfaction. Nothing glorious. Some would say pleasure is a glorious thing. Not Parisians.
Sugar carries all the afflictions of decadence. It is coating and fattening, sensual and tempting, enjoyable and slippery. Sweet in Paris should therefore be consumed in great moderation. Just enough for the threatening shadow of decadence not to ruin the tender moment of sweet collapse.
In that unspoken tugging between good and bad, the Parisian found an ally in le caramel au beurre salé. Le caramel au beurre salé is as sweet as it gets. Devilishly so. But it’s ok. Because in all that sweetness and perversion comes a salvatory adjective, a redempting flavour: le salé. Taunting and irreverent. Obedient and rebellious. Le salé makes caramel acceptable for the Parisian. It makes indulging almost enjoyable. Salt is one powerful little thing.
Le caramel au beurre salé was once a bretonne oddity. The uncanny account for the local tradition of salting butter. But its enchanting taste and redempting qualities made it popular beyond its bigounden nest. Over the past few years, le caramel au beurre salé has become Parisians’ battle flag in their inner battle against guilty feelings. Le caramel au beurre salé is now to be found virtually in anything sweet: la glace, les macarons, les bonbons… But the Parisian’s favorite expression of it is le bonbon. Le tiny bonbon. Circumscribed indulgences are small apotheoses to the Parisian. This bonbon is an expert stroke. Expert strokes is something most Parisians end up counting exclusively on their pâtissier for.
When a Parisian reads “Caramel au beurre salé” on a dessert menu, he usually bursts with an irrepressible “Oh, caramel au beurre salé…’”. At this point, the odds for the Parisian to give in reach a peak. Salt miraculously washed sugar away, brushed off decadence. The Parisian is freed.
Amen.
Useful tip: When it comes to Caramel au Beurre Salé, Henri Le Roux is the man.
Sound like a Parisian: “C’ était servi avec une boule de caramel au beurre salé… hyper bon! J’adore le caramel au beurre salé”
Over the past two decades, la racaille has become les racailles. Ironically enough, while the phenomenon grew and numbers went exponential, the word left its uncountable shell to become fully countable. One should hold on to whatever seems reassuring.
Une racaille is a small street thug. Une petite frappe. Racailles are sociological delights. Fully identifiable. Just like small children, la racaille needs the entire panoply: ghetto accent, ghetto brands, ghetto accessories, ghetto references and ghetto aggressiveness.
While foreigners see these French thugs with nothing but amusement, Parisians are authentically scared of them. As the Parisian male has lost most of his gender’s attributes over the past three decades, all of the city’s testosterone seems to be held by les racailles.
Running into une racaille on the street thus leads to genuine moments of discomfort for the Parisian. Physical discomfort first. Most Parisian men have never been in a fight and fear la racaille’s verbal and physical brutality. Parisian women dread la racaille’s aggressive and disrespectful ways. Social discomfort also ensues: la racaille embodies France’s cultural and social collapses over the past decades. Best not to dig. La racaille hates and despises the Parisian. While most Parisians cannot fully resolve himself to hating and despising la racaille. Which makes la racaille hate and despise him even more. In the end, la racaille if full of misinformed angers. The Parisian is full of guilty angelism. All in all, lots of emptiness all around.
La racaille makes life in France less enjoyable. Parisians enjoy with parsimony outdoor public gatherings for “c’est plein de racailles“. Newly-formed adjective racailleux describes these high density environments. Areas like Les Champs-Elysées or Châtelet are being deserted by Parisians for they are just too racailleux.
A very limited array of adjectives apply to the word racaille. Young Parisian women disdainfully talk about “petite racaille“, or “petite racaille de merde“. Young Parisian men prefer to talk about “grosse racaille“. More fear. ”Fausse racaille” usually applies to white racailles. There is no being tough if you are white in France. Verlan words caille-ra or caille are also used by younger Parisians who listen to rap. Older Parisians vastly ignore the phenomenon. Depending on their upbringing and political beliefs, they will either talk about “des jeunes“, “des jeunes de banlieue“, ou “des loubards“.
