“I don’t really trust supermarkets to sell good regional products,” said Hélène Feuillebois, a lifelong Paris resident. “I would rather go to a cheese or charcuterie shop or outdoor farmers’ market. I don’t find it that much more expensive, and those extra two euros really are worth it. I only ever consume those [supermarket] products at other people’s dinner parties, so I guess some people don’t mind buying them.”
Paroles et Musique: Marc Ogret 1909 Salabert 1909 autres interprtes: Cora Vaucaire, Patachou, Renaud (1981 “Chansons Ralistes”)
Elle avait sous sa toque de martre,
sur la butte Montmartre,
un p’tit air innocent.
On l’appelait rose, elle tait belle,
a’ sentait bon la fleur nouvelle,
rue Saint-Vincent.
Elle avait pas connu son pre,
elle avait p’us d’mre,
et depuis 1900,
a’ d’meurait chez sa vieille aeule
O qu’a’ s’levait comme a, toute seule,
rue Saint-Vincent.
A’ travaillait dj pour vivre
et les soirs de givre,
dans l’froid noir et glaant,
son p’tit fichu sur les paules,
a’ rentrait par la rue des Saules,
rue Saint-Vincent.
Elle voyait dans les nuit geles,
la nappe toile,
et la lune en croissant
qui brillait, blanche et fatidique
sur la p’tite croix d’la basilique,
rue Saint-Vincent.
L’t, par les chauds crpuscules,
a rencontr Jules,
qu’tait si caressant,
qu’a’ restait la soire entire,
avec lui prs du vieux cimetire,
rue Saint-Vincent.
Et je p’tit Jules tait d’la tierce
qui soutient la gerce,
aussi l’adolescent,
voyant qu’elle marchait pantre,
d’un coup d’surin lui troua l’ventre,
rue Saint-Vincent.
Quand ils l’ont couch sur la planche,
elle tait toute blanche,
mme qu’en l’ensevelissant,
les croque-morts disaient qu’la pauv’ gosse
tait crev l’soir de sa noce,
rue Saint-Vincent.
Elle avait une belle toque de martre,
sur la butte Montmartre,
un p’tit air innocent.
On l’appelait rose, elle tait belle,
a’ sentait bon la fleur nouvelle,
rue Saint-Vincent.
An English Translation of Saint-Vincent Street
She had under her furry hat,
on the hilltop Montmartre,
an innocent little look
People called her rose, she was pretty
she smelled good – like a new flower
Saint-Vincent street
She hadn’t known her father
she had no mother
and since 1900,
she lived at her old foremother
Where she raised herself like that, all alone
Saint-Vincent street
She already worked to live
and on frosted nights
in the dark and freezing cold
her little scarf on her shoulders
she returned home by Saules street
Saint-Vincent street
She could see in the chilly nights
the starry sky,
and the crescent moon
shinning, white and fatal
on the small cross of the basilica
Saint-Vincent street
Summer, by the hot dusk
she met Jules,
who was so sweet
that she stayed the entire night,
with him near the old cemetery
Saint-Vincent street
And small Jules was a thug
who pimps the chicks
so the teenager,
seeing that she wouldn’t accept to be a prostitute
by a hit of a blade pierced her stomach,
Saint-Vincent street.
When they laid her down in her coffin
she was all white,
while burying her,
the undertakers said that the poor child
was killed the night of her wedding ceremony
Saint-Vincent street
She had a pretty furry hat
on the hilltop Montmartre,
an innocent little look
People called her rose, she was pretty
she smelled good – like a new flower
Saint-Vincent street
At least two homes were gutted and a firefighter sustained an injury battling the blaze, but so far there have been no reports of fatalities, officials said. The prefecture of Var, the region that includes Bormes-les-Mimosas, said in [ . . . ] Read More
The French paradox – eating cheese and drinking wine but practising moderation.
Last Saturday I placed two halves of a ripe, soft French cheese the size of a plate on top of a dish of sliced potatoes, bacon, garlic and cream, and baked it in the oven. Then I ate about half, with a glass of wine.
This is tartiflette, a dish from the Savoie region of France. The cheese is reblochon, a gorgeous unpasteurised washed-rind thing of beauty. If you had told me before I put it in the oven two of us would eat the whole dish between us, I wouldn’t have believed you.
And yet we did, and enjoyed every mouthful.
This, of course, is not the kind of food I should admit to eating.
It doesn’t tick any nutrition boxes. It’s high-carb and high-fat – that deadly combo, making it highly calorific.
I would not be keen to run it through a nutrition analysis.
But obviously (at least I hope this is obvious) this is not the kind of thing I eat every day, or even every month.
It’s in the realm of treat foods, to be savoured and enjoyed from time to time.
The people of France understand this, and practise it routinely. Although we think of French people munching croissants and foie gras daily washed down with lots of red wine, these are not everyday foods for them.
