Epicurean Regression

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After six months of re-American life, I started to feel the hankering for French things again. I had been staying away from them: not looking at pictures of Paris (more difficult to avoid than one might think), not interacting too much with the people I left behind, avoiding bakeries. But about a month ago I found myself ordering a (disappointing) croissant in a cafe. Selecting brie instead of pepper jack. Reverting to "pardon" when I bumped into people by mistake. It seemed I was ready to confront the France that I missed in a more direct, need I say visceral, way.

It began at Christmas, when a friend flew back a box of macarons. Those little delicate cookie creations, vibrant colored crackling puffs sandwiching fragrant creams and jellies in flavors like Vanilla Olive Oil, Hazelnut Cocoa Bean, Moroccan Mandarin, Rose and Lavender... I ate them almost exclusively at night. In bed. Guiltily cheating on my homeland and its Oreos.

I began having cravings for French food. Some of these were satisfied by the family friend with whom I'm staying, a woman who has learned from three decades of marriage to a Frenchman how to simply, matter-of-factly concoct the perfect tarte aux pommes, to make pate à choux rise just so, and to flavor everything with cream and butter. She also makes killer chocolate chip cookies, but I digress. Regardless of Priscilla's kitchen prowess, what I really wanted was escargot.

My date and I got dolled up on a Wednesday and headed to the inner Richmond for a night of inner richness (ha ha ha). He was excited. Ordered a town car. He had never had snails before and was raring to go. He was not disappointed. 

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It is difficult to mess up escargot. The traditional recipe exists essentially as an excuse to consume butter perfumed with garlic and parsley, but oh, it is so so good. Especially helped out with a glass or two of Sancerre. We had oysters too, with red wine vinegar mignonette, and then I had bouillabaisse and there were digestifs and a complimentary apple tart (not as good as Priscilla's)... I was in heaven. I was in fake Paris. I knew it was fake because a female French customer told us we looked fabulous.

But that wasn't enough. I needed more invertebrates. For my birthday Kate took me up the coast to Tomales Bay, where we sat in the freezing cold sunshine (ah, Northern California winters) and I learned to shuck, shuck, shuck my little heart out. My dear friend knew just what to do. She brought champagne, a spread of cheeses, lemons, and a beautiful baguette. I thought of my uncle Jean François and the mountains of oysters we put away during the holidays in Toulouse, of my first bivalve off the coast of Brittany, of my father and his skilled wielding of the blunt, heavy-handled knife. Kate and I ate ours raw, of course, all 36 of them. I looked at the families around us, many foolishly barbecuing their little gems of the sea, and scoffed.

Then the next day I reviewed the places on Yelp, had a burrito,  and everything went back to normal.

Can You Handel It?

Georgie Handel himself

Christmas time has come and gone. New year's day as well. Now, a time to reflect, to ponder, to look forward with the wisdom of another year. A time to ask such burning questions as: Why could I not find a Sing-Along Messiah in San Francisco??

For the last decade or so, I have been able to belt out yearly Hallelujah choruses and ridiculous melisma, sometimes accompanied by baroque orchestras, sometimes by solo organ. I have been able to socially breeze across voices in a hodgepodge of choir-members and weekend singers, singing alto with my lower-voiced buddies, soprano I with the high pipers, outside of the restrictions of "rehearsal" and "assigned parts". More often than not this happened in the American Cathedral on George V, led by a spirited choir director expertly hiding fear of losing the reigns of the packed and weighty-voiced house. 

As I was on the board of the Paris Choral Society, I was charged with getting the word out, and I always depended on touting the grand tradition of a Handel's Messiah Sing-Along to a susceptible French audience. But it appears I was full of lies. Did I make it up? Is singing the Messiah alongside a trained choir not a thing we do in the States?

PCS Sing-Along in action

I was certain that some opportunity to whip out my well-worn sheet music would come along. But no. Oh, there were plenty of Messiahs out there, but I couldn't find a single one that would encourage the audience to join in. Perhaps I was not sufficiently observant, but I was nonetheless outraged. I didn't want to LISTEN. I wanted to EMOTE VOCALLY. I took to singing it from beginning to end as I walked through the city. I put it on at every opportunity, hoping to spark a flash-mob. 

But it didn't happen. I was reduced to attempting to get my family humming on Christmas Eve, to no avail. I suppose America is not quite what my rose-colored memory retained.

Although, since this is a choral-oriented post, one thing San Francisco HAS offered in that realm was a FABULOUS semi-amateur choir rendition of Orff's Carmina Burana (of car commercial and pop canon fame). I attended because a friend was singing, and was delighted. The singing was nice, the orchestra too, but the best part was the showmanship. During O Fortuna (the big one A-AAh A-AAh, A-AAh A-AAh, A-AAh-a-aah- AAh. AAh. AAh), the singers held tiny LED flashlights to their faces as if telling ghost stories. During the Tavern movement (basically about men drinking in the tavern and how great it is), the choir shined the same lights through what looked like owl masks at the audience. Fabulous. Oh, and the soloists had three costume changes each. Including the tenor, who made all his onstage during his one dying-swan aria. 

When we performed Carmina Burana in Paris, I remember having to wear flowers in my hair, but that was it (well, it's possible the male choristers sported potato sacks, but maybe I made that up). Our crowning glory was found in the flurry of young modern dancers in colorful leotards that came in and out of the aisles during instrumental movements. The San Francisco Choral Society? Same dancers. From the Champs Elysées to Davies Hall, semi-pro choral scene brings kitsch and swooping drama. Wonderful, comforting consistency. My heart is a little warmer for it. 

Hallelujah.