Student Life, Saucisson Sec, and Swimming Pools
Many of the lycées, or public secondary schools, in Paris were closed down at the time my grandmother was considering where to place me for my new French education. During the war, the school buildings had been occupied by the Gestapo or used as headquarters for the German army brass and thus were in serious need of refurbishment. Although normally I would have attended the Lycée La Fontaine (my own neighborhood lycée), my grandmother and my uncle Clément agreed that it would be safer for me to travel by métro to L’Ecole de Jeunes Filles de Neuilly, a private school for upper-middle-class families located in a town house in an elegant suburb. My brother’s lycée was just across the street and he could keep an eye on me. We had a long walk from the métro stop to the school, but my brother kept his silence as usual. On my first day, fear compelled me to ask him to accompany me to the door. What if the kids did not like me? What if they made fun of my singsong Egyptian accent? Eddy, in a moment of empathy, told me that my accent was all right, that it had improved since the day we arrived, and that he was sure there would be lots of new students. He walked with me to the school door and introduced me to the teacher in charge of greeting the students. In front of the school gate was a small plaza where all the students gathered. I stared. Although there was no uniform or even dress code at lycées, everyone seemed to wear the same sort of outfit here: a navy blue dress with a white collar or a navy blue skirt with a white blouse. My grandmother had dressed me just as they were, yet I felt foreign and different. Most of the students had long, straight blond or chestnut hair and were very thin, or at least seemed so to me. I was self-conscious of my tawny skin, large breasts, and round hips. In Egypt I would have been considered lovely and sexy; here, I felt like an elephant. But when I look at pictures of myself at that age, I realize that I was not fat, nor did my breasts really stick out as I felt they did that day. I was fifteen years old, awkward, and not at all sophisticated. A bell rang and we were told to line up by class. I found myself standing near a girl of about my height with curly brown hair. Right away I thought she could be my friend; she did not look much different from me. “My name is Colette, what’s yours?” I said shyly. “Claudine,” she responded, smiling. “You know, it’s funny how you are Colette and Colette the writer wrote many books about Claudine. I am new here, are you?” As I nodded yes, she added, “Then we can be friends.” This first exchange would seal a friendship that still exists today.
Every morning my brother and I went together to school but in the late afternoon I went home with my friends. I sat in class near Claudine. On the other side sat Nicole, a short, round girl whose mother had died when she was very young. Her brother, who was much older than she, brought her up. The three of us were inseparable. Later during the school year I found out that both Claudine and Nicole were Jewish, as was my third friend Judith, whose father was a prominent lawyer. After class we would walk together to the métro. The four of us had problems at home that were similar but somewhat different. My father was dead, I was abandoned by my mother, and I did not get along with my grandmother; Nicole had lost her mother, and her father did not take care of her; Judith belonged to an enormous family of eight brothers and sisters and felt lost and overlooked in the crowd. Claudine’s story, we knew, was more dramatic. Her father had been a minister in Léon Blum’s government just as the war had broken out. When the Nazis occupied Paris, her father was imprisoned but he made a deal with the Germans, agreeing to be sent to a concentration camp if they left his family alone. A deal was struck and he was sent away, never to come back. He left behind four daughters and one son. Claudine was just six years old but her brother and sisters were much older. As the war progressed the son joined the Resistance, was caught, and shot. The older sister committed suicide and the other sisters worked for the Resistance until the war was over. Heartbroken, Claudine’s mother withdrew to her bedroom in the enormous house they lived in and locked herself away with her books. Claudine, left to fend for herself, was taken care of by Alice, their housekeeper, who had spent her life with the family. The four of us were very good students. I was good in history, Claudine in English, Nicole was the math one, and Judith was the best writer. We helped one another with our homework at each other’s house.
On our first day of school, the homeroom teacher read the names of all the students out loud. My grandmother had made the mistake of registering me with my full name. There were about four Colettes in my class, so the teacher announced that we would be called by our last names, but first she said she would call the students by their full names so that she could be sure we were in the right class. When it came to my name, I blushed with embarrassment when I heard her say Colette Sol Palacci. All the girls burst out laughing. In the few weeks that followed they improvised, which doesn’t quite translate in English, a song with my name: “Mlle Sol habite à l’entre-sol, où elle mange une sole en chantant d’une voix fausse: Do Re Mi Fa Sol.” The teacher heard it and interrupted the girls, explaining that I came from Egypt and that it was my first time in France and in a French school. They stopped singing that song when they saw me, but I was given the nickname “l’Egyptienne,” which I hated, as I wanted above all to be French. To my chagrin, during the two years I went to that school my nickname stuck, although by the end of the year I had nearly lost my Egyptian accent and my suntan.
