The Search for Paris-Brest

       Last summer, my eldest son spent a week with my cousin and her family in Rennes, which is across France from us, in Brittany. Showing remarkable consideration for our language-aquisition needs, my cousin married a Frenchman. They have a young son. I suggested that perhaps Drew could come for a week and do some babysitting in exchange for being spoken to in French. Not only did Drew improve his French during the week in Brittany, he broadened his culinary experience. He tried salted caramel ice cream, buttery galettes, and Paris-Brest. Paris-Brest is a pastry inspired by the Paris to Brest (and back to Paris) bike race, which was held initially in 1891. It may not be as famous worldwide as the Tour de France, but it was been around longer . . . and I have yet to taste a Tour de France pastry. Anyway, the Paris-Brest is shaped like a bike wheel, which is to say, circular with a hole in the middle. I didn't know this interesting fact -- or anything else about the dessert -- until yesterday morning. When Drew returned from Rennes last August, he mentioned the Paris-Brest and asked if I thought the bakeries around here would sell it. I asked my friend, who used to live in Paris, and she said the French bakeries might. Then I forgot the whole thing.
       Then last week, when we were skiing in France, Drew asked if we could stop at a bakery on the way home to check on the Paris-Brest. We said sure, but he fell asleep in the car and we didn't see any bakeries, so the search was delayed. As this past weekend approached, Drew again asked if we could go to Saint-Julien or another neighboring French town. I began to wonder about this pastry that had so captured by son's imagination, so I looked it up. When I saw the picture, I was immediately onboard with the hunt. I wish I could insert a picture here. Unfortunately, I can't find a site that will let me use a photo for free. While I completely support people's efforts to make a living by photographing pastries (as a matter of principle), I don't feel like purchasing an illustration just now. You'll have to look it up yourself to see what I mean. The pastry is round, with toasted almonds on top, and also filled with praline-flavored cream. I decided that we needed to find one. For Drew, of course. Because I love my son.
       Step one was trying to find a bakery that advertised its products online. I found some, but none with the Paris-Brest on the menu. The next part of the plan involved waiting for Johanna to wake up. I then asked her nicely if she would like to call a bakery and ask. Of course I could have done it, but she needs to practice her French, so as a good mom, I gave her the opportunity. Plus, learning how to make international telephone calls is a Valuable Life Lesson. Johanna connected to the bakery and very sweetly asked if they had Paris-Brest. They told her that they could make one, but she would have to preorder, and it was too late to do it today. Strike one. We could have preordered for the next day, but the pastry scavenger hunt was giving some zest to my day, and I didn't want to give up so easily.
       Eric decided that it would be fun to walk into Geneva and check out some bakeries. Lucas and Johanna opted to stay home (we told them that he who does not walk does not eat, but they didn't care). Drew, Eric, and I marched ourselves the three miles into town, checking a few bakeries on the way and ending up at Martel, which is one of Geneva's largest. No luck. We also tried Globus department store, both the food court and the fancy grocery in the basement, without finding the cagey bicycle wheel. We did find a man selling burritos and churros in the courtyard outside, and, as Mexican food is even more elusive around here than specific pastries, we bought a chicken and bean burrito. Then we boarded the tram and rode home. I told Drew that if he wanted to pre-order a Paris-Brest, we could go pick it up another day, but he was feeling disheartened from lack of sugar, so decided to focus on cleaning his room instead. I certainly wasn't going to stand in the way of that excuse.
       In my earlier quest for knowledge about the Paris-Brest, I had come across several recipes. I decided to become a pastry chef. I made a careful list of ingredients, walked to the store, and was completely unable to find the list, which I had a clear memory of putting in my purse (after I returned home, I discovered it in my back pocket). Anyway, I remembered most of what I had written (clearly, of course). I purchased eggs, almonds, cream, and butter, and searched the aisles fruitlessly for something called praline paste. I would just have to make that, too.
       Today was the Big Day. I started with the praline paste, which is kind of like making peanut brittle (except with almonds and hazelnuts) and then pulverizing it in the blender. It's quite nice, and I could have ended there, spreading the paste on apples and enjoying an afternoon of gastronomy, but I was committed to the project.

This is the praline paste in the blender.