While Parisians know better than to look a racaille in the eyes, they love to make fun of them in the discreet comfort of their little apartments. All Parisians have their own interpretation of ”l’accent racaille“. Sentences pronounced in that accent are usually sprinkled with misused verlan words and awkward ghetto-like gestures. Parisians with zero street cred at that point will start saying “zyva” (vas-y in verlan). Zyva was street 25 years ago. When talking in that accent, Parisians will usually bust a “9-3″ in there: 93 is France’s ghettoest département and Parisians are keen to let you know that they know that.
To crown the collapse of the French woman, many young women from la banlieue become “racaillettes” – just as easily distinguishable and aggressive as their homies and also walking in packs. La racaillisation of French youth is a rampant phenomenon. Direct consequence is the massive spread of a ghetto subculture characterized by a certain hatred of France, and a fascination for le rap, le foot et l’islam.
Parisian’s attitude towards les racailles explains the spread of the phenomenon as much as it announces the future of the country. Parisians are right in the end… they should practise that ghetto accent.
Useful tip: Regular French kids wearing brands like Lacoste or Tommy Hilfiger don’t do it to look like daddy; they do it to look more street.
Sound like a Parisian: “Non, c’était pourri, y avait plein de racailles, on est partis tôt.”
OK. Winter is cold and vaguely boring. So let’s break the monotony of things.
I am very glad to invite you to the very first Stuff Parisians Like get-together. It will be held chez O Chateau, in our Caves. As I’m a good Parisian, I’m going short notice on you.
Let’s do this next Tuesday (the 19th). Let’s say 7.30pm. Bring a bottle of wine. Friends welcome. The more the merrier.
Please let me know if you (+ x) are coming by responding here. Should be a good time.
Address is 52, rue de l’Arbre sec in the 1st. Metro Louvre-Rivoli (Line 1).
A mardi!
Olivier
PS – And for the record, drinking with strangers is not something Parisians usually like.
In Paris, putain is more than a word. It is a crutch.
A crutch for Parisian’s mental and social impendiments. Parisians love to use their little putain crutch. It is impossible to have a five-minute conversation with a Parisian without hearing the crutch resonate. That is true except if you are a Parisian yourself. Parisians have developed an unusual ability: that of not hearing the sound of the crutch anymore. When pronounced in a sentence by him or by any other person, the word is completely inaudible to the Parisian.
The noun putain refers to a prostitute. The interjection putain refers to no one. In its most common usage, it simply vividly expresses utterly Parisian feelings like discontentment, anger and frustration: stuck in a traffic jam: ”Putain, mais c’est pas possible“; talking about her boss “Il est complètement con, putain“… In those instances, the word works as a very Parisian capital letter or full stop. It is by far the most common usage of the word.
But the reach of the word goes beyond this initial scope. Putain in Paris also defines surprise: witnessing a car accident “Oh putain“; watching the clock: “Putain, il est déjà deux heures ?” It can also be a firm injonction to stop joking around: “Putain, t’es serieux?”, “Attends putain, deux secondes”. In the same realm, used on its own, putain in a conversation can express sympathy and interest when a sad subject is being talked about. “Parisian 1: Et c’est là que son mari l’a quittée. Parisian 2: Putain. Parisian 1: Ouais, et donc elle se retrouve avec trois gamins…” Awkwardly enough, it can also express admiration or encouragement: talking about a really good movie: “Putain, c’était hyper bien”; discovering a friend’s new apartment: “Putainnn”; hearing that someone they knew took a trip around the world: “Putain..?”; watching a game on TV “Allez putain!!”
When follow by de, putain is used to emphasize: “Il a une putain de voiture”, “C’est un putain de restaurant”. This last usage is the only one that will be considered rude. Simply because it is the only instance where the Parisian will actually hear the word.
In the end, the word putain in Paris is used to express surprise, anger, encouragement, frustation, emphasis or admiration. That is for sure one helpful crutch. Be they physical or verbal, extensive use of crutches reveals afflictions. In the case of Parisians, extensive use of the word putain, in its most frequent sense, shows the social need for anger, roughness and frustration. These are social necessities in Paris. If you are not angry about most events of life, ready to swear about it, and not even notice it when you do so – you clearly are not a Parisian. Putain is just another tool to blend in. Running around when everybody walks with crutches would be straight up rude. The choice is simple fopr people who live in Paris: sprinkle every one of your sentences with a putain or go find a city of your own.
