A BELATED REPLY TO MACIEK

On December 8th, Maciek, in a comment to my blog post, writing from Poland, asked why my family left Suwalki, Poland. Somehow, I failed to see his question, but yesterday, in reviewing the year's posts, I found it. So, Maciek, my apologies, and here is the answer, as I know it. In the nineteenth century, my father's family was named Zarembovitch. They lived in Suwalki, Poland, as I mentioned. Apparently times were very hard, and something close to famine hit the area, so in the 1870's, member of the family left Suwalki and emigrated to Paris, France. There they took up residence mostly in the Jewish section, in the Marais [near rue des Francs Bourgeois], and worked as capmakers, tailors, and so forth. My father's great grandfather was one of those who brought his family to Paris, and one son, Abraham, decided to continue on to America in 1880, shortly after my father's father was born. At Castle Garden in New York [the entry point for immigrants before the more famous Ellis Island was opened], the Immigration Officer asked him for his name. He said, "Abraham Zarembovitch." "Not in America," the official replied. Abraham's brother, Wolf Zarembovitch, had preceded him to America, and had met him at Castle Garden. "What is your name?" the official asked the brother. "Wolf," he replied. "Very well," the official decided, "you are Abraham Wolf." Somehow, an extra "f": got added to the name, and we became the Wolff family. My grandfather, Barnet Wolff, then a baby, grew up to become a leader of the Socialist Party in New York City and the inspiration to me, many years later, for my own political career.

I only learned about the Suwalki roots two years ago when I discovered that I have Parisian relatives -- two retired science professors named Andre and Jacqueline Zarembowich.

FOR JENNIFER

One more time to the market, for the makings of the last dinner I shall prepare here in Paris, before we head home next Tuesday. Susie opted for quail, so I got two cailles, san tetes. Some courgettes [that is Zucchini, in English, but that is such an ugly word that I cannot bring myself to use it. Courgettes sounds infinitely better, and tastes the same.] Then home.

Today, for some mysterious reason, Boulevard Saint Germain was blocked off by Police, and an enormous outpouring of young people took it over, dancing, fire eating, shouting, listening to ear-shattering music played over huge amps on trucks. I have no idea what was up, but there were some thousands of people parading down the Boulevard. One truck had placards calling for free medicines for AIDS sufferers, but I suspect that was just an excuse for what was basically a celebration of the end of summer.

In a desperate effort to use up whatever I found in the kitchen, I peeled and sliced a dozen shallots, carmelized the courgettes, sauted the shallots with butter [Julia Childs is quite right that everything tastes better with butter], grilled the quail until they were "rose" [i.e., pink], and served it all up with a Beaume de Venise for me and a bottle of rose for Susie.

I started with rabbit and ended with quail. Not too bad. Tomorrow, we shall see my French cousins, Andre and Jacqueline Zarembowitch [retired distinguished scientists -- Andre's grandfather was my great-grandfather's brother].

I hope you have all checked out the link to my son's talk. He is truly brilliant -- visiting this semester at Harvard Law School -- the leading young Civil Proceduralist in the country -- and a really great looker. I believe I have what, in a different context, would be called trophy sons.

SUCCESS!!!

Success has crowned my efforts! I am proud and pleased to announce that I have succeeded in creating un vrai boeuf bourguignon. The entire process took about four and a half hours today, and an hour or so yesterday [everything marinates for twenty-four hours] and the result now sits on a large pot on the stove, awaiting the dinner hour. I shall follow tradition, and serve it with little boiled potatoes. It is rich, intense in taste, deep in color, and delicious.

There is enough to serve at least four comfortably, so Susie and I will have several dinners before it is all eaten. One of the odd and unexpected aspects of the process is that near the end, after the pot of meat and vegetables has been simmering for three hours, one separates and [supposedly] throws away the vegetables. Susie is at the moment reading a book about the creation of style in 18th century France, and she reports that in the days of the Bourbon kings, the aristocracy did not eat vegetables. They were considered suspect, and good only for peasants, who could not afford to eat meat. The veggies that I separated out from the pot taste wonderful, and we shall eat them tonight or tomorrow night.

I have had greater triumphs, of course -- the birth of my two sons, for example, and the time I successfully played Beethoven's Opus 59 #3, with the super-fast viola part in the last movement. But this ranks right up there.

AN INNOCENT ABROAD

Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of Paris [my apologies to the Bard.] It was in the eighties today, sunny and lovely, and all Paris was in the streets and the cafes enjoying what may be the last such day before autumn. I decided to show the flag, and wore my Obama T-shirt, which drew approving nods and thumbs up from several passers-by. For those of you who are following this blog, I can report that the quail were a success, along with some delicious sauteed mushrooms. Julia Child was entirely correct in her profound observation that everything tastes better with butter.

And now for another of my Panglossian predictions. [I seem awash in literary allusions today -- a nod to culture.] The tide has turned. The Republican hysteria over Obama's anodyne talk to returning grade schoolers has made them laughing stocks. George Will has broken all precedent by writing the first true words of his entire career, about Afghanistan, no less. And with Congress returned to Washington from their long August encounters with the total crazies of the wingnut right, we are back to serious work on a large, history-making health care reform bill.