       Then I learned about choux pastry, which is also what eclairs are made of, I think. To make this, one cooks milk, water, and butter, adds flour, and then mixes in eggs. The pastry can then be put into a pastry bag and piped into shapes. For a Paris-Brest, several recipes advised drawing a circle on parchment paper and piping three rows of choux onto it, two underneath and one on top. Not having a pastry bag, I used a plastic freezer bag with the corner cut off. This worked surprisingly well. The pastry is then cooked in the oven with a pan of steaming water under it. Don't ask me why. I just follow the directions.

The choux in the oven.

       The next step was to learn about pastry cream, which is just a prettier way of saying vanilla pudding: Eggs yolks, milk, sugar, and flour on the stove. When it was pudding-y, I added the praline paste.

Again, I really could have eaten this part solo.

     Then comes whipped cream. When all the parts were ready, it was time to assemble the creation. I sliced the choux ring in half, spread praline pastry cream on the bottom half, then whipped cream, then the top layer. I dusted the whole thing with powdered sugar, and . . . voila (as the best French pastry chefs always say).

The finished product. A bit flatter than the ones I had seen in the online photos, but not bad.

     
        Does the homemade Paris-Brest taste like the one in the Rennes patisserie? I certainly hope not, given that there, one is paying for years of expertise and a snooty attitude (I can do the attitude, if not the expertise). All I can say is that it was worth the effort.

Various Peeves

**Warning: This post is all about things that bug me. Therefore, it is kind of grumpy, and basically a downer. You've been warned. **  


     We go to church in France. This sounds much more glamorous than it is. First of all, driving 15 minutes in almost any direction from Geneva will land you in France. Secondly, Ferney-Voltaire, at least the part where Crossroads Church is, is a really dumpy little border town with gas stations, car dealerships, auto washes, and lots of mud and weeds. Its claim to fame is as the hometown of Voltaire, and the author was apparently so good to the residents that they added his name to the name of the town. I spent several months feeling ashamed that I couldn't remember Voltaire's first name. Then I looked it up and learned that Voltaire was actually a pen name. Surely I learned that at some point?
      An interesting part of going to church in another country is driving through the douane, or border crossing. I guess it is because Switzerland is not at EU country that there still is a douane, complete with border guards. And I guess it's because Switzerland is not really a threat that the boarder guards on the French side could absolutely care less. The ones on the Swiss side occasionally stop cars and ask what you were doing in France. If the answer is shopping, you'd better have your receipt, and you'd better not have purchased more than half a kilo of beef, 2 liters of milk, or food exceeding a whole bunch of other limits that I forget. This is because food prices in Switzerland are insane, and so people shop in France. In order to protect the cow farmers and other Swiss producers, people who buy more than the prescribed limit have to pay import taxes. Yes, the authorities will search the car. Not often, but it happens. This is one of the many reasons I don't shop in France.
       If the answer to "What were you doing in France?" is "Going to church," the douaniers will laugh and say something outstandingly clever like, "Pray for me." This is way better than a car search. If the answer is, "Je ne parle pas de français," the understanding douaniers will wave the car on. They care about illegally imported steaks, but not enough to suffer through an excruciating conversation with an anglophone.
       We drive through this particular douane into France at least once a week, often two or three times for youth group, Bible study, or whatnot. Every time, I feel a twinge of irritation. This is because there is a stop sign on the little building in the middle of the road where the guards play Trivial Pursuit. No one ever stops at this stop sign. The border police can be standing right there, right under the stop sign, and no one will stop. The police don't even spare an eye blink as car after car rolls right past the sign. Granted, at this point the cars have slowed to about 20 kph, but driving slowly is not the same thing as stopping. I remember this clearly from driver's ed, where Mr. Pyfrin told us repeatedly, "There is no such thing as a rolling stop."
       If there is one thing that I can't stand, it is a rule that isn't a rule. Either take down the stop sign or make people stop. Unenforced laws are just confusing. Plus, I'm pretty sure they lead to the erosion of civilization as we know it. Plus, they bug me.

