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French Quotes

“There was a bustle of people in the street as I made my way to La Bonbonnière, which is, quite simply, the most beautiful candy store in the world. The best thing about La Bonbonnière is that it's all windows. Before I even walk through the door I am greeted by a fuzzy three-foot-high statue of a polar bear trying to dip his paws into a copper cauldron filled with marrons glacés--- whole candied chestnuts. Each one was meticulously wrapped in gold foil, a miniature gift in and of itself. If nothing else, Christmas in Provence reminds you of a time when sugar was a luxury as fine and rare as silk. Back to my assignment: I needed two kinds of nougat: white soft nougat made with honey, almonds, and fluffy egg whites (the angel's part) and hard dark nougat--- more like honey almond brittle--- for the devil. Where are the calissons d'Aix? There they are, hiding behind the cash register, small ovals of almond paste covered with fondant icing. Traditional calissons are flavored with essence of bitter almond, but I couldn't resist some of the more exotic variations: rose, lemon verbena, and génépi, an astringent mountain herb. Though I love the tender chew of nougat and the pliant sweetness of marzipan, my favorite of the Provençal Christmas treats is the mendiant--- a small disk of dark or milk chocolate topped with dried fruit and nuts representing four religious orders: raisins for the Dominicans, hazelnuts for the Augustinians, dried figs for the Franciscans, and almonds for the Carmelites. When Alexandre is a bit older, I think we'll make these together. They seem like an ideal family project--- essentially puddles of melted chocolate with fruit and nut toppings. See, as soon as you say "puddles of melted chocolate," everyone's on board. Though fruits confits--- candied fruit--- are not, strictly speaking, part of les trieze desserts, I can't resist. I think of them as the crown jewels of French confiserie, and Apt is the world capital of production. Dipped in sugar syrup, the fruits become almost translucent; whole pears, apricots, and strawberries glow from within like the gems in a pirate's treasure chest. Slices of kiwi, melon, and angelica catch the light like the panes of a stained-glass window. All the dazzling tastes of a Provençal summer, frozen in time.”

SugarFrenchFruitsSweetsChocolatesAlmondsConfectionsCandiedCandy StoreProvencal
Book:Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes
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“My mom hates to cook," Rosie said. "But every time she's had to go to a potluck, she brings one thing. A trifle she makes, with brownies and pudding and candy and whipped cream." Rosie had plated her dessert into two glasses- she was pretty sure they were champagne coupes- and the two chefs poised their spoons at the rim of the glasses. "This is my version of my mom's trifle. Made with moelleux au chocolat, chocolate mousse, vanilla whipped cream, and chocolate feuilletine between each layer." Rosie loved moelleux au chocolat. The internet seemed to translate it as molten chocolate cake, but every moelleux au chocolat Rosie had had in Paris wasn't like a molten chocolate cake at all, but like the richest, fudgiest brownie on the planet. Which made it the perfect base for her trifle. And then the feuilletine, Rosie thought, would give the same crunch as a Kit Kat.”

DessertFrenchChocolatesRosieTrifle
Book:Love à la Mode
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“I looked into the display window this morning. On a white marble shelf are aligned innumerable boxes, packages, cornets of silver and gold paper, rosettes, bells, flowers, hearts, and long curls of multicolored ribbon. In glass bells and dishes lie the chocolates, the pralines, Venus's nipples, truffles, mendiants, candied fruits, hazelnut clusters, chocolate seashells, candied rose petals, sugared violets... Protected from the sun by the half-blind that shields them, they gleam darkly, like sunken treasure, Aladdin's cave of sweet clichés. And in the middle she has built a magnificent centerpiece. A gingerbread house, walls of chocolate-coated pain d'épices with the detail piped on in silver and gold icing, roof tiles of florentines studded with crystallized fruits, strange vines of icing and chocolate growing up the walls, marzipan birds singing in chocolate trees... And the witch herself, dark chocolate from the top of her pointed hat to the hem of her long cloak half-astride a broomstick that is in reality a giant guimauve, the long twisted marshmallows that dangle from the stalls of sweet-vendors on carnival days...”