Herewith the prediction. A bill will pass. It will be imperfect. It will be a major step forward. And it will not be the last word on the subject.

Unlike the pundits of the mainstream media, I can actually remember what I say. Therefore, if I turn out to be wrong, I will eschew Dorade royale and quail and hazelnut encrusted rabbit and instead, in full view of my vast audience, consume a healthy portion of crow [without the blessings of butter.]

Meanwhile, we are off for dinner at La Rotisserie du Beaujolais -- across the street from Tour d'Argent, just en face the Seine, seated in our favorite window alcove, and -- if all works out well -- visited by the large, fat, lazy cat who graces the restaurant with his presence -- a cat appropriately named Beaujolais. Life truly does not get any better than this.

OFF TO THE MARKET

Not THAT market! Not the foundation of liberty, the bulwark of the Free World, the Eden of Bentham, Friedman, and Adam Smith, The God That Failed, the last refuge of Rational Actors, the Museum of Mystified Commodities, the implacable mechanism for the exploitation of the working class -- I mean a REAL market, the open air market in the Place Maubert, half a block from our Paris apartment.

This morning, after several cups of strong coffee, half an orange, a piece of a baguette, and some Bonne Maman jam, I took my shopping bag and set out for an initial foray into the Saturday market. My first purchase was 100 grams of raw hazelnuts -- an odd choice, you might think, but an essential ingredient in hazelnut encrusted rabbit. [I had already ascertained that the apartment's kitchen still contained some curry powder and oriental five spices powder, which must be mixed with the finely chopped hazelnuts before the rabbit pieces are dredged in a beaten egg and coated with the mixture.] Then off the to butcher's stand, where I asked for a demi-lapin, coupe, sans tete. [I pay for the head, needless to say, or more precisely for half of the head, after he has split a skinned rabbit up the middle lengthwise, but I don't cook the head, and think it better not to pretend that I do.] As I was about to leave, I spotted a mound of plump quail. Susie is very partial to quail, so I bought two for another dinner. On to the fishmonger. His display was unusually elaborate and tempting, but I have just arrived, and I am not quite ready to be adventuresome with unfamiliar crustaceans, so I just bought a lovely dorade royale, which I asked for "en fillet sans peau." I have cooked dorade royale many times, in our little microwave/convection oven. With pepper and salt and some bits of butter, it makes a very simple but delicious main course, and frees up the two burners on our plaque induction stove top for other things.

Well, so much for main courses. Now, it was time for veggies and fruit and such. I already had some shallots, purchased yesterday as soon as we arrived, so I picked out some mushrooms, some onions, and a garlic bulb. Yesterday, I stopped at Than Binh's vegetable market on the corner and bought a piece of gingerroot so fresh that when I snapped it off a larger piece, the smell of ginger wafted into even my rather challenged olfactory nerve endings. The ginger here bears no relation to the dried out excuse that Whole Foods tries to pass off as the genuine article. [Never mind that the President of Whole Foods has pooh-poohed the efforts at health care reform, sparking a boycott across Yuppie America.] Then a big bunch of fresh carrots -- carmelized carrots, pan-fried in butter with some brown sugar, is a delicious vegetable course, and I figured it would complement the dorade royale nicely. A lot of baby potatoes, always a nice starch. And then real French green beans, slender and fresh, ready to be parboiled in the water that the potatoes come out of [with only two burners, I am always calculating ways to save space on the stove.] Finally, a big bunch of flowers for Susie, who was sleeping in, flattened by the travel, despite the Business Class upgrade.

There is an open air market in Place Maubert every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, but the Saturday market is far and away the best. The market regularly features stands devoted to clothing and quasi-African art and such, all of which entrances Susie, but I stick to the food.

Yesterday, I bought some Beaume de Venise for me and a nice bottle of Sancerre blanc for Susie, so we have wine, at least for the moment. Later today, I shall walk up rue Monge half a block to Kayser's, the best bakery in Paris, for some more brioches a l'orange [Susie has already finished the two I bought yesterday] and another baguette. This evening, we shall have a simple meal at home, probably the dorade royale.

We have arrived in Paris.

BOB AND SUSIE'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE

We set out for Paris from Chapel Hill, NC on Wednesday at 11:30 a.m. to drive the 150 miles to Charlotte so that we could try the newly established US Airways non-stop flight to Paris. Two hours on the highway is a breeze for most people [my son, Tobias, regularly drives twice that without thinking abut it], but I was pretty tired by the time we found our way to the far northeast corner of Long Term Lot 1, and grabbed the van to the Terminal. As we got out of the van, Susie remarked ruefully that she had left her cane in the car. It was too late to go back, so I promised that we would buy a new one as soon as we got to Paris, to leave there along with all our other belongings in our 5th arrondisement apartment.

As we settled down to wait for our flight, one of the people at the desk announced that the flight was oversold, and that they were offering $550 per person and overnight accomodations for anyone willing to leave the next day. We were sorely tempted, since we had no one waiting for us, no hotel reservaions, and it made no difference at all which day we got to our apartment. What closed the deal was the realization that if we delayed a day, we could go back to the car and get Susie's cane.

