Cinnamon, the one from Ceylon, is my favourite seasoning in winter, as far as I’m concerned, it needs cold temperatures to develop its charm, and some apples from our garden, slightly sour and ever so organic apples. All through winter, my family’s entire house smells of my mother’s cinnamon-apple-pies, flanked by some roses from the hall, like an edible version of Estée Lauder’s Youth-Dew perfume. Anyway, when we were having them some time ago, with tea of course, they’re best with some strong tea, it started snowing, which always puts a smile in my face, and then it started snowing heavily, really heavily, and then I stopped smiling and started worrying if I would make it to the station to get my train to Berlin. There were no more cars on the streets. Frozen traffic. Thanks to the only taxi company that hadn’t given up, I made it to the station, I enjoyed a 10 km/h one-man show and was deeply impressed by the driver’s unyielding performance, he laughed in the snow’s face, and it wasn’t a pretty face—if Napoleon had been surrounded by such hardy people and striving, the Russians would speak French today. But I would have made it on time no matter what though, as my train arrived four hours late. Apparently, Napoleon’s soldiers were all reborn as Deutsche Bahn engineers.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve been crushing white pepper on everything I eat. Everything hearty, I mean, I wouldn’t dare to pepper up a perfectly good crème brûlée, of course. Anyway, its spicy aroma lifts up everything else, right into culinary heaven, one might say—forgive my being so enthousiastic about it, but you can transform the stalest of store-bought ravioli into a fine dish with just a bit of olive oil and some freshly crushed pepper, don’t be shy, one cannot overdose, and with all that puristic allure that comes with a meal like this, you might even appear as a hell of a cook. And if they ever find out there’s some incredibly healthy stuff enclosed in peppercorns, I will make it to my 150th birthday. At the very least!
On the first day of snow this year—which was last Saturday, to be quite precise—I decided to see Berlin’s Olympiastadion for the very first time in my life. It was strange to see it there, lying still in the outskirts of this buzzy town, covered in light snow, not much seems to have changed since 1936, the Olympians of that year are all gone, Jesse Owens being the best of them all, teaching the Third Reich a lesson by being decorated with four gold medals, each one unquestionable proof that Hitler (like so many others… ) was wrong about white supremacy. The architecture of the place, however, is flawless, puristic art deco at its best, flanked by lithic, never ageing athletes. I went home smiling, a young girl’s little snowman in front of the gigantic, sky scraping gate, had put my mind at ease.
On a very cold winter morning, an icy cold one, one might say, as minus six degrees Celsius is rather frosty, almost Siberian a temperature, I decided to go to town. As Brandenburg Gate is near to Friedrichstrasse and Dussmann’s, my CD supplier de choix, I later went for a touristic stroll, I hadn’t been there in months, and when some very stylish people with a lot of Louis Vuitton luggage left the Hotel Adlon right in front of it and took a taxi, presumably to the one airport that works in this town of non-working airports, I saw some people take photos of them. They must have been famous, although I have no idea who they were. Not a clue. As I was nicely dressed in my Dsquared jacket with that giant black fur collar that gives me a somewhat Russian nobility expression, a modern version of Prince Bolkonsky, at least that’s what I like to tell myself, I decided to linger around in front of the famous hotel, as if I would wait for my personal assistant with my luggage, imaginary huge black Goyard trunks, and to give people the oppurtunity to take pictures of me. But nobody did. I would rather have been arrested for loitering with intent…
Paris in 1958 was very different from today, from the Paris I know. First of all, it was so very dirty. It was none other than André Malraux, de Gaulle’s guy for everything cultural, who had all the blackened historic façades cleansed, he wanted Paris to be the City of Lights again, the most important operation in urban architecture since Baron Haussmann changed the face of Paris altogether in the 1850s and ’60s, and there was quite some dirt that had laid up since then, believe you me (and by me, I mean my mother, she should know, she did live in Paris in the early 1960s). Second of all, one of my favourite areas, the Marais, was considered a troubled district, it was quite run down in those days, don’t imagine you’d have found any of today’s fashionable cafés and restaurants there, no art galleries, no stylish designer stores, no perfumed air emerging from the Guerlain and Diptyque boutiques, certainly no gays, not even closeted ones, instead you would find a butcher right on Place des Vosges, just like in Jean Delannoy’s 1958 movie “Maigret Sets A Trap”, and a butcher who let you witness his bloody business through his shop windows at that. It was a different time, one might say, I say it was a better time – or more precisely, it was a more authentic time, a time where there was not yet a Louis Vuitton store between the Flore and the Deux Magots to please people suffering from logomania in every possible spot, or otherwise Simone de Beauvoir would have had to look for another place to work and have her p’tit noir. By the way, neither she or Jean-Paul Sartre were very fond of Malraux, trop réac politically, and I think, she might have sensed the side-effects that Malraux’s polishing of Paris would bring. Who knows? Luckily, she died long before the Louis Vuitton people opened their store on Boulevard Saint-Germain.
This morning, I felt very French. Very, very French. So, instead of having my usual toasts with tea, I had to leave the house to get some Franzbrötchen at my local organic bakery. They are not really French like a croissant, but the Franz-part of the word comes from the time when Germany was occupied in the early 1800s, when Napoleon had just invaded the country, and he was definitely a Frenchman, a Franzos’. Nothing lasts forever, and the Russians made him go back to where he came from—later the French got sick of him, too, and sent him far off to St.Helena, an island so secluded nobody really knows where it is. Anyway, Franzbrötchen are part of the culinary leftovers of that time and I do enjoy them a great deal: a buttery, crispy, cinnamon flavoured delight to have with your coffee in the morning, and, in my case, François Truffaut’s masterpiece “The Last Metro”. As I’ve said, I felt very, very French this morning.
My omelettes are all a disaster. They never look like an omelette should look like. They rather look like some sort of flattened scrambled eggs, strangely stacked on a plate. My omelettes aux champignons are the worst, I always overdose with mushrooms because I sliced far too many in the first place. I just can’t help it. Then why do I continue making them, one might wonder… I’ll tell you why. Because an omelette is the next best thing to a marriage proposal. And I keep saying yes, yes, yes, a million times yes, to them…