While it certainly is helpful, extensive use of crutches has one disadvantage: it creates atrophies and muscular unbalances. The outcome of using putain extensively in Paris is a form of mental laziness. Easy expression of easy emotions. A world of discrete facades. Making up emptiness with easy negativity. Pretending to be there while hiding behind words.
One of Parisians’ favorite people to imitate is people from the South of France. When doing so, he will systematically start or finish his first sentence with a South-of-France-accented “Putainnnggg…” Parisians have quite the sense of observation.
Useful tip: If you don’t know what to say, just say putain.
Sound like a Parisian: “Non mais putain… c’est pas possible bordel!”
Personal note: Just wanted to wish each and every one of you a happy new year. All my very best wishes to you and the ones you love. Good health, good fun, good wine, and lots of love. Thank you for your continuous support with this blog. Really. Cheers. O.
There are three dimensions to being cool in Paris: owning an iPhone, wearing Converse shoes, and eating sushi – at least twice a week. Failing to fulfill one of these conditions will make the Parisian lame, old and uncool.
Over the past two years, sushi has become cool Parisians’ (read under 40yo Parisians – for most Parisians under 40yo are absolutely convinced of the fact that they are cool) food of choice. If a Parisian eats out for lunch with his colleagues every day, it is simply impossible not to go sushi at least once a week. Impossible.
Sushi restaurants have flourished everywhere in Paris. They are usually owned and operated by Chinese people. It is amusing to notice that just like the other two dimensions of cool, sushi in Paris has mostly been made popular by Americans and is mostly made by Chinese people.
As the Parisian first starts eating sushi, he first feels like he is penetrating the secret and precious world of Japanese gastronomy – New York style. Thrill of differentiating culinary exploration. He then realizes that sushi seems to be low in fat and rather cheap. So he starts consuming it more regularly – gains confidence. When the Parisian gains confidence, gentle respect and cryptic devotion turn into absurd self-importance and outrageous rudeness. That is when the Parisian starts making fun of the Chinese accent of the waiter.
In most sushi restaurants in Paris, menus are quite comfortably repetitive and kindly made intelligible with pictures. Parisian men tend to opt for the sushi – brochettes menu. Parisian women, in a noble attempt to minimize caloric impact of their meal, usually favour sashimi. When the Parisian takes someone from province to a sushi restaurant, he will usually show him how to use sticks and will order for him. The Parisian is well-travelled and always considerate.
On top of the myriad of Chinese-owned sushi places, Paris has become very big on sushi delivery. Companies that operate on this market are more into marketing, and not operated by Chinese people. Every other Parisian under 40yo orders sushi on Sunday night.
Sooner or later, sushi eaters will claim to love Japanese food. ”La cuisine japonaise, tu vois, c’est hyper fin, moi j’aime beaucoup“. Loving Japanese food implies nothing but enjoying sushi. The apotheosis of this culinary escalation is the discovery of La Rue Sainte-Anne. 
La Rue Sainte-Anne is Paris’ little Tokyo: one Japanese restaurant after the other. On his first visit to a Japanese restaurant on rue Sainte-Anne, the Parisian will enjoy the pioneering excitement of finally entering the world of “real” Japanese food, with “real” Japanese people cooking and waiting tables. On Rue Sainte-Anne, he will start dismissing sushi (ignorant food) and venture like the true explorer he has always been into sobas, udons, okonomiyakis… He will then start taking friends Rue Sainte-Anne – or more precisely taking them to ”un ptit resto japonais que j’adore, tu vas voir” (conveniently enough – that one restaurant is usually the only one he’s been to). Taking friends there, the Parisian will systematically warn them with the hint of condescendence that is the real cement of a true Parisian friendship “Attention par contre: c’est du vrai japonais, y a pas de sushi, hein“.
Being beyond yet not over one of the attributes of cool is a very Parisian response to the dictatorship of cool: I’m still cool, but I’m also more than cool.
If you do the math, that makes the Parisian super cool.
Useful tip: Unless you love lines, don’t try la Rue Ste Anne on a Saturday night.