      And while we are on the subject of confusing rules, let's talk about kissing. When we lived in the US, we had a few friends who kissed hello. As a firm handshake kind of person (or better yet, a wave from afar), I always felt awkward with the one kiss on the cheek. Little did I realize how good I had it. In much of Europe, two kisses is the norm when greeting an acquaintance. In Geneva, it's three. Three kisses! Not only is this overkill in terms of physical contact with someone to whom I am not related, it also takes a really long time. The problem, however, is compounded by the fact that Geneva is something of a culturally diverse city. We have friends from Spain, England, France, South Africa, Italy, Ghana, the U.S., Sri Lanka, Greece, Madagascar. I love this diversity, but it complicates the whole kissing thing. How many kisses? Do men kiss men? Do you kiss hello AND goodbye? Which cheek first? Should your lips actually touch the other person's face? Do your cheeks touch? Do you just kiss air? The opportunities for social gaffes are abundant and varied. The good news, I guess, is that everyone is pretty relaxed and forgiving. Also, I read that in some cultures, people kiss four times -- or more. I should count my blessings.

       And while we are on the subject of counting blessings, I just need to say that I am very thankful that our blown fuse only provides power to the doorbell, front door light, and several other interior lights and not to something vital, like, say, the refrigerator or the heat. The fuse blew in mid-December. We replaced it, and it immediately blew again. We contacted the regie (property management company) to ask whether it was okay to call an electrician (see post on the washing machine if you wonder why we contacted the regie). The electrician came. He rerouted the current through another fuse. It worked great until he left, at which point it blew again. This is the juncture at which the problem became a "defect in the house" and therefore not our problem (payment-wise, of course; it remains our problem lack-of-power-wise). This being the case, the electrician will return next week. He will look at the fuse box and make an estimate. He will then leave and send the estimate to the regie. The regie will set up another time for him to come and actually fix the power. Maybe. If the estimate is acceptable. It could be spring before we get our power back. To end on a positive note, I will say that I learned some new French: "Le fusible saute," means that the fuse is blown. Every cloud has a silver lining.