I was a good student except in math. I loved to memorize poems and often volunteered to recite them in a loud, dramatic voice, especially Victor Hugo’s works. My friends Claudine, Nicole, and Judith made fun of me but I knew I was good and that our teacher, Mlle Renaud, liked my recitation. The first three months, life was a simple routine. Morning in school, lunch at home, school again in the afternoon, then a slow walk back with my new friends to the métro entrance. We all stopped on the way at a boulangerie-pâtisserie. My friends bought petit pains au chocolat but I disliked the sweet croissant stuffed with a bar of chocolate. Instead, I bought a ficelle, a very thin baguette that is more crust than anything else. I ate it all in the time it took us to walk from the boulangerie to the métro. My friends teased me, “Tu es une paysanne … tu manges du pain pour ton goûter!” (You are a peasant … you eat bread for your snack!) In the days that followed I decided that I too should find something to eat more in keeping with French tradition. I looked around for something savory and discovered the bakery’s twisted cheese sticks made of flaky pastry. They were thin, crisp, and slightly spicy. And to my friends’ delight, from that day on, every afternoon I ate at least two.
Weekends were more difficult. My friends were too new, and I did not dare ask what they were doing on weekends. Also, both Claudine and Judith didn’t come to class on Saturday morning as the rest of us did. I was confused and asked my brother. “They are Jewish and probably religious,” he said. I wanted to tell them that I was both Jewish and Catholic but felt they wouldn’t understand and decided to say nothing. My grandmother insisted that my brother take me around the Champs Elysées, down the Place de la Concorde, to the Tuileries Gardens, and back home for lunch. We were both bored with each other, and I was yearning to roam around Paris unfettered, but I did not dare ask. Lunch on Sunday was another ordeal. We always went to the same restaurant near the house and had the same pedestrian leg of lamb and the same dessert (one that I detested)—ice-cream cake. If I suggested the fish of the day or berries with cream, my grandmother frowned and said in a pinched voice, “Cet enfant n’a aucun goût. Elle est vraiment une Egyptienne!” (This child has no taste. She really is an Egyptian!) Once in a while Uncle Clément, my guardian, took us out to lunch. He was the only one of my grandfather’s eight children who had not been brought, up in Egypt. At the age of ten, he had contracted an eye disease that many Egyptian children had. In the fall, a wind called Hamsin blew sand from the desert into the cities and countryside. Grains of sand lodged under a child’s eyelid and infection set in. In the poor countryside, the child eventually went blind. Clément was luckier. He was sent off to Paris to be cured and cared for by several aunts, and he stayed the rest of his days. Despite the distance between them, Clément kept in close contact with his siblings and supported them when they came to Paris to study. A successful architect, he served a mostly Egyptian clientele who were interested in investing their money in Parisian real estate, sensing that a revolution and a change in the regime were not far off.
Clément was short with wavy black hair and round glasses. He drove around Paris in a spiffy sports car and loved good food and fun. I was intrigued by his little secret, which I found out about soon after arriving in Paris. As I understood it, when my father met my mother, he had a mistress named Germaine, tall, sexy, and direct. My father broke up with her when he got engaged to my mother, and Germaine was passed on to his brother. My father made Clément swear that he would never marry her. Clément kept his promise and lived with her in a beautiful apartment in a building he himself designed, near the Bois de Boulogne. When we went out, Germaine never accompanied us. My aunts, uncles, and cousins disliked her and often talked about her disparagingly Clément, who was kind, protected her from all of them and kept her away.
I adored my uncle, who tried hard to help me but because he had had no children, did not understand why I was so unhappy He was conservative and thought that women should stay home and get married. I loved going out with him and couldn’t wait until the next time he took us to lunch. He was fond of good, food, and we inspired each other as we explored neighborhood bistros to hunt down the best seasonal dishes. There was one that I liked more than the others—Café Allard on the Left Bank—that served a scrumptious rabbit stewed in wine with mushrooms and a wickedly rich potato gratin alongside. (I often make this dish for friends but today I add fresh chestnuts and Chinese dried mushrooms to the stew.) When I went out with Clément I could choose any dessert I wanted. In the spring, I invariably chose berries with thick crème fraîche. When I got home, I described each dish to Georgette, who promised to make me the same gratin. But she never did. Grandmaman objected to it, saying that the dish was fattening and that I should be careful with my weight. “You’re Egyptian, remember? They all get fat!” Ashamed, I’d promise myself that the next time I went out with Clément I would be very careful not to choose something fattening. I could never keep my promise.
