how to eat a caviar baked potato like a parisienne
eight ways to fake it in Paris, plus lust worthy pieces for our closets and homes
Parisienne is a column about an American moving to Paris. In some ways, it’s about blowing up your life at 40, but it’s also about new references, cultural nuances and the process of recreating a blueprint for life after a plot twist. Oh, and the clothes, of course.
If you’ve been to Paris during Fashion Week, you’re probably aware of Caviar Kaspia. Either you’ve eaten there, invited by a brand or a well-connected friend, treated to dollops of crème fraîche and salty smoked salmon and heaps of Beluga (or sturgeon, depending on who’s buying). Or you’ve heard, from instagram captions and Style Not Com recaps, who was there, what Carine was wearing and who got up on the table in the back room.
So, when Caviar Kaspia sailed briefly into Los Angeles with great fanfare, a fancy French friend of mine insisted we go (it’s since closed). We’d texted about their caviar topped baked potatoes (their piece de resistance) for days, and when they arrived, I promptly tucked into mine, scooping the crème fraîche into the warm potato, watching the caviar melt into it.
“That is such an American way to eat a potato,” she commented, not necessarily in a judgmental way, but said as the French do, as fact.
While my plate looked like a half eaten Wayne Thiebaud painting, hers was a deconstructed Rauschenberg. The insides of the potato had been scooped out and set to the side, along with the crème fraîche. The potato skin was torn into tiny chips and placed in a pile. One by one, she dipped the “chip” into the caviar until all that reminded was a heap of butter laden potato insides.
Now, this is why French women don’t get fat, I thought.
When I was researching this story, I asked that fancy French friend of mine about the nuances of Parisian culture; the faux pas and little subtleties that take months, if not years, to understand in a new cultural strata. This was before we’d solidified our move to Paris (at that point, it was sitting on a list of potential places that included everything from San Francisco to Milan), and so I pulled it out the other day to remind myself of all the etiquette mistakes I’d probably already made in my first few weeks as a Parisian transplant.
What Not to Do, according to my fancy French friend:
Never put butter on your bread - I thought this must have been folklore (they do give you bread at restaurants in Paris, after all) but after a meticulous investigation, it’s true. Bread is only supposed to be slathered with butter at breakfast.
Never discuss money - I learned that only gauche Americans do this on my first day in Paris, when we toured an apartment and I asked the broker what the rent was. He shot me a look of pity, and then waited until we walked down the curved staircase into the street before whispering the number to me.
Never cut the nose off the cheese - On our second day in Paris, I made another grave mistake, when I invited my dear friend Nicole, another recent expat from New York, and her French boyfriend over for dinner. He kindly brought us an array of cheeses from his local fromagerie. A non-French friend promptly cut a triangle off of the front, marveling at its flavor. I imagine it was delicious, because as I later learned, cutting off the nose is an egocentric act of cheese etiquette. You cut slices from the side, ensuring everyone gets a taste of the delectable nose.
Never cut tomato salad or any salad with a knife - Fold the lettuce into a bite sized morsel or don’t eat it. Restraint!
Never get up at a dinner party to go to the loo - I imagine this won’t be much of an issue, since French people serve water in miniature glasses, making it impossible to be hydrated enough to need to go to the loo.
Don’t go around telling all your friends you love them like Americans do - I suppose this is self-explanatory.
You don’t compliment a random girl on her outfit - This one is up for debate. An old boss who used to live in London has also recounted that Europeans don’t walk around asking people where they got their jeans. But, on day four, I met a cute French girl for a work meeting and within seconds, she told me she liked my outfit. In LA, “cute skirt/top/shoes/whatever” is female lexicon, the equivalent of hello. It’s what you say to disarm someone when first meeting, at a cocktail party or playground or informal work event, and it’s a given part of our social norms. When we were finishing the meeting, I asked her if there were rules around complimenting others. “Oh, that’s so old fashioned,” she said when she heard. Perhaps, but I still haven’t mustered the courage to compliment a stranger.
What to Do, according to my fancy French friend:
Get lymphatic drainage on your legs every week
Literally. That was the only thing on her list that I should do.
FROM THE ARCHIVES
bags for your burner phone
The other afternoon, I watched a tattooed salesperson justify the use case of a teeny tiny box bag to a friend. Her new iphone was too big to fit inside it.
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Can't stop, won't stop slathering French butter on my baguette.
What fun! Thanks for sharing insider info including that withering look!