Sound like a Parisian: “Oh, hier soir, j’suis resté à la maison, tranquillou, commandé des sushis, rien de spécial…”
Though to most Parisians “Quatre Saisons” rings a pizza bell, “Rameau” has to do with church and ”Rossini” is a way to prepare meat, Parisians are all big time into classical music. Classical music is one of these things Parisians are unable not to claim they like. To the “T’écoutes quoi comme musique?” question, most Parisians will respond saying: “Oh, un peu de tout, des conneries à la radio, un peu de chanson française, Brel, Brassens et puis un peu de classique“.The Parisian at this point never gets more specific. He never shares his love for Bach or Liszt. He never mentions a symphony he never gets tired of. His public effusions for classical music – when elaborated
upon – are always justified by deep sentences like “ça me détend” or “ça me fait du bien“. Parisians never run short of grandiose hommages.
Parisians will never challenge each other when it comes to classical music for they all share the same exact policy about it. This absence of escalation is rather unparisian and truly unconscious. Parisians’ appreciation of classical music has been declared and repeated so many times that each Parisian ends up convincing himself that he does indeed like classical music. The fact that he never actually listens to classical music is no reasonable objection to this conviction.
Each Parisian vividly recalls these 3 minutes last year on a drive to somewhere when he flipped through radio channels and stopped on classical music. After 3 minutes, he got bored and moved on. But these three minutes were times of vast satisfaction (to come).Useful tip: Beautiful classical concerts held inside the splendid Sainte-Chapelle. Look them up!
Sound like a Parisian: “Ouais, mais en même temps, tu vois, Hitler il adorait Wagner”
Some questions define countries. “Fromage ou dessert?” once defined France. But France has changed. Making this beautiful question obsolete. And the choice at the end of a meal even easier. For that question had shrunk to a monolithical interrogation: ”Dessert?” .
Modernity certainly comes at a price.
While dessert is worthy of a question, coffee never is. A meal without coffee in Paris is a bit like a day without alcohol in England. Something rare and peculiar. If there’s a meal, there will be coffee to wrap it up.
Over the past few decades in Paris, dessert has supplanted cheese; then slowly got supplanted by coffee. End of meals are that competitive in Paris. Recently, Parisians started blaming dessert for many of their own problems: dessert started being too pricey, too fattening, too time-consuming. Poor dessert. Meanwhile, coffee was bragging. Self-satisfied. Frequently accompanied with un ptit chocolat - taunting dessert. Arrogant little thing.
Le café gourmand is a just attempt to reconcile coffee with dessert. On one plate: an expresso and an assortment of miniature desserts just seem to celebrate the glory of bitterness and sweetness brought together. Colourful and peaceful joy.
The assortment of desserts that comes with le café gourmand usually includes un mini moelleux au chocolat, une mini crème brûlée, un mini clafoutis, and une petite boule de glace. Mini and sweet is something that satisfies the Parisian. Mini sweet is mini sin. Works.
The trick of le café gourmand is that though it is minimum sin, it is maximum indulgence. You have it all. Coffee and dessert. And multiple desserts to top it off. Restaurateurs with le café gourmand become the Parisian’s partners in crime: flattering his social sense of guilt, while stroking discretely his shameful gourmandise.
Not sure if you (want to come across as though you) still have room for dessert? Café gourmand in its plentiful discretion is here for you.
It is worthy to know though that while ordering it for lunch is fully acceptable, ordering it for dinner is much more suspicious: what at lunch time is viewed by fellow eaters as a charming expression of a sense of soft indulgence becomes in the evening a form of inability to fully enjoy. By some Parisian miracle, time of day started defining whether Le Café Gourmand had a centripetal or centrifugal influence on the self.
In the end, the surge of Cafés Gourmands in Parisian bistrots and restaurants teaches us about the evolution of the status of la gourmandise in Paris: vice in the day time, virtue at night.
Thank God for long and dark Parisian winters…
Useful tip: Screw people who make you feel bad for eating dessert.
Sound like a Parisian: “Oh ouais, tiens, un café gourmand, pourquoi pas, tiens! Alors, combien de cafés gourmands?”
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