WindowFrenchSweetsChocolatesCandiedConfectioneryDisplays
Book:Chocolat
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“Anouk reads a book of nursery rhymes behind the counter and keeps an eye on the door as I prepare a batch of mendiants- thus named because they were sold by beggars and gypsies years ago- in the kitchen. These are my own favorites- biscuit-sized discs of dark, milk, or white chocolate upon which have been scattered lemon-rind, almonds, and plump Malaga raisins. Anouk likes the white ones, though I prefer the dark, made with the finest seventy-percent couverture.... Bitter-smooth on the tongue with the taste of the secret tropics.”

FrenchSweetsChocolates
Book:Chocolat
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“Almost immediately after jazz musicians arrived in Paris, they began to gather in two of the city’s most important creative neighborhoods: Montmartre and Montparnasse, respectively the Right and Left Bank haunts of artists, intellectuals, poets, and musicians since the late nineteenth century. Performing in these high-profile and popular entertainment districts could give an advantage to jazz musicians because Parisians and tourists already knew to go there when they wanted to spend a night out on the town. As hubs of artistic imagination and experimentation, Montmartre and Montparnasse therefore attracted the kinds of audiences that might appreciate the new and thrilling sounds of jazz. For many listeners, these locations leant the music something of their own exciting aura, and the early success of jazz in Paris probably had at least as much to do with musicians playing there as did other factors. In spite of their similarities, however, by the 1920s these neighborhoods were on two very different paths, each representing competing visions of what France could become after the war. And the reactions to jazz in each place became important markers of the difference between the two areas and visions. Montmartre was legendary as the late-nineteenth-century capital of “bohemian Paris,” where French artists had gathered and cabaret songs had filled the air. In its heyday, Montmartre was one of the centers of popular entertainment, and its artists prided themselves on flying in the face of respectable middle-class values. But by the 1920s, Montmartre represented an established artistic tradition, not the challenge to bourgeois life that it had been at the fin de siècle. Entertainment culture was rapidly changing both in substance and style in the postwar era, and a desire for new sounds, including foreign music and exotic art, was quickly replacing the love for the cabarets’ French chansons. Jazz was not entirely to blame for such changes, of course. Commercial pressures, especially the rapidly growing tourist trade, eroded the popularity of old Montmartre cabarets, which were not always able to compete with the newer music halls and dance halls. Yet jazz bore much of the criticism from those who saw the changes in Montmartre as the death of French popular entertainment. Montparnasse, on the other hand, was the face of a modern Paris. It was the international crossroads where an ever changing mixture of people celebrated, rather than lamented, cosmopolitanism and exoticism in all its forms, especially in jazz bands. These different attitudes within the entertainment districts and their institutions reflected the impact of the broader trends at work in Paris—the influx of foreign populations, for example, or the advent of cars and electricity on city streets as indicators of modern technology—and the possible consequences for French culture. Jazz was at the confluence of these trends, and it became a convenient symbol for the struggle they represented.”

JazzFranceParisFrench1930s1920sBohemiaInterwar Years
Book:Making Jazz French: Music and Modern Life in Interwar Paris
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“Maman ordered the pork meatball bánh mì, and I ordered the lemongrass chicken bánh mì, with an order of shrimp salad rolls to share. "People forget about the French and the Vietnamese, sometimes," she told me as we waited. "The French brought their baguettes, and the Vietnamese used them to make bánh mì sandwiches. And then the French came home with a love for Vietnamese chicken soup deep in their souls." "There are perks to imperialism," I noted.”

ImperialismFrenchVietnameseBaguette
Book:A Table by the Window
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“I hated tête de veau (boiled cow brain), and who wouldn't, but loved escargots in a creamy garlic, butter, and parsley sauce. The word "cerise" was underlined four times, along with the words "Ma petite-fille Sophie, elle aime n'importe quoi avec les cerises." I still loved them. My visits to Champvert always coincided with cherry season, and Grand-mère Odette always made sure a bowl of plump black cherries sat in front of me. When I wasn't tasting one of her wonderful creations, I'd stuff one cherry after another into my meager mouth and spit the pits into a bowl, reveling in the juicy and sweet explosions hitting my tongue. As she whisked the batter for her clafoutis, stating how important it was to keep the pits in the cherries or the dessert would lose its nutty flavor, she'd tell me about some of her other recipes, the ingredients rolling off her tongue like a new exotic language I wanted to learn every word of. Saffron, nutmeg, coriander, paprika, and kumquat- what were these things, I wondered?”

