My first morning in Paris (OK, my most recent “first morning in Paris”) was tinged with excitement and nerves: I took the RER C from Breuillet into the city–a trip that used to feel normal and slow and easy turned strange, a 50-minute voyage that I used to make nearly every week with the Parisian couldn’t happen fast enough this time… something about arriving at the hotel I used to frequent in the middle of the night sent me back in time to a place that no longer felt normal, and I couldn’t get back to the city fast enough. A tourist left a rolling suitcase by the doors of the train, as tourists are wont to do, and I stared at it for nearly the entire trip, certain that it was going to explode and wondering if I would be safer ducking under my own giant backpack or hurling myself into the laps of the people next to me, who had the good fortune to be blocked from said explosion thanks to the staircase leading to the second level of the train.
Luckily, nothing exploded, and I managed to get off the train at my old stop–Gare d’Austerlitz–and made my way to the 12th, where I would arrive more than half an hour early for my apartment visit… normal for me, as I sat perched on my backpack, waiting for the sun to pop out from behind a cloud.
Instead, what popped out was Francois, an official Parisian street cleaner in a bright green jumpsuit who stopped to chat and swept the same square meter for twenty minutes as I sat on my bag on the sidewalk. I don’t remember how he opened the conversation–conversing is one of those things, along with apéro and easy dinner parties–that the French do so well and yet I still can’t find the formula to their success.
After a few minutes in which I found out that his daughter, also named Emily (although probably Emilie), who is also starting university in the fall, it happened: that moment where a native speaker suddenly hears a tic or a misplaced pronoun in my sentence, enough for them to realize I’m not from here.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“The States,” I said.
“You speak so well!” he responded. I’ve had this conversation so many times.
“I know I still have a little accent,” I said, because no matter how many times my mother has told me to take a compliment with a simple, “Thank you,” I can’t. “J’essaie de m’en débarasser,” I’m trying to get rid of it. Because, in the end, that’s what this is all about: I could have done a million things, but in the end, I went for a French Lit. Masters, one last effort at making my French as pristine and easy as my English.
“Don’t,” he answers. “C’est charmant.” It’s charming.
Home never felt so good until home was almost an apartment so empty, there wasn’t a light bulb, a stove top, a shower curtain in the whole place. I almost took the aforementioned apartment, if only because Francois offered to help me move in, to come clean if I needed (and believe me… this place needed it). But while that little, 20-minute chat with Francois reminded me exactly what it was about this city I had missed, how pleased I was with my decision to be coming back, I chose an apartment at the other end of the city, in Porte de Versailles, an apartment that truly does feel like coming home from the second I open the front door.
Home is a concept that, for me, is ever-changing. My parents moved out of our home in New York while I was still in France, our house on Long Island teeming with boxes to be unloaded. Home on Long Island, the one true home I’ve claimed, feels strange now that half of the people I grew up with have left before I even arrived. And home in Paris, my new home, though it’s furnished and waiting for me, is still empty and unlived in, an unknown. I spent one night there before flying back to the States, and I spent it on the loveseat, my feet sticking up over the arm, my back contorting to accomodate its small size. I can’t move in completely the first night somewhere–it feels too strange. At least now, after years of moving and more new apartments than I can count, I know the remedy: cooking.
It used to be a huge pot of tomato sauce, but I’ve since moved past pasta as a standby. I’m thinking maybe it will be this coq au vin, because even though it wasn’t a part of my childhood, it just feels like one of those homey dishes, comforting and easy and slow. Yes, I think more than anything else in my repertoire, coq au vin will feel like coming home.
Coq au Vin
6 chicken thighs
salt and fresh black pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
10 garlic cloves, peeled
1 onion, sliced
1 cup red wine
1 cup water
Rinse and pat chicken dry. Season with salt and store in the fridge, uncovered, at least 1 hour.
Preheat oven to 300 degrees.
Heat oil in a skillet over high heat. Place the chicken, skin side down, in the pan and cook until the skin turns golden, about 5-8 minutes. Do not crowd the pan: cook chicken in batches if necessary. Remove chicken to a sturdy Dutch oven with a lid.
Remove all except 1-2 tablespoons of fat from the skillet. Add the onions to the pan and cook until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic cloves and cook until fragrant, about 2 minutes.
Deglaze the pan with wine, and stir with a wooden spoon until the fond is dissolved into the liquid. Add the water and bring to a boil.
Pour the liquid, onions and garlic cloves over the chicken and cover with the lid. Place in the oven and cook until the chicken is cooked through, about 20-25 minutes.
Serve with parsleyed or mashed potatoes, or just a good loaf of crusty, French bread to sop up extra sauce.
I’m sitting in my too-cold office with awful people wishing I were anywhere but here. Which is why I love popping over here and reading about your latest adventures. 🙂