The "I Don't Want to Run" Post

        I am sure that no one else ever feels this way, but sometimes -- particularly on dark and chilly mornings -- I don't really want to run. This morning was such a time. In order to convince myself that running was, nevertheless, a fun idea, I told myself that I could play a game. This game has no name, but it involves my iPod, which contains several years' worth of music downloaded by me, my husband, my children, and maybe other people too. The deal is that I have to put the iPod on "shuffle," then listen to whatever songs come up. This is made particularly interesting by the fact that the items which I (and others) have put on my iTunes account include music for enjoyment, but also songs for classes I've taught, theatrical productions mounted by the kids and their friends, and homework assignments various family members have completed.
         This morning the iPod began auspiciously with "Great Is the Lord," by Michael W. Smith. Not only is it an upbeat running song with encouraging words, but I have liked it -- and other music by this musician -- ever since this song came out, in the old days, in 1983, when I was TWELVE. I remember being lost with other members of my junior high youth group on the way to a concert he did with Amy Grant. I had the song then too . . . on a record, of course.
         As I started down the big hill in Parc Navazza, the iPod switched to Carrie Underwood singing "Cowboy Cassanova." The song made me think of driving a vanload of sixth-graders to the annual bonfire at Mr. Persing's house (he's the sixth grade teacher, and as far as I know, still has the bonfires). I think the year I remember, it was Johanna who was in sixth grade. The songs warns someone -- perhaps the singer herself -- against some guy who is "candy-coated misery," which is a pretty creative way to put it. This guy, however, doesn't sound nearly as worrisome as the man in the next song that came up -- Brittany Spears singing "Mama, I'm in Love with a Criminal." Now how did that get on my iPod? We are a family with eclectic musical tastes, but I don't think we have a single Brittany Spears fan in our midst. I didn't even know she was the singer until I got home and looked it up. The words, as one can judge from the title, are not calculated to calm a mother's cockles -- but to be fair, that probably wasn't her intention. Running past a house we looked at -- but weren't able to rent -- I meditated upon the fact that so many songs seem to be about the wrong man.
        Case in point: "Danny Boy," sung by Celtic Woman (clearly Johanna's influence on my iPod) was next up. While the eponymous Danny may have been a great guy, he clearly wasn't sticking around to comfort his love. And she fully expected to be dead by the time he returned. That's hardly a happy ending. Also, as talented as these women may be, most of their music isn't the greatest for spurring on an uninspired jogger. I eagerly awaited a new tune.
         The iPod gave me a break from misbestowed love -- though certainly not a better beat  -- by playing the story of Donatello as read by Jim Weiss. I had attempted to download these stories (Masters of the Renaissance) for our trip to Italy last spring. Like so many other aspects of that trip, the download had not gone exactly as planned, and we'd been unable to listen to any but the initial story. I'd gladly listen to Jim Weiss read the telephone book, and I was interested to hear about Donatello's consuming enthusiasm for sculpture, friendship with Cosimo di Medici, and generosity to other artists. This selection ended with the words, "Donatello was laid to rest in church beside the tomb of Cosimo di Medici." This ending was followed, in a perhaps à propos, yet jarring, juxtaposition by the words: "Down once more to the dungeons of my dark despair . . . ." The iPod had decided to treat me to a full twelve minutes from the final scenes of the Broadway show and movie Phantom of the Opera. Three summers ago Eric and I saw the musical in New York, where it's been running for like a zillion years (maybe even as long as Michael W. Smith's been around). We were every bit as awestruck by the talent and production as we thought we'd be. Later, that same summer, the kids put on their own version of the show with some friends from the neighborhood. Lucas, the only boy they could rope into onstage participation, played both Raoul and the Phantom with as much aplomb as one could expect from a 10-year-old. Johanna was Christine, and Drew did sound. The show, which ran for at least two grandparent-attended performances, was pretty outstanding for something produced, acted, and directed entirely by people under 15 -- on a budget of zero. Gut-wrenchingly beautiful as the music is, however, this is truly the story of the wrong man. He's not just a player, not just a criminal . . . he's evil incarnate. (Okay, he reforms in a way at the end, but still -- what is up with these women?)
         We moved away from men with Alison Krause singing "Down to the River to Pray" from the soundtrack of O Brother, Where Art Thou? Every time I hear the song, I am reminded that I want to see the movie again. It both confused and entranced me, and I'd like to see what 12 years has done to my impressions. I did think fleetingly that the number would have been more appropriate half an hour earlier, when I was trotting along the Aire River, rather than now, when I was running past the Co-op grocery store. Clearly, my program of musical entertainment was being presented without much forethought. The next song, again from Celtic Woman, was about . . . I have no idea. It was in Welsh or something, and I didn't understand a word -- not even enough to figure out, afterwards, what song it was. It was however, chipper and boppy, and I picked up the pace as I imagined the sword dancers picking up their feet.
        Turning into my neighborhood, I ran past our house and to the end of the street so I could listen to the final song in its entirety. It was the men's a capella group Cantus, from a CD given to Eric by my parents but beloved by Drew (whose wide-ranging musical tastes encompass French rap, gospel hymns, pop, folk, and Broadway show tunes -- to enumerate but a few). "E'en So, Lord Jesus, Quickly Come," included words that seemed like a good program for the day:

"Rejoice in heaven, all ye that dwell therein, rejoice on earth ye saints below, for Christ is coming, is coming soon, for Christ is coming soon."

The Scenery Was Beautiful, Though . . .

We have recently returned from the Second Annual Admiraal Family Post-Christmas Trip-to-the-Mountains-Where-Mom-Books-Us-into-a-Really-Crummy-Hotel. Last year, we went to Gstaad, which is a swanky Alpine resort town. We stayed at the youth hostel in Saanen, which was neither swanky nor a resort. The  chattering of other guests, desert-like air in the bedrooms, and smell of the shared bathroom were not compensated for by the free breakfast, which was mediocre. The scenery was magical, though.