Rabbit with Prunes and Raisins
The day before, place the liver of a 3- to 4-pound rabbit in a bowl and cover with 1½ cups red wine. Cut the rabbit into serving pieces and place them in a large salad bowl. Add 4 tablespoons olive oil, 4 cups red wine, and ¼ cup red wine vinegar. Add 2 thyme sprigs, 1 bay leaf, 2 parsley sprigs, a teaspoon of crushed black pepper, and 4 juniper berries and refrigerate. Turn the rabbit several times. The next day, dice 5 slices of lean bacon. Remove the rabbit from the marinade, reserving it, dry the rabbit with paper towels, and dust with flour. In a large saucepan heat 2 tablespoons olive oil. Add the rabbit pieces and brown on all sides for about 8 minutes. Remove the rabbit from the pan and drain the fat. In the same saucepan heat 2 tablespoons butter and add 4 shallots, peeled and chopped, and the bacon. Cook for 4 minutes. Add the rabbit pieces. Strain the marinade through a fine sieve and add half to the saucepan. Cover and simmer for 1 hour. After 25 minutes of cooking, add 2 cups pitted prunes and ¼ cup raisins. Add more marinade, if necessary. The rabbit should be barely covered. Ten minutes before the end of the cooking time, add the liver. Correct the seasoning with salt and pepper. Serve with steamed small potatoes. Serves 4.
Potatoes in Cream au Gratin
Preheat the oven to 345 degrees. Peel 5 very large potatoes. For this dish I like to use Idaho potatoes. Thinly slice the potatoes and place in a bowl. Cover with ice water to prevent the potatoes from getting brown. Butter a gratin dish. Drain the potatoes and dry them with paper towels. Cover the bottom of the dish with a layer of potatoes. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and thin slices of onion and dot with ½ tablespoon butter. Repeat this step until all the potatoes have been used. In a small bowl beat 1 egg with ½ cup cream. Pour the cream over the potatoes. Top the potatoes with 4 thin slices of Gruyère. Reduce the heat to 325 degrees and bake for 45 minutes, or until the top is brown and the potatoes are tender. Serve in the baking dish. Serves 4.
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A few months after I had settled into my routine, I made another discovery, one that influenced my future. I took the métro every morning at Porte Maillot, about two blocks from my grandmother’s apartment. One particularly sleepy morning, I got out by mistake at the Pont de Neuilly and to my surprise found myself at the beginning of a farmers’ market. Not wanting to return to the métro, I started walking through the market, which happens to be one of the longest in Paris—over ten blocks. It was early October, and I could not believe my eyes. The market was more beautiful and smelled better than the one I used to love in Cairo—garlic piled high or braided, knobby globes of celery root, glossy chestnuts, muscat grapes, rosy apples, pomegranates. I wanted to try them all! What really ignited my passion, though, were the charcuterie stands. The smell of smoked ham and salamis was more than I could bear. I bought 100 grams of saucisson sec (hard salami), 100 grams of jambon de Bayonne (a sort of French prosciutto), and was about to buy more when I realized that I was on my way to school. When and how was I going to eat all of this? But the next stand had all sorts of artisanal breads, so I bought two rolls and decided that I would skip my first class and sit on a bench to eat my treasures. This was the beginning of a long-lived habit I had of skipping a class from time to time to escape the drudgery of my life and to find solace in things I loved to do, namely looking at food and eating it. After my early lunch, I continued to stroll and discovered an array of stands selling salads that I had never seen—bright green mâche, tender, pale yellow frisée, Batavia, and watercress. The olive stand soon became a favorite of mine. Ibrahim, an Algerian immigrant who ran it, was in his late twenties, with black curly hair that fell over his forehead, large black eyes, and a very warm smile. He came to Paris when he was ten years old. His father was an olive merchant in Algeria before the war so Ibrahim continued his father’s trade in Paris, selling olives and pickles at different markets around the city. In the months ahead we became very good friends, and every Wednesday I would stop at the market, walk to his stand, and choose a different kind of olive. He always had a pita bread ready for me and he stuffed it with feta cheese and olives. It was my favorite moment of the week! (A year ago I went back to the Neuilly market and found out that Ibrahim’s grandson was now selling the olives.) I stared at the chickens, neatly plucked and labeled, rabbits, roasts, fish, and seafood. I’d whisper to Georgette about what I had seen. “Why must we have colin (hake)?” I whined. “It’s so bland. Can’t we have the fish I’ve seen in the market?” Georgette explained that my tightfisted grandmother thought they were too expensive. “Next time your uncle takes you out to lunch, ask for sole or turbotin.” I followed her advice, but the fish was always smothered in butter or cream, not the way I imagined it should be prepared. I began to ask for my sole to be grilled, which delighted my uncle. My love of markets has stayed with me, and my travels have led me to magnificent farmers’ markets around the world.