IngredientsFrenchCherriesLikes And DislikesFrench CuisineCerise
Book:The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux
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“que ferais-je sans ce monde que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questions où être ne dure qu'un instant où chaque instant verse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir été sans cette onde où à la fin corps et ombre ensemble s'engloutissent que ferais-je sans ce silence gouffre des murmures haletant furieux vers le secours vers l'amour sans ce ciel qui s'élève sur la poussieère de ses lests que ferais-je je ferais comme hier comme aujourd'hui regardant par mon hublot si je ne suis pas seul à errer et à virer loin de toute vie dans un espace pantin sans voix parmi les voix enfermées avec moi Translation... what would I do without this world what would I do without this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where every instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been without this wave where in the end body and shadow together are engulfed what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love without this sky that soars above its ballast dust what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before peering out of my deadlight looking for another wandering like me eddying far from all the living in a convulsive space among the voices voiceless that throng my hiddenness”

PoemsFrenchBeckett
Book:Collected Poems in English and French
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“Que les poètes morts laissent la place aux autres. Et nous pourrions tout de même voir que c'est notre vénération devant ce qui a été déjà fait, si beau et si valable que ce soit, qui nous pétrifie, qui nous stabilise et nous empêche de prendre contact avec la force qui est dessous, que l'on appelle l'énergie pensante, la force vitale, le déterminisme des échanges, les menstrues de la lune ou tout ce qu'on voudra.”

InspirationalInspirationPoetryTheaterTheatreFrenchEssayWrittingArtaud
Book:The Theater and Its Double
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“The French take their bûche de Noël, the traditional Christmas Yule log cake, much more seriously. Gwendal had been training at school, and he came back with snapshots of his gleaming white glaçage, slick as black ice, decorated with a forest of bitty spun-sugar pine trees and spotted meringue mushrooms. Who knew my husband had such talents? I was bordering on jealous when he came home with a foolproof recipe for proper Parisian macaroons. We decided to use one of our signature flavors, honey and fresh thyme, for the outside of our bûche, with a layer of tonka-bean mousse and a center of apricot sorbet for acidity and pizzazz.”

ChristmasCakeIce CreamFrenchFlavorsDecoratedPatissierYule Log
Book:Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes
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“Japan is obsessed with French pastry. Yes, I know everyone who has access to French pastry is obsessed with it, but in Tokyo they've taken it another level. When a patissier becomes sufficiently famous in Paris, they open a shop in Tokyo; the department store food halls feature Pierre Herme, Henri Charpentier, and Sadaharu Aoki, who was born in Tokyo but became famous for his Japanese-influenced pastries in Paris before opening shops in his hometown. And don't forget the famous Mister Donut, which I just made up. Our favorite French pastry shop is run by a Japanese chef, Terai Norihiko, who studied in France and Belgium and opened a small shop called Aigre-Douce, in the Mejiro neighborhood. Aigre-Douce is a pastry museum, the kind of place where everything looks too beautiful to eat. On her first couple of visits, Iris chose a gooey caramel brownie concoction, but she and Laurie soon sparred over the affections of Wallace, a round two-layer cake with lime cream atop chocolate, separated by a paper-thin square chocolate wafer. "Wallace is a one-woman man," said Laurie. Iris giggled in the way eight-year-olds do at anything that smacks of romance. We never figured out why they named a cake Wallace. I blame IKEA. I've always been more interested in chocolate than fruit desserts, but for some reason, perhaps because it was summer and the fruit desserts looked so good and I was not quite myself the whole month, I gravitated toward the blackberry and raspberry items, like a cup of raspberry puree with chantilly cream and a layer of sponge cake.”

FrenchTokyoPastriesDessertsCakesPastry ChefPatisserieFruit Flavors
Book:Pretty Good Number One: An American Family Eats Tokyo
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“We'll start with Un Petite Flamme. It's our espresso macaron. Go on, try it." She looks down at her plate. "This one? With the gold?" "Yup, go on." She puts it against her tongue like she's taking communion. "Good?" She nods quickly. Then I place a purple one on her plate. Rilla lifts it up. "This one has the jam inside, right?" "Yes; it's Remede de Deliverance. Black currant filling, in the middle of the cream." She closes her eyes while she eats it slowly. So slowly I worry she will need to come up for air. "What does that mean?" she asks when she has finally swallowed the last tiny mouthful. "Remede de Deliverance? 'Rescue remedy.' It's violet-flavored.”