A long night at a grungy Ramada Inn with very friendly people working there, a tedious wait at the airport the next day, and then we boarded, discovering that the nice US Airways lady had put us in Business Class! I just checked on line, and that upgrade was worth roughly $4000 over and above the $1100 in US Airways vouchers in our pockets.

So, here we are, a good deal richer, having had undoubtedly our most comfortable flight ever to France, and just one day later than planned. Wonder of wonders, when I plugged in my computer, it connected instantly to the Internet. Even the television worked as it should. The only mystery was that the little garbage pail in the kitchen has disappeared. Very strange.

I shall be blogging from Paris, but not as often as I do at home. There is boeuf bourguignon to be attempted, an open air concert in the Bois de Vincennes to sample, and always, the pleasure of going down to the end of our block and looking at Notre Dame de Paris, the most beautiful building in the world.

Life isn't too bad for an old leftie.

WE WILL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS

This will be my last post until next week, as I am getting ready to fly to the West Coast to see my son, Patrick, his wife Diana Schneider, and my two grandchildren, Samuel [three and a half] and Athena [just turned one.] Samuel is now talking a blue streak, so I will for the first time be able to have a conversation with him.



Casting about for something to blog about as I go out the door, I came upon a story in today's NY TIMES, about an obviously very wealthy couple, Linda and Bryant Edwards, who have just renovated an apartment on the rue du Cloitre Notre Dame, on the Ile de la Cite. This caught my eye, because I know that little street very well. If you are standing in front of Notre Dame, with the hordes of tourists, looking up at the magnificent facade, rue du cloitre Notre Dame is just to your left, running along the north side of the cathedral. Until recently, this street was the home of Le Vieux Bistro, an unprepossessing little restaurant with the best boeuf Bourguignonne in the entire world. Now, alas, the restaurant has disappeared. The Edwards' apartment is on the first floor, which means one flight up, overlooking the lovely syacmore shaded park behind Notre Dame and a stone's throw from the little bridge that connects ile de la Cite with ile St. Louis.

The apartment is described in the story as 160 square meters, or 1723 square feet. That is vast as Paris apartments go -- about five times the size of our pied-a-terre across the river on the Left Bank. Of course, their apartment is in what is described as a 1905 Haussmann building, and ours is in a seventeenth century building looking out on an interior courtyard. But the Edwards' place is pretty obviously very classy.

All of this made me especially eager to get back to Paris. We will be leaving in just under four weeks, for a three week stay, coming back in time for me to begin lecturing on The Thought of Karl Marx in the Osher Lifelong Learning Program at Duke. Fortunately, I shall be able to continue blogging from Paris. One of the weird things ab out the web is that geographic distance has no significance. The chap who contacted me from Riga might just as well have been down the block. It is going to take a few years for this remarkable fact to percolate through our understanding of the world, but as it does, it will turn a great many things upside down, aesthetically, religiously, and socially, as well as politically.

So, to those of you who have found your way to this site, stay with me, and I shall be back on line next Tuesday. Meanwhile, contact Organize for America [http://www.mybarackobama.com, ]join up to go to a congressional town hall meeting in your district, and help to counterbalance the organized Republican thugs who are once again attempting to hijack democracy in America.

AN IDLE THOUGHT

I have long thought that Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III is, hands down, the dumbest member of the Senate. However, Chuck Grassley's tweet about the Obama's night out in Paris is giving me serious doubts.

LA FONTAINE DE MARS

On their last night in Europe, Barack and Michelle went out on a date -- dinner at a little bistro in the 7th arrondissement called La Fontaine de Mars. Founded in 1908, the restaurant has been owned and run by three couples, most recently by Christiane and Jacques Boudon. As a devoted Parisian, albeit of the 5th arrondissement, I was thrilled that the First Couple had chosen a modest bistro with red and white checked tablecloths, rather than one of the grand, fancy, impossibly expensive three star restaurants, any one of which would have been delighted to put on a culinary extravanganza suitable for a king of the ancien regime.

What might they have had to eat? A look at la carte suggests perhaps les escargots and a terrine de gibier maison et chutney de figues, as entrees, followed by magret de canard and a boudin basque de Christian Parra aux pommes fruits. Washed down with a 2005 pinot noir, to which one might add a bottle of eau gazeuze -- San Pelligrino, perhaps -- and two cafes, and the bill, service compris, would come to 110 Euros. A tad over $150, all in. This is roughly what Susie and I spend for a dinner in Paris, and certainly no more than a comfortably fixed upper middle class couple would spend in New York, Washington, or Chicago. With grandma watching the kids, a quite reasonable tab.

Now, I confess to being partial to the Obamas. I am, after all, writing this post while wearing an Obama T-shirt. But all of this seems to me at one and the same time a more sophisticated and a simpler night out than would have been managed by any other First Couple in the last hundred years, with the possible exception of Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter.

Little things like this mean something to me, even though I have no illusions that there is any significance for affairs of state.