* * *
When Georgette got married and left my grandmother’s employ, I lost the only friend and ally I had in that house. Right after that, a revolution in Egypt sent shock waves through my North African family’s lives. Colonel Nasser took over and King Farouk was sent into exile, as were all my uncles, aunts, and cousins, who fled to France or South America. My grandfather, who did not believe that the revolutionary government would consider him a foreigner, was heartbroken when they took over his business. He became sick, stayed in bed, and as my grandmother wrote me later, died in the spring. My cousins and uncles wanted my grandmother to come back to Paris with them but she refused to go. She died soon after. All my ties to Egypt and to my childhood were broken forever. I was overwhelmed by loneliness and a persistent feeling of being detached from my roots, from anything stable. Even my own mother, who wrote that she was finally coming home, decided to find herself a studio in Paris where she would live alone. To assuage my depression, I day-dreamed of how I’d convince her to let me live with her. I awaited her arrival with a mixture of dread and excitement.
A month later, the new Egyptian government blocked my bank account and allowed only a certain sum to be used for my living expenses and my schooling. It was decided, against my pleas, that I should attend a regular lycée. I’d have to leave my friends and the teachers I knew and liked. I knew that my friend Claudine would be the only one with whom I could keep in touch.
Lycée La Fontaine was located in Auteuil, about half an hour from our house. It was a very modern school, the only one built just before the war, with science labs, elevators, and an enormous gym. The six-story building stood near a large park and an enclosed public swimming pool, la piscine Molitor. Although at first I was certain that I’d be lost among its thousands of students, I became known rather quickly. It started with the swimming pool. In Egypt, swimming had been part of my daily life because of the heat. I was proud of being a good swimmer, and when I first returned to Paris, I missed swimming in a pool. But now I could get my swimming in, which I did once or twice a week on my way to school. Sliding into the cool water and feeling it glide over my head made me feel free, like a mermaid. It was also the only sport I was good at. I would get to school with wet hair, quite frazzled because I had to run to get to class on time. Sometimes I didn’t make it and I would have to come up with a plausible story: my bicycle broke down, I had a flat tire, my grandmother was sick, the buses were on strike. After a while, my stories became more elaborate, and rather macabre accidents were numerous, as well as bomb scares and helping blind men or crippled women to their houses, arms straining with their groceries. History was my first class of the day, and M. Ribaud would stop the class as I entered his room sheepishly and ask, in an imperious tone, “So Mlle Palacci, who did you save this morning?” My classmates laughed as I tried to think up a believable story I usually failed but I was a good history student, and he never punished me. However, my reputation preceded me, and over the next two years I got into trouble at every turn. I often received zéro de conduite (zero for behavior), and once every two or three months was sent home for a day or two. I used that time to roam the city and swim. My grandmother was never quite aware of what was happening, since I made sure to leave the house at the same time every morning.
Lunch was another challenge. Now that I was attending the lycée, I had to have lunch near the school so I could be on time for my afternoon classes. My friends and I frequented a café near the school where the most popular quick meal was a sandwich au jambon, a piece of crusty baguette, split and slathered with butter and a couple of slices of ham. It didn’t satisfy me—too much butter or not enough, ham too thick or too thin. I then switched to a croque-monsieur, two slices of bread stuffed with Swiss cheese and a slice of ham, sautéed in a skillet until golden brown. Still, not quite right. Tentatively, I began to explore the neighborhood with Brigitte, one of my friends who, like me, liked to eat. We found the Café Laure on the Rue de Lonchamps, run by a young woman who had lost her husband during the war. Mme Laure was Marseillaise and very quickly adopted Brigitte and me. Our ham sandwich was filled with a light pistou, a dark green sauce made with parsley and herbs, redolent of garlic. Sometimes we switched to her egg tart with tomatoes, hot peppers, and olives. Soon half of the lycée learned of our discovery, and Mme Laure’s café was full all day long. Brigitte and I became guests of honor and never had to pay for more than our drinks.