FrenchFlavorsMacaronsTaste TestGal Pals
Book:The Color of Tea
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“It's not my fault the floors are porous. Take it up with management." He glowers. "Maybe I will. And maybe I'll have you evicted." "Good luck with that," I say with a smirk. "You know how French laws work." His threat is empty. When it comes to real estate, the laws in France protect the renters, not the owners. Even if he starts the eviction process, it could still take up to three years to get rid of me.”

LawFrenchReal EstateThrowing Shade
Book:The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique
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“The market smelled of hay and roasted nuts; she bought a newspaper cone of almonds from a woman stirring them over an open fire. She bought thick sandy leeks, a rope of garlic and a pound of tomatoes; she bought a long batard of sourdough bread, a dozen bluish speckled eggs, a jar of cream, because now she had a refrigerator and could keep such things for more than an hour or two. She lifted the paper lid of the cream and tasted it, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand; she remembered the pillowy clouds of Gruyère grated onto her piece of waxed paper at Les Halles, the cheese maker young and handsome and milk-fed himself; he tried to teach her the French for being in love with him: mon cocotte, mon chouchou, ma petit lapin, Madame, s'il vous plaît. She walked the stalls, and on the edge of the market, a fishmonger laid out his catch on two blocks of ice: strange curled squids and spider crabs, silvery piles of sardines, their eyes still sparkling, thick slabs of some white-meated fish, its head as big as a dinner plate.”

FrenchSeafoodFrench FoodFarmers MarketMfk Fisher
Book:The Arrangement
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“Once outside, the detectives advanced up an escalator and to a floor with two elevators. One was labeled for the staff, and the other for guests. In the corner was a plain grey door which led up a staircase. “Monsieur Leor…” Jean began. “Are you up for a challenge?” “You want to run up the staircase.” Leor concluded, plainly. “Like schoolboys?” “Ouais, monsieur,” Jean replied, with a silly grin. “You can consider it your preliminary training, if that helps your dignity.”

HumorRaceStairsDetectivesFrenchGoofy
Book:Beyond Chivalry
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“Avis named her business Paradise Pastry because she imagined cathedrals. She thought about the stonemasons, glassblowers, sculptors- who gave lifetimes to the creation of beauty. Every sugar crust she rolled, every simple 'tarte Tatin' was a bit of a church. She consecrated herself to it: later, it became her tribute to her daughter and the unknown into which she'd disappeared. She had her cathedral to enter, to console her. Her friend Jean-Francoise, chef at La Petit Choux, said that her pastries would be transcendent, if only she wasn't American.”

BusinessFrenchCathedralsPastriesPastryAvis MuirFelice Muir
Book:Birds of Paradise
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“By the time Rosie struggled to sit up, Henry sat in front of her with a pink pastry box. He lifted the lid, and Rosie peered inside to see the tiny apple rose tart, the "petals" impossibly thin, caramelized and shining with a dusting of sugar. "It's a rose- get it?" Henry said, and Rosie felt her breath catch in her throat. "It's beautiful." Carefully, Rosie lifted the tart out of the box. "Look at how thin the petals are- they must have used a mandoline. And the bake on the bottom is so even. It's hard to be so accurate with something so small." "Are you going to analyze it or eat it?" he joked. It looked delicious, but she almost didn't want to eat it. Henry had gotten her a rose, something far more beautiful than any flower could ever be. She wished she could keep it in her room forever, but that was part of the magic of food. It didn't last. It couldn't. Each bite was only a moment that transformed into a memory.”