Trying to recreate the winter-wonderland experience, I suggested we travel to Interlaken this year. I had learned my lesson with the youth hostel. Sort of. Lured by comparatively low prices (this is, after all, high season in resort towns), I clicked “book now” on a bed-and-breakfast located conveniently near the Interlaken West train station and advertising free breakfast. That last bit should have tipped me off. It was only when looking at the confirmation email that I noticed the ominous words “the shared bathroom is on the same floor.” Lucas asked if the “hotel” would have a pool. I smiled grimly and told him he’d be lucky to get his turn in the shower. But, after all, we were there for the hiking, the majestic mountain scenery, the snow. Strike two on the snow. Switzerland is in a warm spell, and Interlaken was positively balmy. 
       Interlaken has a McDonald's, where the kids begged to eat. I find that the longer I am in Europe, the better I like McDonald's. I'm not sure why, but perhaps it has to do with the predictability of the place. In the middle of a life of surprises, the fries always taste the same. Nevertheless, I don't like McDonald's well enough to agree to eat there while on a real vacation, so we ended up at a place called Bebbi's. This had to be the most aggressively kitchy Swiss place I have ever seen, with servers wearing spotted cow pants, Swiss flags and postcards papering the walls, and perky mountain music blaring. When Lucas ordered milk with his dinner, the waiter flexed his biceps and told Lucas that if he kept drinking milk he'd have muscles like that some day. He also told the next table. The restaurant promised "happiness, food, and fun." I think the waiter was supposed to be the fun. It also advertised free salad with every meal, which was welcome, as most Swiss food involves heavy doses of potatoes, cheese, and pork and is a bit thin in the vegetable department.

We had decided to travel by train because, well, I am a big fan. A train is like a tram . . . only bigger and faster. Also, unfortunately, more expensive. As a partial alleviation of that problem, I have cracked the code to finding “billets degriffés” a.k.a. supersaver tickets. This was not an easy task, and took me most of Christmas Eve morning and also a good part of Christmas day. Fortunately, someone else was cooking those days, so I could devote myself to entering and reentering data into the online ticket counter grid (every time I made a mistake or wanted to check a different route or date, I had to type in everyone’s vital statistics). At a get-together with other expats on Christmas evening, I bragged to a friend that I had figured out how to get cheaper train tickets. She asked me to send her the information via email. I realized while typing out the process that a sane person would probably just pay for the more expensive tickets, as the time and hassle involved in the supersavers cannot be worth it on any kind of reasonable hourly wage. Fortunately, my job does not pay an hourly wage (or any other kind for that matter), so I have no idea what the process cost us. Here is my email:

Go to sbb.ch. Change the language to English or French -- it's usually German when I get on the page. Maybe you like German, though. :-) I change the language to French because I always feel like maybe they’re holding back some deals for people who can speak the national language. I’m afraid that if I change the language to English, they will know that I am an American and refuse to come up with any bargains for me.

Hover over "Travelcards and Tickets," then under "Tickets for Switzerland" choose "billets degriffés" or "supersaver tickets." At the bottom of that page, type in "Versoix" for the station closest to you or "Genève" (not Geneva -- it won't find anything), and the date you'd like to travel, and it will show you all the deals. Keep in mind, however, that the prices will be double unless you have a half-fare card. The half-fare card is good for a year and costs 175 chf per person. We have not bought them, because I think we'd have to travel a lot more by train to make it worth it. I'm thinking about it, though, because we do really enjoy train travel.

You can look for international tickets by clicking on the link "International Tickets" under "Travelcards and Tickets." There's a link for supersaver tickets. The catch is that you can't get a supersaver ticket from Geneva or Versoix  to Germany. What you have to do is get a ticket from Geneva or Versoix to Zurich, then Zurich to Germany. (You also have to spell Zürich HB the German way or you get no deals.) 

Even with my slick mastery of the billets degriffés, traveling by train is more expensive than traveling by car. It is, however, so much more enjoyable -- you can walk around, watch the scenery go by, sleep, read, play euchre, eat. Unlike plane travel, you can arrive five minutes before the train leaves and be in plenty of time. You can also bring large bread knives on board and no one bats an eye. Best of all, with train travel, you are never lost, or if you are, it is probably someone else’s fault.

The train bridge. We climbed up a large hill/small mountain near here.

But only about halfway up. This is the view of the top, where we did not climb.

And this is the view of the valley from midway up the mountain.

We went on a beautiful, if not snowy, hike to a small town near Interlaken, where we bought enormous pieces of freshly baked apple strudel. Then we tried to eat them while walking back, which was a challenge.

Chalets at the base of one of the mountains surrounding Interlaken.

The bliss of rail travel.

Eric and the boys relaxing mid-hike. Johanna isn't in any of the pictures because she was in Spain.