Tarte à la Tomate
Make the tart dough. In the bowl of a food processor place ½ cup chilled butter, cut into small pieces, along with 3 tablespoons vegetable shortening. Process for 1 minute and add 2 cups flour and ½ teaspoon salt. Process for 3 minutes and add 6 tablespoons ice water. Process until the dough forms a ball. Remove the dough from the work bowl, wrap it in foil, and refrigerate for 2 to 3 hours. Remove the dough from the refrigerator and bring it to room temperature. Butter a 9-inch tart pan. On a floured board roll the dough from the center out to form a circle. Line the tart pan with the dough, crimp the edges, and with a fork prick the bottom. Line the pie dough with 6 slices of Gruyère and bake the pie in a preheated 350-degree oven for 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and set aside. Place 4 large tomatoes in a large bowl, cover with boiling water, and let the tomatoes stand in the water for 3 minutes. Drain and refresh under cold running water. Peel the tomatoes, slice them, and remove the seeds. Sprinkle the slices with salt and leave them in a bowl for 15 minutes. Drain the tomatoes. In a food processor or blender finely chop ¼ cup fresh basil leaves with 1 tablespoon fresh thyme, salt and pepper, 1 garlic clove, and 2 tablespoons olive oil. Arrange the tomato slices in concentric circles on top of the Gruyère. Sprinkle with the basil mixture and bake for another 10 minutes, or until the edges are golden brown. Serve with a green salad. Serves 4.
My social life outside of school was dismal. Since Georgette had left us, my grandmother did the cooking, and every week she served us the same dishes. I grudgingly helped in the kitchen, washed the dishes, and made my bed. We had a femme de ménage, a cleaning woman, who came every other day. I never even considered inviting my friends over, petrified that my grandmother would have one of her simulated heart attacks or start screaming at me in front of them. Most every time I was invited out she’d have another heart attack, or I’d be too afraid to leave her in case her attack was real. If I did leave, I’d worry. At that time, French girls did not go out with boys on dates. We went in a group to the movies, or to one another’s homes for parties. Of course, I was never allowed to host. My grandmother rarely talked to me and my brother was never home. Life in that enormous apartment was often grim, loveless, and cold.
Six months later my mother returned to Paris. One of her friends had found her an apartment, but my mother did not want me there on the grounds that I’d be better taken care of by my grandmother. I wept, yelled, and pleaded but to no avail. She mentioned, as a final argument, that my guardian had made the decision. I immediately called my uncle Clément. What were his reasons for wanting me to stay where I did not want to be, with a woman who hated me? After the first few words I heard—ones that I had grown to despise (une jeune fille de bonne famille ne fait pas …)—I knew there was nothing I could do. I had to stay! Years later, on one of my trips to Paris, I asked Clément why he had insisted that I stay with my grandmother. He stoically answered, “I was afraid your mother would let you do what you wanted. Your reputation had to remain intact. I expected you to marry well.” I was astonished by his reply and understood why they had been opposed to my marrying an American. At that time marrying an American was not “marrying well.”
My last year at La Fontaine was the hardest. I was preparing for my baccalaureate and had to work very hard, just like all my classmates. No more parties, no more going out with friends (not that it was a great change for me, but all my friends stayed home to study, so I did not feel left out). This was the only time in my life that I lost weight. Food meant less to me than my success on the exam. The day I found out that I had passed, I told my grandmother that I wasn’t coming home for dinner. My best friend, Claudine, and I went to a brasserie and I ordered a choucrote garnie, my favorite. We ate, drank beer, and went to hear Juliette Greco, the French avant-garde singer, perform in a cave, a dark cellar music club on the Left Bank. I hadn’t been this happy in years.
The next morning, I woke up with a new faith in the possibilities life had to offer me. I was going to fight for what I wanted. I would live alone, travel, attend university. And I’d explore the sensual side of life—pleasures that I had enjoyed in Cairo would come to me in a different way here in Paris. I was no longer “l’Egyptienne”; I was “la Parisienne,” with an attitude!