RoseMemorableFrenchApplePastryTart
Book:Love à la Mode
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“On account of their puny size and disappointing taste, in France wild pears are known as "poires d'angoisse" or pears of anguish. In Versailles, though, in the kitchen garden, pears are bred for pleasure. Of the five hundred pear trees, the best usually fruit in January--- the royal favorite, a type called "Bon Chrétien d'Hiver," or "Good Christian of Winter." Each pear is very large--- the blossom end engorged, the eye deeply sunk--- whilst the skin is a finely grained pale yellow, with a red blush on the side that has been touched by the sunlight. It is known for its brittle, lightly scented, almost translucent flesh that drips with a sugary juice; that soaks your mouth when your teeth sink into it. The gardener here, Jean-Baptiste de La Quintinie, says that when a pear is ripe its neck yields to the touch and smells slightly of wet roses. This winter they have not ripened, though, but have frozen to solid gold. Murders of crows sit on the branches of the pear trees, pecking at the rime of them. They have become fairy fruit; those dangling impossibilities. What would you give to taste one? Spring always comes, though. Is it not magic? The world's deep magic. March brings the vast respite of thaw, that huge unburdening, that gentling--- all winter's knives and jaws turning soft and blunt; little chunks of ice riding off on their own giddy melt; everything dripping and plipping and making little streams and rivulets; tender pellucid fingers feeling their way towards the sea; all the tiny busywork. And with the returning sun, too, sex. Tulips, first found as wild flowers in Central Asia--- named for the Persian word "tulipan," for turban--- thrust and bow in the warm soil of Versailles, their variegated "broken" petals licked with carmine flames. The early worm-catchers begin their chorus, skylarks and song thrushes courting at dawn. Catkins dangle like soft, tiny pairs of elven stockings. Fairy-sized wigs appear on the pussy willows. Hawthorn and sloe put on their powder and patches, to catch a bee's eye.”

SpringtimeFrenchPearsSexual AttractionTulips
Book:The Modern Fairies
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“He'd plated one of the desserts in a beautiful glass bowl, complete with what he said was the homemade vanilla bean ice cream he'd made the previous night, and garnished the pear with the sauce, a cinnamon stick, sprigs of thyme, vanilla bean pods, and pomegranate seeds. "The sauce?" I asked, dipping in my spoon. "Vanilla bean seeds, red wine, sugar, and nutmeg," he said. "If there's anything I know, it's how to make sauces with wine." I dipped my spoon in and tasted it. Oh my God, heaven on my tongue. I eyed him warily. "You really do know sauces. I's simply delicious," I said. "But I taste a few more ingredients? Orange? Star anise? A dash or two of pastis, maybe?" "Your palate is just like your grandmother's. I can never get anything past her either.”

IngredientsDessertSauceFrenchVanillaHomemadePears
Book:The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux
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“[...] le principe consistant à chevaucher le tigre. Il peut alors signifier que lorsqu’un cycle de civilisation touche à sa fin, il est difficile d’aboutir à un résultat quelconque en résistant, en s’opposant directement aux forces en mouve­ment. Le courant est trop fort, on serait englouti. L’essentiel est de ne pas se laisser impressionner par la toute-puissance et le triomphe apparents des forces de l’époque. Privées de lien avec tout principe supérieur, ces forces ont, en réalité, un champ d’action limité. Il ne faut donc pas s’hypnotiser sur le présent ni sur ce qui nous entoure, mais envisager aussi les conditions susceptibles d’apparaître plus tard. La règle à suivre peut alors consister à laisser libre cours aux forces et aux processus de l'époque, mais en demeurant ferme et prêt à intervenir quand « le tigre, qui ne peut pas se jeter sur qui le chevauche, sera fatigué de courir ».”

FrenchFrançaisFrJulius EvolaChevaucher Le Tigre
Book:Ride the Tiger: A Survival Manual for the Aristocrats of the Soul
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“She speaks French,” Graeme muttered. Traigh turned quite serious and nodded his head. “Aye, she be speakin’ French. Mayhap she learned it from listenin’ to ye and yer French friend speakin’ it these past days.” Though his tone sounded serious, there was a decidedly sarcastic undertone to it. “Ye knew,” Graeme said as he glared angrily at his brother. Traigh feigned innocence. “Moi?” Graeme’s glare intensified. “Why did ye no’ tell me? Why did she no’ tell me?” Traigh smiled thoughtfully and placed a hand on Graeme’s shoulder . “Ye did no’ ask.”

FrenchGraemeTraigh
Book:Isle of the Blessed
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“Il s'avança un fauteuil, s'installa entre sa femme et sa mère et, tandis que Dawn parlait, il lui prit la main. Il y a cent façons de prendre la main de quelqu'un. Selon que c'est la main d'un enfant, la main d'un ami, la main d'un parent agé, la main de celui qui part, la main du mourant, la main du mort. Il tenait la main de Dawn comme on tient la main d'une femme adorée, toute sa ferveur passant dans son étreinte, comme si, par cette pression de sa paume, il arrivait à échanger leurs âmes, comme si ces doigts enlacés symbolisaient toute leur intimité. Il tenait la main de Dawn comme s'il ne savait rien de leur situation présente.”

FrenchMain
Book:American Pastoral
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